Page 195 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Before the fear can win.

Because maybe Tatiana is right.

Maybe it’s time to stop running.

Maybe it’s time to face my own fears,and his, and see if there’s anything salvageable in the wreckage of Leo Maxwell’s complicated and utterly fucking irresistible life.

Or maybe I’m just setting myself up for the biggest heartbreak of all.

50

Leo

Today has been a masterclass in unproductive anxiety.

My inbox is a goddamn warzone, a hundred unanswered emails screaming for attention.

Investors panicking about Luca’s implosion, lawyers demanding statements, Michelle forwarding increasingly frantic requests for damage control.

And Sabrina? Radio silence. Except for that one cryptic text this morning:We need to talk. This evening? Your place. Just us. Mia will be with Mom.

Just us.

The words have been ricocheting around my skull all day, a fucking mantra of impending doom or… or something terrifyingly hopeful.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Leo.

This could be it. The final nail in the coffin. She quits as my PR consultant. She officially ends whatever the hellthisis between us.

Or maybe she’s willing to talk. To listen. To actually fuckingtry.

And letmetry in return.

I should be strategizing. Putting out fires. Reassuring LPs that Maxwell Capital isn’t about to go supernova. But I can’t focus. My entire goddamn universe has narrowed to tonight.

To Sabrina.

To whatever verdict she’s about to deliver on my fucked-up, newly reconfigured life.

This isn’t just another high-stakes negotiation. This is… this is everything. The defining moment.

And for once, I have no fucking clue how to play it. No leverage. No angle. Just… raw, exposed nerve endings.

Evening finally fucking arrives, dragging its feet like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. Or maybe that’s just me.

Thomas announces her arrival, his voice as impassive as ever, though I swear I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Pity? Amusement?

Maybe just indigestion.

Again, that’s probably just me.

She walks into the living room, and my breath catches. No power suit tonight. Just soft, dark jeans, a simple sweater that hugs her curves in all the right, distracting ways.

Her hair is down, those dark curls framing her face, making her look younger, softer. More… Sabrina. Less Ms. Taylor, PR crisis manager extraordinaire.

She looks tired.

Stressed.

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