29. Sabrina
29
Sabrina
C lothes.
Need clothes.
My blouse is definitely… somewhere.
Crumpled into an expensive, silky heap on the Persian rug, sacrificed at the altar of Leo Maxwell’s impulsive libido.
And mine, apparently.
Don’t forget your own complicity here, Sabrina.
My hands tremble slightly as I straighten my tailored trousers, the fabric feeling ridiculously formal after… well, that .
My bra is dangling off the armrest of the leather sofa like some kind of lacy surrender flag.
Mortifying .
I snatch it up, fumbling with the clasp behind my back, my cheeks burning hotter than the friction we just generated.
What the hell just happened?
One minute, we’re strategizing investor relations, the next minute I’m… well, I was just thoroughly ‘strategized’ on the home office sofa .
By my client.
By Mia’s father.
By the man whose emotional availability I’ve mentally categorized alongside unicorns and affordable Manhattan real estate.
He’s standing by the window now, his back mostly to me, buttoning his shirt, seemingly composed. I guess the phone call brought him back to reality. It brought us both back, really.
Still, I notice the slight tremor in his own hands, and the way he’s favoring his good leg. The intensity of… whatever we just had… clearly took a physical toll, even on him.
My brain feels like it went through a high-speed blender. Thoughts, feelings, professional ethics, residual physical sensations, all of it is jumbled into an incoherent mess.
Am I furious about the blatant disregard for professional boundaries? Yes.
Am I terrified by the ease with which he just dismantled my carefully constructed defenses? Absolutely.
Am I still tingling in places I shouldn’t be tingling while technically on the clock?
Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness.
He’s not father material. He’s reckless, emotionally guarded, partnered with a manipulative asshole, and has a string of discarded women likely longer than Mia’s current Babylist registry.
I know this.
My research confirmed it.
My own abandonment issues scream it.
So why?
Why did I let that happen ?
Why did my body betray every rational thought, every self-protective instinct?
Why, when he pulled me towards him, did I melt instead of run?
I... I don’t know. He’s... he’s just intoxicating. So hot. So...
Oh that cock...
No!
Don’t go there.
Maybe it was the surprising sincerity in his eyes when I thanked him, the way he seemed almost vulnerable admitting I’d ‘earned’ his trust professionally, even while our personal lives imploded.
Maybe it was the memory of the previous night, the confirmation that the physical connection wasn’t just a one-sided, GHB-fueled hallucination on his part.
Or maybe I’m just a freakin’ idiot with terrible taste in men and zero self-control when faced with piercing green eyes and an alpha male’s domination streak.
Yeah, let’s go with that one. Feels the most likely.
He turns around then, catching me mid-self-flagellation as I finally locate my blouse. He’s retrieved his cane again and leaning on it. His expression is unreadable. Guarded.
The passionate intensity from moments ago?
Gone.
Replaced by the familiar cool mask of the billionaire Venture Capitalist.
“You all right?” he asks, his voice neutral.
Define... all right.
“Fine,” I lie, smoothing down my horribly wrinkled blouse. I need to regain control. Need to put the professional hat back on, even if it feels ridiculous after… sofa-gate. “Just… processing the, uh, revised strategy.”
Nice save, Sabrina. Real subtle.
Jesus.
A flicker of amusement crosses his face.
“Right. The strategy.” He picks up a stray file from his desk, seemingly all business again. But the air between us is still thick, charged with unspoken words and the undeniable aftermath of what just occurred. And the realization that if he bent me over that sofa again, I’d let him fuck the shit out of me all over again—
Don’t go there!
My eyes drift around his office, searching for a distraction, anything to avoid looking directly at him. The place is exactly what you’d expect. Sleek lines, expensive tech, minimalist art. Impersonal. Powerful.
Except…
On a low credenza near the window, tucked between a brutalist sculpture and a stack of financial reports, there’s something that doesn’t quite fit.
A framed photograph.
Curiosity pulls me closer, needing the anchor of something concrete in this sea of emotional confusion.
It’s an older photo, slightly faded.
A much younger Leo, maybe ten or eleven, all gangly limbs and that same unruly dark blond hair, stands awkwardly between two adults. He’s not smiling his usual charming grin; he looks… serious. Almost wary.
