17. Sabrina
17
Sabrina
T he rumble of the Q train vibrates through the plastic seat and straight up into my spine.
Lovely.
Or maybe that’s just the residual adrenaline from yesterday’s billionaire-induced implosion of my carefully constructed life.
I don’t know anymore.
I stare blankly at the overhead fluorescent lights of the subway car, trying to process the whiplash.
One minute, I’m having a meeting with a potential lucrative client. The next, I’m standing before a furious baby daddy threatening legal armageddon.
Then… a tentative ceasefire? An offer to hire me back? A freaking retainer ?
My brain feels like scrambled eggs. And I’m talking about the bad kind, you know: cooked too long on high heat and neglect.
I sigh.
He knows. Leo Maxwell knows he has a daughter. A daughter with his ridiculously unforgettable green eyes. Twenty months, and the Secret is officially out. Deployed. Exploded.
And the weirdest part? My reaction yesterday during the confrontation. After he saw Mia. After the initial wave of pure, unadulterated terror that made my blood run colder than Lake Michigan in January…
I’m still not entirely sure why I didn’t do more to stop him.
When he was looming there, I could’ve slammed the nursery door shut and used every PR deflection tactic I knew. I could’ve... done something . Anything.
So why did I just… stand there and let him see her?
Because a tiny, rebellious part of you wanted him to, whispers the sarcastic voice in my head. Because hauling that secret around was heavier than carrying Mia past due date. Because maybe you wanted someone else to share the goddamn burden. And because you wanted Mia to have the father you never had...
Excellent strategic leak, internal communications department. Really nailed the timing on that bombshell. Five stars for crisis creation .
Still, he pulled back from the brink. Called off the lawyers, at least for now. Agreed to talk, and to supervised visits. Maybe seeing Mia, even for that split second, flickered something human inside the billionaire playboy casing?
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sabrina.
He’s still the guy who jumps off cliffs for fun. He’s still got the emotional availability of a granite countertop. This isn’t a fairy tale. This is… damage control. Co-parenting negotiations under duress. And now, apparently, a professional engagement layered on top like anchovies on a birthday cake .
So gross and fundamentally wrong.
But. The retainer. That 10k… it’s not just helpful; it’s a freaking lifeline. My business account is looking leaner than a runway model during fashion week. Pride is a luxury I apparently can’t afford right now.
The train screeches into the Wall Street station and I sigh.
Showtime.
Time to put on the professional armor, plaster on the competent smile, and walk into the lion’s den. Or, you know, the fifty-story gleaming monument to capitalism that is Maxwell it stabs it. Fifty floors of glass and steel, reflecting the frantic energy of the Financial District. My own defunct downtown office now feels like a lemonade stand in comparison.
This isn’t just a company; it’s an empire.
Leo Maxwell’s empire.
And I’m about to walk in and tell him how to manage his image problem while pretending I didn’t have his baby.
Totally normal, right?
The lobby is cavernous. Marble floors gleam under recessed lighting. A waterfall cascades down one wall. It’s less office building, more modern art museum meets Bond villain lair.
I nervously approach the security desk, manned by two guards who look like they chew nails for breakfast.
“Sabrina Taylor,” I say, trying to project confidence. My cheeks feel warm; pretty sure I’m blushing like a teenager caught sneaking out.
Smooth, Sabrina. The guards will be super impressed with you now. They won’t think you’re out of place and shouldn’t be here. Not at all.
“Appointment with Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Briggs,” I continue. Even saying Luca’s name feels weird now, knowing he’s Leo’s partner.
One guard checks his computer, murmurs into a headset. His eyes flick over me, assessing. Probably wondering if I’m another one of Leo’s… off-the-books recreational activities .
My blush deepens.
“Ms. Taylor?” A crisp female voice answers through the guard’s earpiece, audible even to me. “She’s quite early. But send her up. Executive elevator, 50th floor.”
Early.
Damn right, I’m early.
Rule number two of crisis management: always be over-prepared and arrive before the client. Shows initiative. Shows control. Even when your personal life is a dumpster fire.
The guard directs me to a separate bank of elevators, sleek and imposing. I need to scan my driver’s license, then place my thumb on a biometric pad.
Okay, definitely Bond villain lair.
The elevator arrives with a silent whoosh. I enter the empty car and press the button marked 50 .
The doors glide shut, and I ascend with unnerving speed and silence. My ears pop.
The doors open onto… wow. Not an office floor, but a plush, hushed reception area. More marble. More expensive art. Thick carpet muffles all sound.
Straight ahead is a massive window with a jaw-dropping view of the Statue of Liberty. To the left and right, corridors presumably lead to offices. There’s a waiting area couch beside me, currently unoccupied. Directly facing the elevators are two identical, imposing reception desks, each manned by a sharply dressed woman.
The woman at the left desk looks up and offers a bright, efficient smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Ms. Taylor? Michelle Park. Welcome to Maxwell & Briggs.” She gestures down the corridor to her left. “Mr. Maxwell is expecting you in the main executive conference room. Third door on your right.”
Michelle Park.
Leo’s PA. The one who texted yesterday? No, wait, that was Luca’s assistant, Vivian Wong. She would be the model-like Asian woman manning the desk on the right, then.
I head toward the left corridor. As I pass Leo’s gatekeeper, she looks up again... her smile is definitely running on high-grade corporate fakery. She probably fields calls from jilted super models all day.
