22. Sabrina
22
Sabrina
O kay, the cognitive dissonance is getting real.
So here I am, at my next scheduled visitation inside Leo’s penthouse, stupidly trying to get some work done.
One part of my brain, the rational, professional PR strategist part, is methodically outlining Phase Two of the ‘Leo Maxwell Public Image Restoration’ campaign on my laptop.
The other flustered, sleep-deprived, emotionally scrambled single mom part, keeps sneaking glances across the vast expanse of Leo’s ridiculously luxurious penthouse living room.
My targets? Exhibit A: Leo Maxwell himself, currently sprawled on a plush rug, looking utterly engrossed in… stacking colorful wooden blocks?
And Exhibit B: Mia Grace Taylor, my daughter, our daughter, sitting opposite him, babbling enthusiastic encouragement (or possibly just commenting on the structural integrity of said blocks) while occasionally making grabby motions with her chubby starfish hands .
It’s been… what? Three visits since the park? Twice here at the ‘sky palace’, once at my ‘cozy’ Brooklyn command center. And each time, this weird transformation occurs. The driven, cynical, slightly terrifying businessman I met with Luca, the one who practically radiated ‘get the fuck out of my way,’ suddenly vanishes the moment Mia is in the room.
Replaced by… this guy. The guy who patiently lets Mia knock over the block tower for the fifth time, who makes ridiculously goofy faces that actually elicit a genuine baby belly laugh, who seems completely unfazed when she inevitably tries to chew on his very expensive watch.
This guy… is dangerously close to the charming, easy-going guy I met poolside in Vegas, before the subsequent twenty months of secret-keeping chaos. The guy I might have, under different, less chemically altered circumstances, actually… liked.
Which is terrifying.
Because that guy, the Vegas guy, not the New York guy, is currently making airplane noises while pretending a wooden block is landing on Mia’s head.
I could fall for that guy.
Hard.
And that’s a PR crisis I am absolutely not equipped to handle.
My whole Unsuitable Father Material narrative is getting harder to maintain when the evidence right in front of me is… well, this.
He’s trying .
Genuinely, awkwardly, sometimes cluelessly, but undeniably trying.
He asks questions about her schedule, her favorite foods (currently anything mushy and orange), her nap routine. He listens, and I mean, actually listens, when I explain the subtle difference between her ‘I’m hungry’ cry and her ‘I’m bored and contemplating world domination’ cry.
He even bought a crib (though I doubt he assembled it himself). But still. And there’s a fully equipped nursery down the hall that looks like it was ripped from the pages of an insanely expensive baby magazine. With a stocked changing table and a Diaper Genie present and accounted for.
It’s… a lot. It’s confusing. He’s doing all the right things, saying all the right things (mostly). He hasn’t mentioned lawyers again. He wired the retainer for the PR work immediately. He texts before I visit, asks about Mia’s week, even sent over a ridiculously large basket of organic baby food one time ‘just in case.’
Am I… leading him on? Letting him build this nursery, letting him get attached, when deep down I’m still terrified he’s going to revert to factory settings the second things get hard? The second the novelty wears off? The second Luca whispers more poison in his ear?
My stomach twists with familiar anxiety. I should put a stop to it, shouldn’t I? Reinforce the boundaries. Remind him this is supervised visitation, not playing house. Remind myself .
But watching him carefully guide Mia’s hand to place the final block on the wobbly tower, seeing the genuine, unguarded smile light up his face when she squeals with delight… I don’t have the heart.
Not yet.
Not while he looks like… this. Like maybe he could be different.
Focus, Sabrina.
Back to the PR plan.
Phase Two involves carefully curated public appearances. Charity galas (with appropriate dates, not like that boobs-in-your-face Jen girl, thank you very much), industry panels focused on sustainable and environmentally friendly investments, maybe even a softball interview with a friendly outlet focusing on his recovery and renewed dedication to the firm.
You know, the whole rebuilding the brand image thing. Projecting stability.
What we've been doing so far seems to be working. Slowly, anyway. Leo mentioned yesterday that two major pension funds that had previously paused commitments have already scheduled follow-up meetings.
