21. Leo
21
Leo
T he entire weekend has felt like walking through a dream.
Or maybe a hallucination brought on by residual pain meds and existential shock.
Mia.
My daughter .
The concept is still bouncing around inside my skull like an undisclosed liability discovered during late-stage due diligence.
Friday afternoon, holding her in my arms… it wasn’t just seeing my eyes in her face. It was the weight of her. The warmth. That weird, primal tug in my chest that felt suspiciously like… something important.
Something real .
Unlike the usual transactional arrangements and temporary distractions, or the hollow fucking victories and empty suits.
Then her grandmother. Diane fucking Taylor. Grilled me like I was facing a hostile investor.
What are your intentions ?
Shit if I know, lady. Get back to you in ten to fifteen years? But I said the right things. Or things that sounded right.
She didn’t buy it, obviously. Nobody with half a brain would.
We’ll be watching your actions.
Yeah, no kidding. Even I’m watching my actions, wondering what the fuck I’m going to do next.
But the rage? It’s mostly subsided. Replaced by this weird, jittery energy. A need to do something. Fix something. Control something in this completely out-of-control situation.
Which is why I’m currently staring down a flat-pack box containing something called a ‘Secure-Step Baby Gate’ with the kind of bewildered fury I usually reserve for SEC regulators or Luca when he’s being a particularly smarmy dickhead.
Baby-proofing.
Apparently, my multi-million dollar penthouse, previously optimized for closing deals and seducing supermodels, is now considered a fucking deathtrap for anyone under three feet tall.
According to Thomas, my household manager.
Sharp corners? Everywhere. Glass tables? Lethal weapons. Low-hanging abstract sculptures? Impalement hazards. Open-plan staircases? Obvious invitations to disaster.
My meticulously designed palace in the sky needs to be bubble-wrapped.
And in all honesty, I don’t really mind doing it.
For Mia.
I smile when her name enters my thoughts.
Little Mia.
So innocent.
So unlike me .
So... perfect.
“Need a hand there, boss?”
I look up. Dom’s face grins at me from the giant flatscreen integrated into the living room wall. We’re on a video call. Me, surrounded by intimidatingly complex baby-proofing hardware. Him, looking disgustingly relaxed, probably calling from his own ridiculously perfect Tribeca loft where he’s currently living out his happily-ever-after with Tatiana.
The guy who accidentally married his way into domestic bliss is now my go-to source for parental wisdom. The irony is so thick I could cut it with a fucking hedge fund report.
“Just contemplating the sheer number of ways my apartment can apparently murder a small child,” I say dryly, poking the baby gate box with my cane. “This shit requires an engineering degree.”
“Tell me about it,” Dom chuckles. “Tatiana had a spreadsheet. Color-coded. Risk assessments for every fucking electrical outlet.” He leans closer to his camera. “Seriously though, outlet covers. Get the ones that are hard for adults to remove, otherwise they just become choking hazards. And cabinet locks. The magnetic kind are best. Oh, and corner guards. Lots of corner guards.”
“Right. Corner guards.” I make a mental note. Probably need about five hundred of them for this place. “What the fuck is a Diaper Genie? Sounds like a bad magic trick involving baby poop.”
Poop? Did I actually say poop instead of shit?
Maybe I’ll turn into a real father, yet!
Dom laughs outright. “Close enough. Trust me, you want one. Maybe two.”
We spend another twenty minutes going over the basics. Cabinet locks, outlet covers, anchoring furniture, the surprising lethality of decorative cords. Dom, a former commitment-phobe like myself, dispensing practical baby-proofing advice like he’s been doing it his whole life.
It’s surreal.
“You got this, Leo,” he says finally, his expression softening slightly. “It’s overwhelming at first, but you’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah, well. Trying,” I mutter, uncomfortable with the sincerity. “Gotta go. Got deliveries arriving.”
“All right. Call if you need anything. Seriously.” He disconnects.
I stare at the blank screen.
Trying.
Is that what this is?
Trying to be… a dad?
The concept still feels absurd. But the alternative... walking away, letting Sabrina handle it alone, proving her mother right, feels even worse.
My phone buzzes. A text alert. Michelle, confirming the delivery window for the mountain of nursery furniture I ordered online yesterday in a fit of bewildered proactivity. Crib, changing table, rocking chair, mountains of shit I have no idea how to assemble or use. It’s all arriving this afternoon.
Another buzz. This one’s a Facetime request. From Sabrina.
My pulse gives a little kick.
Showtime. Again.
I smooth my hair automatically, then realize how fucking stupid that is.
Why do I care what I look like in front of her?
I accept the call, leaning back against the couch, trying to project casual competence .
Her face appears on my phone screen. Still tired, but maybe more… relaxed than Friday?
