15. Sabrina
15
Sabrina
T he question hangs between us.
Why the fuck didn’t you tell me...
His voice was dangerously low, the barely restrained fury making the hair on my arms stand up. His green eyes... Mia’s eyes... bore into me, pinning me in place.
“I...” My voice fails.
What can I possibly say that won’t sound like a pathetic excuse?
My mind scrambles, desperately searching for the right words, the strategic angle, the damage control narrative.
There isn’t one.
This isn’t a client crisis; this is my life imploding. My carefully constructed professional world, my painstakingly guarded personal life... both shatter like cheap porcelain around me.
There’s no PR spin for this.
No carefully worded statement that can contain the fallout .
My heart merely hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden roaring silence.
His face contorts, a mask of disbelief warring with his rage. “Don’t just stand there, Sabrina! Answer me! You knew? You knew all this time and you said nothing ?”
He takes another step closer, invading my personal space, the faintly familiar scent of ozone and something else filling my nostrils. He’s crowding me, using his size, his presence, even leaning on that damn cane, to intimidate me.
It’s working.
My cheeks flush hot with a mixture of fear and shame.
My own terror starts to curdle into a defensive anger.
My daughter.
The one I carried, birthed, and have cared for every single second while he was god knows where.
“You want a reason, Leo?” I finally manage, my voice trembling but gaining strength, laced now with a tremor of fury instead of just fear. “Okay, fine! Here’s a reason? Because I looked you up! After Vegas, after the shock wore off and I realized... this,” I gesture helplessly between myself and the nursery door where Mia has started whimpering again, “I realized this was happening, I Googled ‘Leo Maxwell’.”
I tick the points off on my fingers, the PR strategist in me instinctively structuring the argument even as my world falls apart. “Billionaire tech investor, check. Notorious playboy, check. Rotating cast of models and actresses? Check, check, check! Fixture on gossip pages? You betcha!” My voice rises, fueled by months of suppressed anxiety and resentment. “ And the hobbies, Leo? Seriously? Wingsuiting? BASE jumping? You literally fly off cliffs for fun! That doesn’t exactly scream ‘stable father figure,’ does it?”
He recoils slightly, momentarily thrown off by the attack. “That’s... that’s bullshit! That’s my life, my business...”
“Exactly!” I cut him off. “Your life! The one that involves flirting with death on a regular basis and fucking every female in sight! And then Chamonix happened! I told you I saw the news, Leo! The crash! You almost died! How could I possibly think that man,” I point a shaking finger at him, “was ready or even remotely suitable to be a father? How could I risk bringing my daughter into that chaos, that instability? How could I set her up to wait for a dad who might disappear off the face of the earth, as in literally, at any moment? Just like mine did?” The last part comes out raw and unplanned, I regret saying it as soon as the words leave my mouth. I don’t want to expose my wounds to him. Don’t want to be vulnerable.
His expression shifts again, the anger momentarily overshadowed by something unreadable. Confusion? Maybe a flicker of guilt?
But then it’s gone, replaced by renewed fury.
“So you made the choice for me,” he spits, leaning heavily on the cane again, his knuckles white where he grips the handle. “You judged me based on some fucking Google searches and gossip columns? You didn’t think I deserved a say? A chance? You just decided I was my father... or yours... and wrote me off?”
“It wasn’t just Google!” I insist desperately. “It was Vegas! You don’t even remember Vegas, do you? You were high, Leo! GHB, remember? The ‘gentleman’s version?’ You use recreational drugs like there’s no tomorrow, which for you, is probably half true. You don’t remember meeting me, you don’t remember taking me back to your suite, you don’t remember...”
I trail off, unable to say it .
Yes, the sex was amazing, even though he was stoned out of his mind, but I refuse to acknowledge that now.
His face darkens further.
“I remember enough,” he lies, or maybe he convinces himself it’s true. “I remember you.” He gestures vaguely towards the nursery. “Maybe the details are hazy, fine. And the GHB shit... yeah okay, you’re right. Mostly.” He runs a hand through his already messy hair, a flicker of genuine frustration crossing his features. “But that doesn’t give you the right to erase me! To hide my child! ”
“She’s my child, too!” I counter, stepping forward, the protective instincts overriding fear. “The one I’ve been raising alone for eleven months!”
“Alone because you chose to be alone!” he says, taking another menacing step forward. “You chose to keep this secret! Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, knowing about her might have changed things? Might have made me... different?”
