Page 26 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Later, after Luca leaves, after the London call is done, after Michelle has ‘stopped by’ for a quick, efficient session on my desk, after I’ve fielded texts from Jen and Victoria confirming tonight’s separate arrangements… I find myself standing at the window again, staring out at the city lights pricking the twilight sky.

The coke high is fading, leaving behind that familiar hollowness, that restless dissatisfaction that no amount of money or sex or adrenaline seems to fill completely.

And the thought pops up again, unwelcome, persistent.

Sabrina.

Green eyes. Quick smile. The feel of her hand in mine. A blank space where a memory should be.

Fuck.

I shake my head, grabbing my phone. Time for the next distraction. Jen’s waiting at my penthousegym. Time to sweat out the restlessness, the questions, the goddamn Vegas ghosts.

Control. That’s all that matters.

Keep moving, keep winning, keep fucking.

Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Don’t feel.

It’s the only strategy I know.

The noise only stops, truly stops, when I’m hurtling towards the earth in a wingsuit, inches from oblivion.

8

Sabrina

Three minutes.

The longest three minutes in the history of time, probably.

I stare at the little plastic stick sitting innocently on my bathroom counter, mocking me with its potential to detonate my entire life.

Three minutes until the verdict.

To distract myself, I retreat to the living room, sinking onto my couch and pulling my laptop onto my knees.

Work.

Work is the antidote to panic.

I open the draft proposal for the Atherton Group rebranding campaign.

Like I can concentratenow.

I set aside the laptop and sigh.

My apartment feels too quiet, too small. It’s Wednesday afternoon. I should be at my downtown office, considering how much I’m paying in rent for the damn thing. But instead, I’m working from home, nursing a persistent queasiness I’ve been blaming onbad takeout, and waiting to see if a single night of spectacular bad judgment six weeks ago has irrevocably altered my future.

Six weeks since Vegas. Six weeks since Tatiana’s impromptu wedding to Dominic Rossi, a wedding fueled by tequila, GHB, and the kind of impulsive insanity only Vegas can inspire. I still can’t quite believethatactually worked out. They were supposed to get an annulment immediately. Ghost marriage. But then Rossi’s big sustainable resort project needed a PR boost, a veneer of stability for the investors. So, they agreed to a thirty-day temporary marriage.

I told Tatiana to make sure she got a huge payout for the thirty-day agreement. I can’t remember the numbers, but it ended up being something like half a million dollars. But then… the thirty days came and went. No annulment. Instead, they stayed married. And now? They’re disgustingly happy. Building a life together. Tatiana Cole-Rossi somehow landed on her feet in a fairy tale co-authored by high-grade pharmaceuticals. Sometimes love, or something resembling it, just needs a really weird, chemically-assisted kickstart.

But me? My Vegas souvenir is far from a happy, accidental marriage to a reformed billionaire. Oh no. My little souvenir might be currently performing microscopic gymnastics in my belly.

The irony is so thick I could spread it on toast. Tatiana takes the GHB, gets married and finds true love. Ipretendto take the GHB, have one night of (mostly) sober but utterly reckless sex with theothercharming billionaire, and end up… here. Holding my breath, waiting for a plastic stick to confirm my life is officially off-script and over.

It’s probably nothing,I tell myself for the hundredth time.

---