Page 41 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

My laptop beeps then, mocking me with an unanswered email from a potential new client I snagged through a referral from Jess. Bless her philanthropicheart. Ishouldbe crafting a killer proposal, showcasing my unique blend of crisis management expertise and marketing savvy. Ishouldbe dazzling them with ROI projections and synergistic brand strategies.

Instead, I’m staring blankly at the cursor, contemplating whether teething rusks can double as adult sustenance (verdict: sadly, no) and trying to discreetly adjust the waistband of my postpartum leggings for the fifth time this hour.

Mia lets out another shriek, this one hitting a decibel level usually reserved for pterodactyls. Or something.

“Eloquent, darling,” I murmur, dragging my eyes back to the screen. “Truly insightful commentary on the giraffe situation.”

My phone rings, a jarring interruption to the relative chaos. Unknown number. Probably spam. Or worse, my mother, calling to offer unsolicited parenting advice gleaned from a daytime talk show.

I shouldn’t be so hard on her. She raisedme, after all. She knows a thing or two...

I let it go to voicemail.

Except it rings again. Immediately.

Okay, persistent spam.

Or… a persistent potential client?

Fine.

I take a deep breath.

Activate professional mode.

“Sabrina Taylor,” I answer, injecting warmth and competence I absolutely do not feel.

“Sabrina, Luca Briggs here.” The voice is smooth, confident, tinged with an accent I can’t quite place. Italian maybe?

Briggs? Luca Briggs? The name tickles something in the dusty archivesof my brain.

Finance guy?

Tech bro?

Someone Tatiana mentioned?

“Mr. Briggs,” I reply, shifting into full PR mode. “Thanks for calling. What can I help you with today?”

Translation: Whose reputation just torpedoed, and how fast do I need to repair it?

“Heard great things,” he says. “Your name came highly recommended for… delicate situations. We’ve got a bit of a… perception issue brewing at…” He pauses, and there’s a crackle on the line, or maybe Mia timed a shriek perfectly, because the company name sounds like a garbled mess. “...umble Briggs Investments. Needs some expert handling.”

Something-umble Briggs Investments? Okay, clearly missed that. Probably should ask him to repeat it, but interrupting a potential client mid-flow? Bad PR 101.

Besides, the company name isn’t super important. The client name is. In my appointment book, for company name, I type in Luca Briggs.

“Understood, Mr. Briggs. Delicate situations are my specialty. Happy to discuss how Taylor Strategic Communications can assist.”

God, I sound like a robot. A very tired, slightly nauseous robot.

“Excellent. We need discretion. And results. Yesterday, preferably.” Of course, he does. They always do. “Your downtown office address is still the one listed on Google, yes? I can have my car swing by this afternoon? Say, three o’clock?”

My stomach clenches. The downtown office. Right. The one that’s now occupied by a very confused yoga studio.

“Ah, actually, Mr. Briggs,” I say, forcing lightnessinto my voice. “The Google listing is a bit outdated. Since having my daughter eleven months ago, I’ve transitioned the firm to a more flexible model. Taylor Strategic Communications is now operating remotely.” I gesture vaguely at my living room, though he can’t see it. “I conduct most meetings via Zoom, or at my home office for select clientele. It allows me to provide dedicated focus without the...”

Diaper explosions? Existential dread? Mountain of laundry?

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