19. Leo
19
Leo
F riday.
D-Day.
Or maybe M-Day? As in... Mia-Day.
Jesus.
The appointment looms like a deadline on a Series A funding round. All week, it’s been sitting there on my calendar, inserted by Michelle.
Date: Friday. Time: 5 P.M. Visit: Mia Taylor. Location: Penthouse Residence (Supervised).
That last word in the appointment slot lingers in my mind.
Supervised.
Like I’m some kind of fucking predator needing a chaperone around my own kid. Technically, I guess I agreed to it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Oddly, I’ve been looking forward to see her all week. Actually anticipating it. Like waiting for an IPO to open so you can cash out you’re massive fucking investment. There’s anxiety, too, of course. You’re not sure if you’re going to get your money back. Or in this case, if Mia will like me .
What if she hates my guts?
Does it matter?
Yes. Yes, it fucking does.
Even weirder? My behavior. It’s Friday afternoon, usually prime time for lining up weekend distractions. A few lines with Luca maybe, definitely coordinating plans with Jen or Michelle or whoever’s turn it is on the rotation.
But this week?
Nothing.
Haven’t touched a fucking thing stronger than espresso since the meeting with Sabrina. Haven’t answered Jen’s increasingly pissed off texts demanding another ‘workout.’ Haven’t even returned Luca’s calls proposing celebratory drinks for… whatever funding round closed yesterday, I don’t even fucking remember.
It’s like finding out about Mia flipped some switch I didn’t know existed. Suddenly the usual shit feels… off. Wrong. Like wearing last night’s suit to a board meeting. I keep thinking about those green eyes. My eyes. Staring out of that tiny face. The thought of being fucked up, even slightly, when I see her again… it makes my stomach churn.
I want to set a good example for her.
Where the hell did that thought come from? Me? An example? Of what?
How to build an empire while simultaneously being an emotionally stunted commitment-phobe with a penchant for near-death experiences and getting high, literally? Yeah, stellar role model material right here.
This ‘good guy’ routine won’t last. It’s bullshit. A temporary glitch in the system. The need for the edge, the silence I only find hurtling towards the earth inches from oblivion… that’s hardwired. That’s not going away. This feeling, this… wanting to be better… it’s probably just shock. Or maybe my brain’s still scrambled from Chamonix. Yeah, that’s it. Temporary insanity brought on by trauma and the sudden appearance of a miniature human with my DNA. It’ll pass. Back to normal soon enough.
But right now? Right now, I just want five o’clock to get here.
I just want to properly meet Mia.
Which means suffering through this fucking torture first.
“All right, Leo, take a deep breath. Now engage the core. Lift slowly.” Stephen Aung, my physical therapist, twenty-six years old, annoyingly cheerful, and built like a goddamn gymnast, watches me with hawk-like intensity.
I’m lying on a mat in my penthouse gym, staring up at the state-of-the-art lighting grid, trying to lift my right leg one fucking inch off the mat without my hip screaming bloody murder or my core completely giving out. It’s pathetic. Eleven months post-crash, and this basic movement feels like trying to deadlift a fucking car.
“Come on,” I grit out. I lift my head to look at him but sweat immediately drips into my eyes so I relax my neck again. “Engage the core? My core checked out around month three of this bullshit.”
“Language, Leo,” Stephen chides gently, though there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. He knows my frustration is my default setting these days. “Your core is stronger than you think. Mind over matter. Focus on the movement, not the limitation.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. I strain again... the muscles in my leg tremble violently. Pain, sharp and familiar, shoots up from my reconstructed hip joint. “You’re not the one whose leg feels like it’s attached with fucking duct tape.”
“Progress, Leo. Remember last month? You couldn’t even activate the quad without assistance. Now look.” He points. My leg is hovering. Maybe half an inch. “See? Progress.”
I let the leg drop back down with a thud, breathing heavily. “Progress measured in millimeters. Fucking stellar.” I hate this. Hate the weakness. Hate the dependence. Hate being trapped in a body that betrayed me, that failed me when I needed it most. Hate that Luca walked away clean while I’m stuck here, fighting for inches.
Fucker.
I’m still pissed about what he did. Trying to force that NDA on Sabrina after I specifically told him not to. Undermining me in front of her. Trying to assert dominance.
FUCKER.
He forgets who built this firm from the ground up. He forgets whose name comes first. Maxwell & Briggs. Not the other way around.
He needs a fucking reminder.