She’s holding Mia, who is currently chewing thoughtfully on a brightly colored plastic ring.
“Leo,” Sabrina says, her voice strictly business. “Just confirming our visit tomorrow. Five o’clock at your place?”
“Yeah. Still on.” I hesitate, then decide to just dive in. Might as well get her reaction now. “Actually, wanted to show you something. Been… making some adjustments here.”
I flip the camera around, panning slowly across the living room, focusing on the stack of baby gate boxes, the pile of outlet covers still in their blister packs, the corner guards sitting on the coffee table. “Phase one of baby-proofing is underway. Per expert consultation.”
I don’t mention the expert is Thomas and Dom.
There’s a beat of silence. Then Sabrina’s voice, sounding slightly strangled. “Adjustments? Leo, it looks like you’re preparing for a siege.”
“Safety first,” I say lightly, flipping the camera back to myself. “Gotta make the place… Mia-friendly.”
Her expression is unreadable. Shock? Skepticism? Maybe grudging approval?
“Okay,” she says slowly. “That’s… thorough.” She pauses. “Doesn’t mean she’s having sleepovers anytime soon, though.”
Ah. There it is. The boundary. Fair enough. Probably wouldn’t trust me with a houseplant overnight right now, let alone our daughter.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie smoothly, hoping the disappointment isn’t too obvious in my voice.
Give me time. I’ll win her over. Charm works on everyone eventually. Investors. Mothers.
Even fiercely protective PR consultants.
“Just want her to be safe when she’s here,” I finish.
“Right,” she says, still looking unconvinced. Mia makes a grab for the phone, forcing Sabrina to adjust her grip.
“Actually,” I say, seizing the opening. “About her being here… I was thinking. Tomorrow. Instead of just hanging out inside… maybe we could take her out? Central Park? Grab a coffee?”
You know, act normal.
Be normal.
Sabrina’s eyes narrow instantly. “Out? In public? Leo, are you serious?”
“Why not? Other people go out...”
“ Other people aren’t a billionaire father whose near-fatal accident was international news less than a year ago!” she says, glancing around like paparazzi might be hiding behind her couch cushions. “What if someone recognizes you? With Mia? Think about the speculation! The press! You hired me to improve your image, to show that you’re stable, but—”
“Relax,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “No one will recognize me.”
“Right,” she scoffs. “Because you blend in so well.”
“I’ll wear a disguise,” I insist. “Baseball cap, sunglasses. Easy.”
“Leo…”
“Come on, Sabrina. Fresh air will be good for her. Good for us. A neutral setting. Less… intense than my apartment.” I lean on the charm a little. “Please? Just for an hour? ”
She hesitates, chewing on her lower lip. I see the conflict in her eyes. The desire for normalcy versus the ingrained need for secrecy.
“And what about Luca?” she asks suddenly. “Will your partner approve of you parading Mia through Central Park?”
Fuck.
I knew she’d bring him up again at some point. The way he talked down to me in front of her crossed a line. After she left the conference room that day, I told the fucker never to do that again. Never to interfere in my personal life.
I walked out on him that day, and have been mostly avoiding him all week beyond the bare necessities to keep our business running. In fact, I’ve been avoiding most of my usual accomplices and the distractions they bring. Except for Dom.
“He has no say in my private life.” I say, more angrily than I intend.
Her eyes narrow, and for a moment I think she’s going to poke again, but then she lets it go. “Okay. Okay.”
“Look, this is just…” I pause. “This is just a dad wanting to take his kid to the park.”
Jesus, did I just call myself ‘dad’?
“A dad in disguise,” she points out dryly.
“A dad in disguise,” I concede. “Look, I get your concerns. About privacy, about the press. That’s what I hired you for. But we’ll be careful. I promise. Charlie and Darius will be with us, discreetly.”
“Your security team?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s your definition of a casual park trip?”
“My definition of keeping my daughter safe,” I counter, meeting her gaze steadily. “ Which is the priority here, right? Besides, they come with me everywhere in public.”
“And they won’t be recognized by anyone?” she presses.
“I’ll have them throw on hats and sunglasses, too,” I insist.
She sighs, looking down at Mia, who has finally fallen asleep against her shoulder.
“Fine,” she says finally. “One hour. In the park. You wear a disguise. Your security wears a disguise, too, and stays far enough away not to look like a presidential motorcade.”
Victory.
“Done!” I say quickly, before she can change her mind. “See you tomorrow at five.”
The next day, precisely at 4:55 PM, the private elevator dings. Thomas, my household manager, has already brought up the sleek, ridiculously expensive stroller I impulse-bought online, placing it near the door.
I adjust my baseball cap, and then the thick-rimmed, non-prescription glasses perched on my nose. My ‘disguise.’ My carbon fiber cane rests against the wall nearby.
