27. Leo
27
Leo
T wo days.
Feels like two fucking years.
Sabrina and Mia have been living here, in my penthouse, for forty-eight surreal hours.
My life, previously a tightly controlled operation optimized for ruthless efficiency and maximum personal freedom, now feels… infiltrated. Like occupied territory.
And the strangest part?
I don’t entirely mind.
Okay, mostly I don’t mind. Sharing my space is still fucking strange.
Finding tiny socks wedged between sofa cushions? Baffling. Hearing baby giggles echo where usually there’s only the hum of the market or the clink of ice in a whiskey glass? Disorienting.
But Mia… fuck. Every time I look at her, every time she grabs my finger with surprising strength or stares up at me with those goddamn green eyes that are a direct copy of mine, something inside me shifts. Melts .
It’s pathetic.
I’m a billionaire turned to goo by an eleven-month-old dictator in a diaper.
And Sabrina. Jesus. Having her here .
All the time.
It’s messing with my head even more than usual.
We’ve been working side-by-side, mostly out of my home office. I set up a temporary workstation for her near the windows, figuring proximity was necessary for managing this PR clusterfuck the tabloids created.
Very bad idea.
Because now, instead of focusing on leveraged buyouts or Series B funding rounds, half my brain is tracking the way she bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating, or the curve of her hip when she leans over to pick up a dropped pacifier, or the faint scent of peonies and baby lotion that seems to follow her around.
Oh god, it’s fucking torture. Like literal torture.
Especially after that night. That kiss. That frantic, desperate collision against the window.
Finally fucking knowing what it’s like to be with her, even if it was just that one conscious time, has only made things worse. Because now I know without hesitation what I missed in Vegas. Now I know what she feels like.
She says I ruined her for other men?
Well fuck.
She’s ruined me for other women.
She’s been keeping her distance since that night. Polite. Professional. All business. Walls firmly back in place.
Smart girl. Protecting herself from me.
It’s probably the right call .
Doesn’t stop me from wanting to tear those walls down again.
Not to mention rip off those clothes...
I’ve lasted two days so far.
In all honesty, I don’t think I can make it through another day.
But I have to try.
But do I?
I’m used to getting what I want.
If I want her, why not just take her?
Because I want to be better, I remind myself.
Yeah. Better.
Good luck with that.
I glance her way.
Right now, she’s on a video call at her workstation, looking sharp and competent in some kind of silky blue blouse, negotiating with a particularly slimy journalist from the Financial Times , spinning the tabloid narrative into something resembling ‘responsible fatherhood’ and ‘renewed focus.’
She’s fucking brilliant at it, if I’m being honest. Calm, controlled, deflecting intrusive questions like a boss. Watching her work is almost as distracting as watching her… exist.
Still, I can’t help but feel a moment of guilt. The paparazzi didn’t just get photos of me and Mia; they got Sabrina too. And someone, probably a disgruntled doorman bribed with pocket change, leaked that she and Mia moved in here. Now the narrative isn’t just ‘secret baby...’ it’s ‘secret baby and live-in mom.’
Sabrina’s own professional reputation is now tangled up in my mess.
Mia is supposed to be napping in the nursery down the hall. Supposed to be. But the baby monitor on my desk crackles to life with a series of demanding squawks.
Nap time is officially over.
Sabrina glances towards the monitor, then back at her screen, clearly torn. She murmurs an apology to the journalist, puts him on hold.
“I got it,” I say quickly, pushing back from my desk and grabbing my cane. Another new development: me volunteering for diaper duty.
It’s still awkward as hell, my hands feeling too big, too clumsy for the tiny snaps and tabs. But Mia seems… tolerant of my incompetence. And the feeling of holding her afterward, that warm, solid weight against my chest… it cuts through the usual bullshit cynicism like nothing else.
I limp down the hall to the nursery. Sure enough, Mia is standing in the crib, rattling the bars like a tiny inmate demanding parole. She beams when she sees me, bouncing on her little legs.
And when I see that face, I remind myself why I haven’t hired a nanny to do this. She’s too adorable, too important, too fragile to let any one else other than her parents touch her.
“All right, all right, Killer,” I chuckle, reaching in to scoop her up. “Heard you the first time. Someone needs a change, huh?”
Ten minutes later, after another successful diaper change, complete with expert-level Diaper Genie deployment, I carry Mia back towards the office. She babbles happily against my shoulder, patting my cheek with a slightly sticky hand.
Sabrina is just finishing her call as we re-enter.
“Excellent. Thank you for your time, Andrew,” she says smoothly, then disconnects. She lets out a long sigh and rubs her temples .
“Fun times?” I ask, settling onto the leather sofa in the office seating area. I rest Mia on my lap.
“Just managing expectations,” she says, turning her chair towards us. She offers Mia a tired smile. “He’s angling for an exclusive interview. Tried to frame it as a ‘human interest’ piece on your recovery and newfound fatherhood.”
“Translation: digging for dirt,” I snort. “What did you tell him?”
“That your focus is currently on Maxwell that’s just smart business.”
Liar. It’s more than that. Way more.
She offers another small, grateful smile. “Still. Thank you.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I see something in them I wasn’t expecting. Yes, there’s gratitude, but also... hunger?
The memory of that night, the feel of her wrapped around me against the window, comes flooding back.
It’s the middle of the work day. We have boundaries. We’re trying to keep this professional. We—
And then I catch it. Barely a microexpression. Her eyes drop to my crotch for a split second. Just a split second, but I notice.
And instantly I’m so hard that my cock fucking hurts in my pants.
Damn it. I want her so badly her right now.
And she wants me, too. I can see it in her eyes. The way she just licked her lips.
Fuck boundaries. Fuck complications.
Before I can second-guess it, before the cynical part of my brain lists all the reasons why this is a terrible fucking idea, I stand up, ignoring the twinge in my hip, and cross the space between us in two painful strides.
I reach down, cup her face in my hands, and pull her up towards me.