23. Leo
23
Leo
S ilence. Not the usual empty, echoing silence of the penthouse after the staff leaves, the kind that usually sends me reaching for a distraction.
This is different.
A softer silence, punctuated by the occasional soft sigh drifting from the baby monitor sitting on the low coffee table between me and Sabrina.
Mia’s asleep. Finally. Took damn near an hour, and about six iterations of “Okay, this is the last block tower, then we really have to go,” from Sabrina. Each time, I’d ‘accidentally’ knock it over, or Mia would conveniently reach for another block, or I’d suddenly discover a fascinating new stacking technique that required just five more minutes.
Sabrina saw right through my bullshit, obviously. Her sighs got progressively heavier, her glances at the clock more pointed. But she didn’t push it. Didn’t just scoop Mia up and bolt. Probably because dragging a tired, potentially cranky baby out into the night and navigating Brooklyn traffic felt marginally worse than enduring another ten minutes of awkward co-parenting in a billionaire’s penthouse.
Or maybe she was just too damn tired to fight me on it.
My master plan is working.
Who the fuck am I kidding? What plan? I don’t have a goddamn plan. All I knew was I didn’t want them to leave. Not yet. Didn’t want the silence to descend again. Didn’t want to be alone with the wreckage of my life and the ghost of those green eyes.
So I stalled.
Like some desperate teenager trying to stretch out a curfew.
Pathetic, I know.
But she’s asleep now. In the crib. In the nursery I threw together. And Sabrina… Sabrina is still here. Curled up on the opposite end of the massive white sofa, nursing a glass of wine I practically had to force on her. She initially refused, citing professional boundaries, yadda yadda, but I finally got her to agree to one drink.
I figured we both needed it.
She looks… different tonight. Softer. More like the girl I remember from Vegas, before GHB stole my memories of her. She’s wearing a simple dark sweater and leggings. Her hair is loose, those dark curls framing her face. Without the makeup and power suit, she looks younger, more vulnerable.
And maybe even more fucking attractive.
Which is a complication I definitely don’t need right now.
Or maybe I do.
Fuck knows. The last week has messed with me worse than the Chamonix crash. Fatherhood. Co- parenting. Baby-proofing. Talking about my ‘intentions’ with her mother.
It’s a whole new level of disorientation.
I swirl the amber liquid in my own glass. A twenty-five-year-old Macallan. I watch Sabrina over the rim. She’s staring down into her wine like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“So,” I say finally, breaking the awkward quiet. “She seems to like the nursery. And didn’t immediately reject the plush llamas. That’s a win, right?”
A smile touches her lips. She glances towards the baby monitor. “She was mostly just exhausted. But yeah, the llamas are… cute.” She takes a sip of her wine. “It’s… a beautiful room, Leo. You didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”
“Trouble?” I scoff lightly, leaning back against the cushions. “Please. Thomas handled the logistics. I just clicked ‘buy now’ on a few things. And...”
I swallow, wondering if I should say what’s on my mind.
Fuck it.
Don’t ask, don’t get.
“After all the effort,” I continue, “assembling that crib… the nursery... seems a shame not to use it. You sure you don’t want to just let her stay the night?”
Sabrina’s posture stiffens almost instantly. The walls go back up.
Fucking predictable.
“Leo, we talked about this…”
“I know, I know,” I cut her off gently. “Supervised visits. Boundaries. Got it. But look at her.” I nod towards the monitor where Mia is sleeping peacefully, one tiny fist curled near her cheek. “She’s out cold. Moving her now is just asking for another meltdown. For both of you.”
If she really wants to go I’ll let her, of course. But I’m going to have her take the Maybach, not the subway. Not with my daughter in tow, this late at night.
She studies me, her dark eyes searching mine. Looking for the angle? The manipulation?
Probably.
Can’t really blame her.
My track record isn’t exactly stellar.
“Okay,” she says finally. “She can stay.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
That was easier than expected.
“On one condition,” she adds quickly.
“Which is?”
“I stay, too,” she says firmly, a hint of defiance in her tone. Like she’s daring me to object. “I’m not leaving my eleven-month-old daughter overnight in a stranger’s penthouse unsupervised. Crib or no crib.”
Stranger.
Ouch.