“Okay, let’s switch to controlled stretches,” Stephen says, oblivious to my internal tirade. “Hamstring focus today. Gently does it.”
He starts guiding my leg through the movement. It’s agony. Every nerve ending screams. I clench my jaw, focusing on the burn, trying to channel the frustration into something productive instead of just raw, useless anger.
The chime of the private elevator arriving on the penthouse level echoes faintly from the main living area. Four thirty. Who the fuck is arriving now? Security knows better than to let anyone up during my PT. Thomas, my household manager, wouldn’t interrupt unless the building was on fire.
On cue, Thomas appears at the gym doorway, his expression impassive as ever. “Mr. Maxwell? Ms. Taylor has arrived for her five o’clock appointment.” He pauses, his gaze flickering towards the clock. “She’s slightly early.”
Slightly?
Thirty minutes.
Figures.
The woman who was meticulous enough to hide a baby for twenty months is probably pathologically punctual.
“Shit,” I mutter, caught flat on my back, leg halfway to my ear, sweating like a pig. Not exactly projecting power and control here. “Fine. Tell her… tell her I’ll be out in a minute. Offer her coffee. Or whatever the hell she drinks.”
Thomas nods and disappears.
Stephen raises an eyebrow. “Ms. Taylor? The new PR consultant?”
“Yeah,” I grunt, trying to push through the stretch. “Long story.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Definitely not.” The denial is instant, vehement. Then I pause.
What the fuck is she? The mother of my child. A PR consultant working for my company. A woman I can’t remember having sex with in Vegas twenty months ago.
What a goddamn mess.
“It’s complicated,” I finish.
“Most things are,” Stephen says mildly, easing the stretch slightly. “Okay, hold this for thirty seconds.”
The thirty seconds feel like thirty minutes. I can hear faint sounds from the living area now. Sabrina’s voice, low and professional, talking to Thomas. And then… another sound. Higher pitched. A gurgle. A happy squeal.
Mia. She brought Mia.
My breath catches. My muscles tense involuntarily, sending daggers of pain through my hip.
“Relax, Leo,” Stephen commands. “Breathe through it.”
Relax?
My daughter is fifty feet away. The daughter I only saw for the first time a few days ago under the worst possible circumstances. The daughter who shares my eyes. And I’m lying here helpless, hooked up to resistance bands like a fucking lab rat.
When the stretch is finally over, I push myself up awkwardly, grabbing for the cane leaning against the weight bench. “All right, that’s enough for today, Stephen.”
He glances at the clock. “We still have twenty minutes scheduled.”
“Yeah, well, schedule changed,” I say curtly, wiping sweat from my face with a towel. “Got a meeting. Bill me for the full hour.”
Stephen nods and heads toward the gym door.
I slowly limp after him, adjusting the waistband of my workout shorts, suddenly hyper-aware of how pathetic I must look. Sweaty, disheveled, relying on a fucking cane.
As I enter the main living area, the elevator is just closing. No doubt it’s Thomas taking Stephen down, as the elevator requires a key card and fingerprint.
Sabrina looks up from the couch where she’s perched stiffly with a small diaper bag at her feet. She’s wearing tailored black pants and a crisp white blouse today. She looks tired, with dark circles under her eyes that her makeup doesn’t quite hide. Raising a kid alone… yeah, probably doesn’t leave much time for beauty sleep.
And beside her on the floor, sitting on a small blanket Thomas must have provided, and surrounded by a few soft toys, is Mia.
My breath catches again. Holy shit. She’s… tiny. Smaller than I remember from that fleeting glimpse through the nursery door. Dark curls frame a heart-shaped face currently focused intently on trying to stuff a plush star into her mouth. She makes a small, contented sound.
I stop a few feet away, leaning on the cane, unsure what the protocol is here. Do I approach? Do I wait? Fucking hell, I negotiate multi-billion dollar funding rounds, but interacting with a baby feels like navigating a minefield blindfolded.
Sabrina seems to sense my uncertainty. She stands up smoothly, though I notice the slight stiffness in her movements... maybe something left over from childbirth, or maybe just tension.
“Leo. You’re all finished?” Her voice is carefully neutral.
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice rough. “My physiotherapist just left.”
“So that’s who that was,” she comments.
We stand there for an awkward moment, the only sound Mia’s soft gumming noises on her toy. The unspoken questions and unresolved anger from our last meeting hang in the air.
Mia chooses that moment to drop her star and look up, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. Those eyes. Fucking identical to mine. Wide, startlingly green, currently filled with open curiosity. She doesn’t cry or look scared, just… observes me.