The older man beside him, presumably his father, has a similar facial structure but lacks Leo’s spark. His eyes look distant, almost hollow. Haunted, even.
The woman, his mother, is blonde, pretty, but her smile seems brittle, painted on, her hand hovering near Leo’s shoulder but not quite touching him.
They look… disconnected.
All of them.
Posing for a picture but miles apart emotionally.
It’s strangely poignant. A glimpse behind the curtain of Leo Maxwell, the carefully constructed brand.
“Your parents?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Professional boundaries have gone out the window.
Along with my panties, apparently.
Leo glances over, following my gaze to the photograph.
His expression tightens instantly. He limps closer with his cane, standing beside me, staring at the picture with a look I can’t quite decipher.
Resentment? Sadness?
Maybe just… distance.
“Yeah,” he says curtly. “Ancient history.” He reaches out like he’s going to turn the frame face down, then seems to think better of it, letting his hand drop back to his side.
“You look… serious,” I venture, studying the young Leo in the photo again. That guarded look in his eyes feels oddly familiar.
It’s the same look I sometimes see now. For example, in this very moment even.
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Serious occasions require serious posing.” He taps the glass over the image of his father. “That’s Richard Maxwell. Master of disappointment. Drank himself senseless after running the family business into the ground.” The bitterness in his tone is undisguised.
“And your mother?” I ask quietly, looking at the woman with the brittle smile.
Leo shrugs, his gaze on the photo but his focus seemingly miles away. “Mom was… overwhelmed. Spent most of my childhood trying to keep him... upright. Not much left over for… anything else.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Like I said, ancient history. Doesn’t matter.”
But it does matter. I see it instantly. The connection. His father’s failures, his alcoholism, the financial instability he mentioned once before… his mother’s emotional absence, being overwhelmed…
It’s the blueprint for Leo’s own carefully constructed walls. His relentless drive for success, his need for control, his aversion to commitment, his fear of… what?
Becoming his father? Failing like his father did?
And his fear of fatherhood itself, perhaps.
It’s not just about the lifestyle change, the inconvenience. It’s deeper than that. It’s tangled up in this painful history somehow, this image of a disconnected, failing father and an emotionally absent mother.
He’s terrified of repeating the pattern, just like my mother is terrified I will with him.
Suddenly, his guardedness, his reckless behavior, even his initial fury at me… it clicks into place with painful clarity. He wasn’t just angry about the secret; he was probably terrified of the responsibility, terrified of becoming the kind of father he himself endured.
“Leo,” I say softly, turning to face him. He finally tears his gaze away from the photo, looking down at me, his green eyes wary again. Expecting judgment perhaps. “It does matter. It shapes us, doesn’t it? Our parents. The things we run from.”
He studies my face for a long moment.
“And what are you running from, Sabrina?” he asks quietly, turning the tables.
Fair enough. Vulnerability is a two-way street. Or maybe just a collision course.
“My father,” I admit, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “He wasn’t an alcoholic, not like yours. He was just… gone. Walked out when I was nine. Promised he’d be back. Never was.”
I hinted at this before, the day Leo and I first met post Vegas. During out argument. But I never told him the full story. Not like this.
I hug my arms around myself, the familiar chill of that long-ago abandonment settling over me. “So, yeah. I get the fear. Of relying on someone who might disappear. Of history repeating itself. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Mia initially. Not just because of the playboy reputation or the cliff-jumping. Because deep down, you reminded me of him .”
His eyes darken, but not with anger this time. Recognition? Empathy?
He crosses to me and reaches out, his fingers gently brushing my arm, sending an unexpected jolt through me.
The contact is brief, hesitant, but it feels… significant.
“I’m not him, Sabrina,” he says, his voice low. “Not your father. Not mine either.” He pauses, then adds, almost under his breath, “Trying like hell not to be, anyway.”
The raw honesty of that admission cracks something open inside me.
That fragile trust, the one I keep trying to deny, takes root a little deeper.
We’re both damaged goods, products of fractured families, carrying baggage that could fill a cargo plane.