Small wins, but wins nonetheless. My professional brain clicks with satisfaction.
See? Control the narrative, and you avert the crisis. PR 101.
The government, especially the intelligence services, have known this for years. And private businesses are finally catching on, thanks to people like me.
Still, if only my personal life were so easily managed.
Mia suddenly lets out a frustrated wail. The block tower has, inevitably, collapsed. Her lower lip trembles.
Here come the waterworks.
I automatically start to get up, ready to deploy Mommy Rescue Mode, but Leo holds up a hand, stopping me.
“I got this,” he says from across the room, sounding surprisingly calm.
I hesitate, sinking back onto the ridiculously comfortable sofa .
Okay. You got this, do you? Fine. Let’s see how Billionaire Dad handles a level one meltdown.
Leo scoops Mia up effortlessly, settling her onto his lap, facing him. He ignores the fallen blocks.
“Uh oh,” he says softly, his tone gentle, completely different from the sharp, clipped cadence he uses in business calls. “Big crash, huh? Was that the red one? Did the red one do it?”
He points to a stray red block.
Mia’s crying hitches as she looks where he’s pointing, momentarily distracted. She sniffles, rubbing her eyes with chubby fists.
“Yeah, that red one’s a troublemaker,” Leo continues conversationally, bouncing her gently on his knee. “Always causing problems. Should we put him in time out?”
He makes a funny face, crossing his eyes slightly.
A watery giggle escapes Mia. She reaches out and pats his cheek, leaving a slightly damp spot.
My breath catches. He… he soothed her.
Just like that.
No panic, no awkwardness.
Just… gentle distraction and a goofy face.
My own father, in the rare moments he was actually present, would have either ignored me or gotten frustrated.
Leo catches my eye over Mia’s head, a small, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. Like he’s surprised himself. He looks… different, suddenly. Less sharp edges, more… warmth.
The strength is still there, the undeniable power in his build, even with the lingering injury, but it’s tempered now by this unexpected gentleness.
This capable tenderness.
And I find myself noticing things I’d deliberately ignored before. The way his ridiculously long eyelashes curl slightly at the tips. The way that small scar above his eyebrow catches the light when he smiles that real smile, not the charming PR grin.
And the sheer size and warmth of his hands, currently occupied with wiping a stray tear from Mia’s cheek with surprising delicacy.
Okay, stop it.
This is dangerous territory. Admiring the baby daddy’s eyelashes is not part of the co-parenting agreement.
It’s definitely not conducive to maintaining professional boundaries.
But the carefully constructed wall I keep around my heart, the one designed to protect me from charming men who inevitably leave, feels somehow porous right now.
Leaky.
Like maybe a few bricks have crumbled without me noticing.
Because this Leo, the one patiently rebuilding a block tower with our daughter while she murmurs nonsense syllables on his lap, the one whose green eyes soften when he looks at her… this Leo doesn’t entirely fit the ‘reckless playboy destined to disappear’ narrative I’ve clung to so tightly.
It’s confusing. It’s terrifying. And it feels… hopeful?
Hopeful? Sabrina, get a grip.
This is Leo Maxwell.
A man whose life operates on a completely different frequency. A man whose baggage, literal and emotional, probably requires its own private jet. A man whose closest friend and business partner is Luca freaking Briggs, asshole extraordinaire .
Hope is a luxury I cannot afford here.
So I force my attention back to the laptop screen, back to the PR strategy, back to the safe, controllable world of metrics and messaging. But my focus is shot. My gaze keeps drifting back to the scene on the rug.
Leo laughs, a genuine, warm sound, as Mia successfully places a blue block on top of a yellow one. He praises her like she just solved cold fusion. And maybe someday, with a father like him, she will.
Stop it. Just stop.
I sigh. My chest feels tight. I'm definitely feeling something that feels dangerously close to attraction. And not just the residual memory of the Vegas heat, either, but attraction to this Leo.
The father.
The man patiently playing with blocks on the floor.
Well, shit.
This co-parenting thing just got infinitely more complicated.
Controlling the narrative?
Right now, I can barely control my own pulse.