But… fair. Twenty months of secrecy followed by one confrontation and a few visits doesn’t exactly equal trust.
“Wouldn’t expect you to,” I say quietly. Which is true. The thought of her leaving Mia here alone feels… wrong. “Guest room’s down the hall. Fully equipped. Probably less baby paraphernalia than your place right now.”
I try for a small smile.
She hesitates only a fraction of a second, then gives a curt nod. “Fine. Thank you.”
Progress.
Maybe.
Or perhaps just logistical necessity.
Either way she’s staying here .
Overnight.
The thought sends a weird jolt through me, something entirely unrelated to fatherly responsibility.
Down, boy. Heel!
We lapse back into silence. The comfortable quiet from earlier is gone, replaced by a new layer of awkward tension. She’s staying. We’re… alone.
Together.
With our sleeping daughter in the next room.
This feels dangerously close to something domestic.
And it brings Vegas crashing back. The lingering questions. The blank space in my memory that’s been itching like a phantom limb ever since I saw her again.
Fuck it.
Vulnerability.
Honesty.
That’s what her mother implied I needed. That’s what Dom suggested.
Maybe it’s time.
“Sabrina,” I start, setting my whiskey glass down carefully on the ridiculously expensive coaster. My palms feel suddenly sweaty. This is harder than facing down hostile fund managers. “About… Vegas.”
Her head snaps up, her eyes wide, wary. “What about it?”
“I need to… ask you something.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, looking her directly in the eye. No bullshit. No games. Just… truth. Or trying for it. “That night. After the pool party, the cabana… when we came back to my hotel. I know I was… fucked up.” I hate admitting this. Hate the lack of control it implies. Hate the weakness. “I woke u p the next morning, half-dressed, confused as hell. You were… leaving.”
She looks down at her wine glass again, her knuckles white where she grips the stem.
“I remember.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Obviously… something happened,” I continue, the word ‘something’ feeling like a gross understatement given the sleeping baby in the next room. “Mia is pretty irrefutable proof of that.” I pause, searching for the right words, feeling exposed in a way I haven’t before. “What I don’t remember… is it . Us. What was it… like? Was I…?” I trail off, unable to ask directly if I was rough, or careless, or the kind of asshole I become when the drugs take over completely. The thought that I might have hurt her, or scared her, even unintentionally, while blacked out… it makes my gut clench. That blank space, knowing it led to Mia , knowing I have zero recall of the moment my daughter was conceived… it’s been driving me fucking crazy. It feels like a fundamental piece of the puzzle is missing, ripped out.
I know she probably doesn’t remember either, since we were both high on GHB, but I figure it’s worth asking.
She takes a shaky breath, still not looking at me. When she speaks, her voice is low, strained. “It was… intense, Leo. Fast. You weren’t exactly… gentle.”
The quiet words land like punches.
Not gentle.
Fuck. Exactly what I was afraid of. Anger surges. At myself, mostly. For being that guy. For letting bullshit drugs wipe away not just a memory, but my basic fucking humanity.
She must see the self-loathing flash across my face because she quickly adds, her voice even quieter, almost rushed, “But… Leo, when I said it wasn’t gentle, I didn’t mean… it wasn’t good. It was …” She hesitates, color rising in her cheeks, finally looking up at me, her gaze direct and surprisingly fierce. “It was incredible. Honestly? You kind of ruined me for other men. I… I didn’t know how I could go back to normal after feeling… that.”
The admission hangs there, raw and unexpected, adding another layer of confusing complexity to the whole damn situation.
My own anger falters, tripped up by her confession.
Incredible? Ruined her for other men?
That wasn’t the validation my bruised ego was expecting, but it lands differently. Not vindication, but… something that makes the hollow space ache even more.
I created that intensity, that feeling for her, and I don’t even fucking remember it.
“Then why?” I ask again, but the harshness is gone from my voice now, replaced by genuine confusion. “If it was… incredible… why run? Why not say something that morning?” I pause, realizing something else. “And how come you remember that evening at all? When no one else who was there remembers a fucking thing?”
She finally looks up fully, and her eyes are glistening. Not crying, not quite, but close. And there’s a raw vulnerability there that mirrors my own fucking confusion.