Great. Adding ‘potential baby mama’ to her list of potential headaches.
“Thank you, Michelle,” I say, matching her professional tone. My own smile feels plastered on.
I head down the indicated corridor. Plush carpet swallows the sound of my heels. The air smells faintly of expensive wood polish. Doors line the hallway, heavy, imposing wooden slabs with no nameplates. Discreet power.
Third door on the right.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push it open.
The executive conference room is… intimidating. A massive, gleaming table dominates the center, surrounded by at least twenty high-backed leather chairs. One entire wall is a window overlooking the harbor. Another wall seems to be entirely made of integrated screens. And sitting at the head of the table, nursing a coffee mug, is Leo.
He looks… better than yesterday. Still pale, still relying on the cane resting against his chair, but the raw fury has banked slightly. He’s wearing dark trousers and a soft gray cashmere sweater. His dark blond hair is artfully tousled. When he looks up, those green eyes hit me with the force of a physical blow. No denying paternity there.
He stands as I enter, a slight grimace flashing across his face as he puts weight on his healing leg. “Sabrina. Thanks for coming. You’re early.”
“Mr. Maxwell,” I reply, forcing my professional voice. “I believe in punctuality.”
Especially when walking into a potential minefield .
He gestures to the chair opposite him. “Please. Coffee?”
“No thank you. I’m fine.” I sit, taking a spot strategically spaced two chairs away from him, and place my tablet and portfolio on the gleaming table in front of me.
Project control. Project competence.
He sits back down, steepling his fingers. The silence stretches for a beat, thick with unspoken tension.
“Look,” he says finally, breaking eye contact to stare out the window. “About yesterday. I… apologize for my reaction. It was unprofessional. I was… blindsided.”
Blindsided.
That’s one word for it.
“Understandable,” I manage, keeping my tone neutral. This is delicate territory. One wrong move and the lawyers could be back on speed dial.
“Doesn’t excuse it,” he says, meeting my gaze again. His eyes are unreadable now. Wary? Calculating? “Finding out like that… finding out about… Mia.” He says her name carefully, like testing a foreign word. It sends a weird jolt through me. “It wasn’t ideal.”
“No,” I agree softly. “It wasn’t.”
“If I hadn’t shown up yesterday... if Luca hadn’t accidentally scheduled a meeting with you... if the three previous PR firms hadn’t failed so miserably... I would have never known she existed. Would you have ever told me about her?”
I look down at my hands.
So much for projecting control and competence.
“I... I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “Maybe... maybe one day. But probably not for a long time.”
He nods slowly. “So it was a fortunate accident that I showed up when I did.” He purses his lips, and I have no idea what’s going on behind those green eyes of his. Finally:
“You left her with a sitter today?” he asks, a new edge to his voice. Concern? Or checking up on my logistics?
“Yes. Mrs. Gable, my regular sitter, was available today, thankfully.”
He nods slowly. “Good. Okay. So. We need to talk about… arrangements. But maybe not right now. Does Friday work for you? Supervised? At my place?”
My stomach clenches.
His place.
I wanted to start with my place, in an environment where Mia would feel comfortable, and I’d feel in control. But maybe starting where he feels in control is the smarter play. It shows that I’m willing to cooperate. And build… something.
Not trust. Too soon for trust. Maybe just… détente?
“Yes,” I confirm. “Friday works. You mentioned you have physical therapy in the afternoon?”
“Yeah. Ends around four. Can you come by around five?”
“Five is fine.” Though I’ll have to leave extra early to avoid rush hour.
“Good.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “So. The proposal.” He gestures towards my tablet. “The turnaround is impressive. The analysis sharp. And the timeline is aggressive, but realistic.”
Okay. Shifting back to business. This is definitely safer ground.
“Thank you,” I reply. “I reviewed the materials Vivian sent over last night.” I see him bristle slightly at the name Vivian .
Before I continue, he interrupts: “I’d prefer you liaise with my assistant Michelle going forward.”
“Consider it done,” I reply smoothly. “Back to the proposal... the declining investor confidence, the media speculation post-Chamonix… it’s a challenging landscape, but not unsalvageable. The core issue is perception. You need to project stability, resilience, and forward momentum.”
“Easier said than done when I’m still hobbling around with this thing,” he mutters, tapping the cane.
“It’s not about pretending the injury didn’t happen,” I counter, slipping fully into PR mode. This, I know. This, I can handle. “It’s about framing the narrative. You survived a near-fatal accident. You’re fighting your way back. That shows determination, resilience. Those are assets . We leverage them. We control the story. Not the gossip columns online.”
He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of the old Vegas charm surfacing. “Leveraging the truth strategically, wasn’t that your line yesterday?”
He remembers .
“It was.” My cheeks warm slightly.
Keep it professional, Sabrina.
“All right,” he says, leaning forward, suddenly all business again. “Walk me through the key phases. The strategic appearances, the targeted media placements…”
We dive into the proposal. For the next hour, it’s almost… normal. We’re two professionals dissecting a problem, brainstorming solutions. He’s sharp, asks insightful questions, pushes back intelligently. He might be a reckless playboy, but he didn’t build this empire by accident. The professional overlap feels less uncomfortable when we’re focused solely on Maxwell & Briggs, not Maxwell & Mia. His initial warmth, the apology… it did put me slightly at ease. Maybe… this can actually work?
Just as we’re deep into discussing damage control for a potential negative article in Forbes, the conference room door swings open.