Thomas stands next to Sabrina as the elevator doors open fully. She steps out, already maneuvering Mia into the aforementioned stroller. Mia’s bundled in some kind of pink snowsuit thing despite it being a mild day. Sabrina herself looks… stressed but determined. She takes one look at my glasses and lets out a snort.
“Seriously, Leo? That’s the disguise? I thought you said sunglasses. These look like normal glasses to me... Clark Kent called, and he wants his subtle look back.”
“Hey, it worked for him,” I retort, offering a charming grin that she doesn’t return. I grab my cane, the familiar ache in my hip protesting the movement. “Ready for Operation Normal Dad?”
She rolls her eyes but starts pushing the stroller towards the elevator as I follow, my gait still uneven, the cane clicking rhythmically on the marble floor. “Just try not to get us mobbed, okay?”
Downstairs, Darius has the Maybach waiting. Charlie opens the back door and efficiently helps Thomas load the folded stroller into the cavernous trunk space.
“Sabrina, this is Darius,” I say, making the introductions. “He drives. And you already know Charlie, head of security.” Both men nod curtly, their faces impassive. They’re both wearing plainclothes today, with matching baseball caps and sunglasses.
“Wow,” Sabrina deadpans. “Just missing the earpieces and the identical wristwatches. Seriously subtle. Are we expecting trouble at the sandbox, Leo, or did you just hire the world’s most intimidating park rangers?”
I chuckle softly and shrug at my guys.
“PR humor,” I explain as Sabrina gets Mia secured in the integrated child seat.
I get in beside her, the movement sending a twinge up my thigh. Charlie takes the front passenger seat as usual. The privacy partition glides up.
The park trip is… weirdly normal. Getting the stroller out and navigating the park paths is more effort than I anticipated, my leg throbbing with every uneven pa ving stone.
We find a quiet bench near the carousel and I rest on my cane. Sabrina unfolds the stroller near the bench, letting Mia look around. Charlie and Darius meanwhile position themselves discreetly on nearby paths, pretending to read or talk on their phones, but their eyes constantly scan.
Sabrina watches me like a hawk every time I interact with Mia... which mostly involves me awkwardly leaning forward from the bench, trying to make her smile in her stroller while she stares at me with those solemn green eyes.
Then a couple, pushing their own fancy stroller, stops nearby. The woman smiles warmly. “Oh, she’s adorable! How old is she?”
I freeze for a second.
Normal interaction.
Act normal.
I instinctively shift my weight off my bad leg.
“Uh, eleven months,” I manage, pulling off the glasses instinctively.
“Gorgeous eyes,” the man comments, smiling at Mia in her stroller. “Looks just like her dad.”
Sabrina tenses beside me, but I just feel this strange warmth spread through my chest.
“Thanks,” I say, finding myself smiling genuinely. “Yeah, she takes after me.”
They chat with us for another minute about sleep schedules and teething, treating us like just another slightly overwhelmed dad and mom enjoying a Saturday in the park.
It’s… nice.
Simple.
And utterly unremarkable.
Which makes it somehow remarkable for me.
When they walk away, pushing their stroller towards the playground, I feel lighter than I have in months.
Maybe… maybe this fatherhood thing isn’t just about responsibility and complication.
Maybe there’s something else here, too.
Later that evening, back at the penthouse, the place is chaos again, but a different kind. Delivery guys navigate carefully around my minimalist sculptures, carrying boxes emblazoned with names like ‘Graco’ and ‘Oeuf’. The nursery furniture has arrived.
Thomas oversees the operation with his usual unflappable calm, directing the crew towards the spare bedroom I designated. Rafael, my personal chef, pauses on his way to the kitchen, raising a curious eyebrow at the unassembled crib being carried past.
Neither of them says anything, of course. They’re paid for discretion as much as for their skills. But I see the questions in their eyes. The shock. The inevitable gossip that will ripple through the household staff.
Mr. Maxwell has a baby?
I watch the delivery guys assemble the crib... it’s sleek, modern, ridiculously expensive, probably has more safety certifications than a fucking Volvo, and it’s a bitch to put together, even for them.
Sabrina is right, of course, I have no idea if Mia will ever actually sleep here. It feels presumptuous as hell setting the thing up.
Still... as I stand in the doorway of the rapidly transforming room, which is no longer a guest suite but now definitively a nursery, I don’t feel any doubt. None whatsoever.
Instead, I feel… determined.
This is happening.
She exists.
She’s mine.
And she needs a space here.
In my home.
In my life.
Whether Sabrina trusts me yet or not, whether her mother Diane approves or not, whether I even trust myself not to fuck this up… doesn’t matter.
This is my new reality.
And it feels a hell of a lot more real, more important, than any fucking Series A round or IPO ever did.