“Why?” she repeats, a humorless little laugh escaping her lips. “Are you serious? You want to know why?” She puts down her wine glass with a soft click. “Okay. Let’s talk about Vegas. Really talk about it. You remember offering me GHB? You remember charming me into thinking it was just a bit of harmless fun, even though every rational cell in my body screamed ‘bad idea’?”
I flinch. Yeah. I remember that part. Vaguely. The pressure.
I was a fucking asshole.
“I didn’t take it,” she continues quietly, her gaze unwavering now. “I pretended to. Spilled most of it. I was… tipsy from tequila, maybe. Definitely overwhelmed by your charm. But I wasn’t high like you were.”
She wasn’t high.
The information lands like another body blow. She was sober-ish. Aware. And I was… not.
Fuck.
“So you remember everything?” I ask, my voice barely audible now.
She nods, looking miserable again despite her earlier confession about the sex itself. “Unfortunately. Every awkward, intense, completely unforgettable detail.” She wraps her arms around herself. “And I remember waking up the next morning, seeing you completely passed out, clearly having no clue what had happened, or even who I was beyond some vague Vegas memory. And I panicked, Leo.”
Her voice trembles slightly. “All I could think was… he only did that , was like that , because he was high. I told myself that sober, you wouldn’t look twice at the sensible PR consultant who makes killer lasagna. You’d want the models, the actresses, the women who actually took the party enhancers. Not me.”
The self-deprecation in her voice is painful to hear. Because maybe… maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong? Back then? Before Mia ?
Fuck I don’t know.
“I was mortified,” she whispers, finally looking directly at me again, her dark eyes filled with a mixture of shame and defiance. “Humiliated. Convinced you’d just… dismiss me. Politely, maybe, but dismiss me nonetheless. Like my father did. Just… disappear.” She takes another shaky breath. “So I ran. And finding out I was pregnant weeks later… and then when I looked you up, it just cemented everything. You were the reckless, danger-seeking playboy. The guy who wouldn’t remember, wouldn’t care. Telling you felt… impossible. Dangerous. Not just for me, but for her.” She gestures towards the nursery.
Her confession hangs in the air between us. The raw honesty of it. Her insecurity, her fear… mirroring my own goddamn fears about becoming my father. We’re both fucked up by our pasts, just in different, destructive ways.
And she remembers the night I don’t.
The night that created our daughter.
The night that apparently ruined her for other men.
Something shifts inside me. The residual anger evaporates completely, replaced by a confusing mix of guilt, regret, and… a powerful, unexpected pull towards her. Towards the woman who saw me at my worst, maybe, but still felt something incredible.
And she ran because she thought she wasn’t good enough for the sober version of me.
Without conscious thought, I reach across the space separating us on the couch, my hand covering hers where it rests on the cushion.
Her skin is soft, cool.
She flinches slightly at the contact but doesn’t pull away.
“Sabrina,” I say, my voice rough with emotion I don’t understand. “I… I wish I remembered.” And it’s the truest fucking thing I’ve said all night. I wish I remembered her . Not just the hazy Vegas image, but her . That night. What it felt like. What she felt like. Making her feel… incredible. I’m getting turned on just thinking about it. I want to make her feel incredible again .
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, searching mine. There’s an electric current in the air between us, and this time it’s undiluted by chemicals of any kind.
It’s just… us.
I smile as tenderly as I can. “You told yourself that sober, I wouldn’t look twice at the sensible PR consultant who makes killer lasagna? Well... I have news for you, PR consultant . I really fucking like lasagna.”
She giggles then, and there are obvious tears glistening in her eyes.
I lean closer, drawn by the vulnerability in her gaze, by the shared history, by the undeniable connection humming between us. My gaze drops to her lips. Those lips I apparently kissed, tasted, and savored twenty months ago.
Her breath hitches. She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pull back.
And then I’m kissing her. Not the rough, possessive claimingher words painted of that night in Vegas,but something else. Tentative. Questioning. A slow exploration.
Her lips are soft, yielding.
She tastes like expensive red wine and… Sabrina .
She makes a soft sigh, and her hand comes up, resting hesitantly against my chest, right over my heart.
This kiss… it’s conscious. Deliberate. The first real kiss we’ve ever shared, as far as I’m concerned.
And it feels like coming home to a place I never knew existed.
Like maybe the real journey didn’t start in Vegas, but it begins right here, now, tonight.