Both terrified of repeating the mistakes that shaped us.
Maybe that shared fear, that shared history of abandonment and disappointment, isn’t just a barrier?
Maybe it’s a bridge?
Later that evening, the penthouse is quiet again. The remnants of our working dinner sit cleared away... some gourmet takeout ordered by Thomas, because apparently Leo didn’t want his personal chef intruding on our privacy tonight. Beyond the vast windows, the city lights twinkle like scattered diamonds.
It Mia’s bath time.
Another first. Because Leo insisted on being involved, and he hovered awkwardly near the sleek, modern tub in the nursery bathroom while I expertly navigated suds and rubber ducks.
Now, she’s swaddled in a fluffy towel that’s bigger than she is, sitting propped up on Leo’s lap on the bathroom floor while I kneel in front of them, carefully applying lotion to her chubby legs. She smells like lavender and clean baby. If that’s even a smell...
Leo is watching my hands with a small, focused frown on his face, like he’s memorizing the technique. He hasn’t said much since our conversation by the photograph in his office, but the atmosphere between us feels different. Less charged with sexual tension or professional obligation, and more… quiet. Thoughtful even. Almost peaceful.
“Okay, little peanut,” I murmur, rubbing lotion onto Mia’s belly. She giggles, kicking her legs. “Almost ready for sleepy time.”
“She likes this part,” Leo observes quietly, his hand resting gently on Mia’s back, steadying her. His fingers brush against mine as I reach for the diaper. Another jolt, smaller this time, but definitely there. I steadfastly ignore it.
Boundaries, Sabrina. Remember the boundaries.
Even if they feel increasingly blurred.
I get her diapered and pull a soft sleeper pajama set over her head. She yawns widely, showing off her few tiny teeth, her green eyes drooping.
“Someone’s tired,” Leo says softly, his voice lacking its usual sharp edge. He sounds almost paternal.
Stop it.
He stands up carefully, lifting Mia with him, supporting her head like a pro now. He cradles her against his chest, rocking her slightly. Mia snuggles in, her eyes drifting closed.
Watching them together like this... the powerful billionaire, still marked by his recent brush with death, holding our tiny daughter with such unexpected tenderness... it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through me.
Fear is among those emotions, admittedly. The fear that this is temporary, that he’ll revert, that he’ll leave.
But also… hope.
A fragile, terrifying flicker that maybe things could be different this time. That maybe he could be different.
What’s going to happen when he heals up and starts BASE jumping again?
Maybe he’ll give up the sport for Mia.
Maybe—
Ha, right. Dream on, Sabrina.
I shake my head.
Don’t think about that. Just enjoy the quiet moments we have together. While we still have them.
Yes. Enjoy them.
Because I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t going to last forever. Despite my hope.
Limping, he carries her over to the crib and lowers her gently onto the mattress. I notice that he’s not relying upon the cane as much anymore. That’s both a good and a bad sign.
Good, because he’s healing.
Bad, because he’s healing.
He’ll be wingsuiting soon...
Don’t think about that.
But I can’t help it.
He pulls the soft blanket up around her, his large hand lingering for a moment on her back.
Then he straightens, turning back to me, a look of quiet wonder on his face. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.
Frankly, neither can I.
Wingsuiting...
We stand there in the quiet nursery, the baby monitor casting a faint green glow. The space between us feels charged again, but not with the frantic energy of last night. This is different. Softer.
More dangerous, maybe.
This shared vulnerability, the tentative understanding born from revealing our respective childhood wounds… it feels like... well, like the landscape between us is changing, and opening up possibilities I’m terrified to acknowledge.
Maybe he will give up the sport. For us.
He takes a step toward me and reaches out, cupping my cheek. His thumb softly strokes my skin.
“Sabrina,” he whispers, his green eyes searching mine.
My breath catches when he says my name like that. Like a vow. A prayer.
All my walls feel like they’re dissolving.
Oh, hell.
This is how it starts, isn’t it?
The hope.
The letting someone in.
The potential for getting hurt all over again.
But looking into his eyes, seeing a reflection of my own guarded hope in his… I can’t help but feel that maybe this time is different.
Maybe...