“Different how?” I scoff, folding my arms protectively over my chest, though there’s nothing left to hide. “Trade the wingsuit for a minivan? Swap the super models for parent-teacher meetings? I doubt it.”
“You didn’t give me the fucking chance!” he repeats, slamming the head of his cane against the floor, the sharp crack making me jump and sending Mia into another round of distressed wails from the nursery.
The sound seems to penetrate Leo’s rage momentarily. He glances towards the nursery door, his expression flickering again, switching between confusion, then regret, and finally back to anger.
“You’re done,” he says abruptly, his voice turning cold and clipped. “Consider your engagement terminated. Maxwell & Briggs needs someone fucking honest running their communications. Clearly, that’s not you.”
And just like that he fires me. Without even giving me a chance.
Though I suppose I never gave him a chance either, did I?
Still, the words land like a physical blow. The desperately needed client, the financial lifeline… gone. Terminated by the secret he forced me to reveal.
Forced . No, not quite. I could have stopped him, when he was walking toward the door. Could have ran ahead, shut it. Could have done something .
But I just stood there.
And I’m not even sure why. Maybe it’s because a part of me wanted him to know the truth, to free myself of the burden.
Well I hope you’re happy, traitorous part of my brain. Really stuck the landing on that ‘burn your life down’ maneuver.
“And don’t think this is over,” he continues, his voice dangerously quiet now. “My lawyers will be in touch, Ms. Taylor. About my daughter. About custody. About everything.”
Lawyers.
Custody.
The words just hang there between us...
Oh, god.
This is my worst fear realized.
Mia is crying harder now, a heartbreaking sound that echoes my own internal devastation. I need to go to her. I need to soothe her. But I’m frozen, trapped in the wreckage of this confrontation.
Leo turns sharply, the movement jerky, his injured leg obviously protesting.
Good, I hope it hurts him. Just as his words hurt me.
He heads for the front door, each step punctuated by the click of the cane. He yanks the door open, pausing on the threshold.
He doesn’t look back at me. But his gaze flicks, almost involuntarily, towards the nursery door one last time. A fleeting, unreadable glance at the source of the crying.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, the word filled with a volatile mix of rage, confusion, and something else I can’t decipher. “At least...” He looks at me. “At least tell me her name.”
“Mia,” I answer without hesitation.
“Mia.” He says it like he’s tasting the word. His lips twitch, and for a moment I think he might actually smile, but then he turns and he’s gone.
The slam of the apartment door echoes in the sudden, suffocating silence. It bounces off the walls of my carefully curated space, rattling the picture frames and my already frayed nerves.
Well. That escalated quickly.
Understatement of the goddamn century.
Mia’s crying reaches peak desperation.
Right.
Baby.
My baby.
Our baby, apparently .
The reason this whole mess just exploded.
My legs feel weak but I force them to move. I go down the short hallway, push open the nursery door, and scoop Mia out of her crib.
She clings to me instantly, burying her wet face against my neck, her tiny body trembling.
“Shhh, shhh, baby girl,” I murmur, rocking her, my own heart hammering against my ribs. “It’s okay. Mommy’s here. It’s okay.”
Liar. It is so monumentally not okay.
Her sobs slowly subside into hiccuping gasps. I sink into the rocking chair, holding her tight, breathing in her familiar scent of baby powder and milk.
Lawyers.
Custody.
I’m not giving up Mia.
Never.
I swallow, patting Mia on the back. “Mommy’s here...”
Okay, Sabrina. Think.
Time for Plan B...
Wait, what the hell is Plan B? And what was Plan A in the first place?
Leo stormed out before I could even attempt to negotiate.
But he mentioned lawyers. Which means communication channels will open, albeit hostile ones.
Maybe... maybe that’s the opening? A negotiation brokered by legal teams? Establishing co-parenting terms that protect Mia while acknowledging his rights? Things like controlled access, supervised visits... basically a legal agreement establishing clear boundaries and financial support (because god knows I need it now, even if my pride chafes at the thought) but limiting his actual involvement. Because I need to protect Mia from his lifestyle, and his potential to disappear, emotionally or literally.
Can I even dictate terms? He holds all the cards. The money, the power. If he wanted to, he could drag this through the courts for years, and bleed me dry emotionally and financially.
My head spins.
This is so far beyond a standard PR crisis.
This is the crisis.
I hold Mia closer, feeling the steady beat of her tiny heart against mine.
“It’s okay, little one. It’s just you and me.”
And him.
“I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
Somehow.