It’s unnerving.
Sabrina follows Mia’s gaze, then looks back at me. I see a complex mix of emotions flicker across her face... wariness, protectiveness, something else I can’t read.
She takes a breath, seeming to come to a decision.
“Would you...” she starts, then hesitates, biting her lip slightly. “Would you like to hold her?”
The question hangs in the air. Hold her? Me? The guy who breaks things... deals, relationships, his own goddamn body? The thought is terrifying. What if I drop her? What if she starts screaming? What if she senses the fucked-up mess I am and recoils?
But the image of her tiny face, those eyes looking at me without judgment... it overrides the fear. This is my daughter. My blood. I need to... connect. Or at least try.
I nod, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat. I clear my throat. “Yeah. Okay. If... if that’s all right.”
Sabrina nods back, a flicker of surprise, maybe relief, in her expression. She bends down smoothly and scoops Mia up. Mia makes a soft protesting noise at being separated from her star, then settles against her mother’s shoulder, still watching me.
“Okay,” Sabrina says softly, walking towards me. “Just support her head and back. She’s pretty sturdy, but still...” She positions Mia carefully, showing me how to cradle her.
God, why am I so terrified of this?
I set my cane down on the table beside me. My heart is fucking pounding, and my hands feel huge and clumsy as I take the small, warm weight from her.
Holy fuck.
I’m doing it.
Actually doing it.
She’s warm. And heavier than she looks. Solid. Real. She smells like powder and… sweetness.
I hold her awkwardly at first, stiffly, still terrified I’m going to break her. I shift my grip, trying to find a more natural hold, mindful of her delicate neck.
Mia squirms slightly, and for a moment I’m horrified that I’ve done something to hurt her, but then I realize she’s just adjusting to the new arms. Finally she settles against my chest, her tiny head resting just under my chin. Her dark curls tickle my skin. She lets out a little sigh, like she’s decided I’m an acceptable, if strange, piece of furniture.
And just like that, something inside me cracks open. Some wall I didn’t even know was there crumbles. The anger, the frustration, the cynicism… they don’t disappear, but they recede, muffled by this overwhelming, terrifying, completely foreign wave of… something else.
Possessiveness, yes, but deeper than that.
A protective instinct so fierce it steals my breath.
My daughter.
Yes, I’m a father.
This changes everything.
What I said before about the ‘good guy’ routine not lasting... I’m not so sure about that anymore. Holding her, feeling her next to my beating heart... I know in my soul that I want to set a good example for her... want to protect her above everything else.
The hollow ache I’ve been carrying around for half my life seems to lessen, I think, filled by the simple, solid weight of her against me. The relentless drive for the next deal, the next thrill, the next win… it suddenly feels… secondary. Less vital.
Mia shifts again, turning her head slightly, and her cheek brushes against my shirt. Her green eyes stare up at me, wide and curious. She reaches out a tiny, starfish hand, her fingers uncurling, and grabs the finger I instinctively offer her. Her grip is surprisingly strong and trusting.
A choked sound escapes my throat. I look up, meeting Sabrina’s gaze over Mia’s head. She’s watching us, her expression... strangely cautious. But maybe she sees it too... the crack in my facade, the raw, unfamiliar emotion flooding my face.
I look back down at Mia. She blinks slowly, still gripping my finger, her gaze unwavering. It’s like she’s looking right through the bullshit, straight into the wreckage inside. And she’s not scared.
Maybe... maybe I can do this. Be this. For her.
The pain in my leg, the throbbing in my shoulder... it’s still there, a dull counterpoint to the fierce, unexpected warmth spreading through my chest. But it feels different now. Manageable. A problem to be solved, not just endured.
Because suddenly, getting stronger isn’t just about getting back in the game or reclaiming my own fucking life. It’s about being able to hold her properly. To protect her. To maybe, someday, be the kind of father who doesn’t fucking disappear.
I glance over at Sabrina again. She’s still watching, silent, her arms crossed. Seeing me like this... stripped bare, vulnerable, completely out of my depth with this tiny human, yet utterly captivated. She’s seeing the man beneath the billionaire, the wreckage beneath the success .
Mia makes a soft cooing sound, nuzzling against my chest like she belongs there. Yes... the hollow space inside me definitely feels… well, not quite full, but less empty. Less pointless.
A father. The thought doesn’t feel quite so foreign anymore.
It’s still terrifying. Still overwhelming. But maybe… maybe not impossible.
Fuck.
This really does change everything.