32. Leo
32
Leo
P rogress.
Fucking finally.
Dr. Evans just gave me the green light.
Not for BASE jumping off the fucking Chrysler Building tomorrow, obviously, but… clearance.
Increased physical activity.
More aggressive rehab.
And the kicker, delivered with his usual infuriatingly calm demeanor: “If you continue on this trajectory, Leo, resuming light wingsuit training by the end of the month isn’t entirely out of the question.”
Light training. Yeah, right. Like I do anything lightly.
But still.
Wingsuiting.
Flying again.
The thought sends a jolt through me. A jolt of pure, uncut adrenaline that has nothing to do with Mia or Sabrina or the clusterfuck my life has become.
Freedom.
Escape .
The silence up there, the absolute focus…
Fuck, I need it.
Like oxygen.
And you know what’s almost as good? The numbers from Maxwell & Briggs. Sabrina’s PR blitz is actually fucking working. The bleeding has stopped. Accel Partners, after the Balinski follow-up call, has agreed to reinvest a tentative amount. It’s not the full capital they had with us before. They’re still watching, obviously. Everyone is. But the panic seems to have subsided.
New inquiries are even starting to trickle in. Taylor Strategic Communications. Worth every damn penny.
So, my professional life is stabilizing. My physical recovery is accelerating. I should be feeling on top of the fucking world, right? King fucking Midas again.
Instead, I feel… weirdly conflicted. Restless.
That glimpse of getting back in the suit, back to the edge… it used to be the only thing that mattered. Now?
Now there’s Mia. Sleeping peacefully in her ridiculously expensive crib down the hall. And there’s Sabrina, currently coordinating a media schedule from my office like she fucking owns the place (which, professionally speaking, she kind of does right now).
Worse? My fast recovery, professionally and personally, is entirely due to them. Well, professionally, anyway.
I sigh.
My world used to be simple.
Deals.
Thrills.
Distractions.
Now it’s… complicated .
Messy.
Filled with baby monitors and whispered conversations after midnight and the lingering scent of lavender baby lotion mixing with Sabrina’s peonies and cardamom perfume.
And the strangest fucking part?
It doesn’t entirely suck.
Which brings me to tonight.
Hell night, apparently, in the world of tiny humans. Mia’s got colic. Or gas. Or maybe she’s just pissed off that the minimalist llamas aren’t performing adequately.
Whatever the reason, she’s been screaming bloody murder for three solid hours. It’s gotten to the point where I’m seriously considering bringing in a nanny full-time.
Sabrina’s attempts at soothing failed spectacularly... you know, the whole rocking, singing, and swaddling thing. Meanwhile, Thomas, my usually unflappable household manager, looked genuinely terrified when he poked his head in earlier.
Even I , Mr. Clueless-About-Babies, know when to admit defeat. This kid has lungs like an opera singer and the endurance of a fucking Navy SEAL.
Sabrina looks utterly exhausted, slumped on the nursery rocking chair, dark circles prominent under her eyes. Her face is pale with fatigue and frustration.
“I don’t get it,” she murmurs, bouncing Mia slightly. “She ate fine, diaper’s clean, no fever… why is she so miserable?”
Mia responds with another ear-splitting shriek.
I feel fucking useless leaning against the doorframe. My usual problem-solving techniques... throw money at it, delegate it, jump off something high, are spectacularly ineffective here.
I instinctively reach for my cane, but it’s not nearby... Dr. Evans cleared me for increased physical activity, so I’ve been trying to get through the day without the thing.
Call it painful, but liberating.
“Maybe she just… needs a change of scenery?” I suggest.
Sabrina gives me a look that says, ‘Really? Scenery?’
But she’s clearly desperate, because she agrees. “Fine. You try. Maybe she’s sick of me.” She stands up, carefully handing the screaming, squirming bundle over to me.
Mia immediately escalates, her face turning beet red, her fists flailing.
Great.
“Easy there, Killer,” I say, trying to sound calm and paternal despite the ringing in my ears. I settle her against my shoulder, remembering the hold Sabrina uses.
I start pacing the length of the nursery, my limp more pronounced with the added weight, humming some tuneless bullshit song I think I heard on a commercial once.
Surprisingly… the screaming starts to subside. Not instantly, but gradually. Her rigid little body relaxes slightly against mine. The frantic wails soften into ragged, hiccuping sobs.
I keep pacing. My leg flares with pain, but I ignore it.
Back and forth.
Humming.
Back and forth.
The dim light from the hallway spills into the room. The city lights twinkle outside. The only sound is my low humming and Mia’s slowly quieting breaths.
Sabrina watches from the doorway, her expression unreadable in the shadows.
It takes another fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of pacing, humming, murmuring nonsense. My leg aches. My shoulder aches. My arms ache.
But Mia finally, finally drifts off, her little body going completely limp against my chest.
Victory. Finally.
A hard-won, fucking exhausting victory.
Carefully, moving like I’m handling nitroglycerin, I lower her into the crib.
She stirs slightly and I freeze. When she sighs, I continue, placing her right in the center. She settles deeper into sleep.
I stand there for a long moment, just watching her. This tiny human who has completely detonated my life and who makes the silence feel… full , somehow.
I turn, finding Sabrina standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She’s still watching me. Her arms are crossed, but the tension seems to have drained from her posture.
“You’re good at that,” she whispers.
“Beginner’s luck,” I whisper back, limping toward her. “Or maybe she just exhausted her rage quota for the night.”
A small smile touches her lips. “Maybe.”
I quietly shut the door, and we leave the hallway, heading to the kitchen. I sit down on one of the stools immediately, relieved to finally take the weight off my leg.
We stand there in the quiet kitchen, the shared experience and mutual exhaustion creating a fragile bubble of intimacy around us.
“Sabrina,” I start, needing to break the spell, needing to address the logistical elephant in the room. “We never really talked about… how long this should last. You staying here.”
She looks down, avoiding my gaze. “I know. It’s… temporary. Until the media frenzy dies down. Until I feel safe going back to my apartment.”
“And what if it doesn’t die down?” I press gently. “What if this is the new normal? Paparazzi following you? Bloggers speculating? Your address is compromised.”
She sighs, finally looking up at me, her eyes troubled. “I don’t know, Leo. I haven’t figured that far ahead. Move somewhere else, maybe? Different neighborhood?”
“Stay,” I say, the word out before I fully process the thought. But once it’s out, it feels… right. “Stay here. Indefinitely. For now, anyway. It’s safer for Mia. Easier, maybe? Logistically?”
And maybe I don’t want you to leave.
The thought hangs there, unspoken.
Terrifying.
She searches my face, clearly surprised. “Stay here? Permanently?”
“Not permanently, unless…” I trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence. “Just… for the foreseeable future. Until things settle. Until we figure out a better long-term plan. The guest suite is basically an apartment in and of itself. You have privacy. And,” I add, trying for a lighter tone, “access to Rafael’s cooking and Thomas’s organizational skills. Perks, right?”
She bites her lower lip. I see the internal struggle. Her fierce independence warring with practical necessity and Mia’s safety. And maybe with whatever tangled feelings are brewing between us.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay, Leo. For Mia’s safety. We’ll stay. At least for now.”
Though it’s only a “for now,” relief floods me.
“But,” she adds quickly, holding up a hand as if anticipating my next thought, “I’ll continue sleeping in the guest suite. Not… not your bed.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Why not? After last night…”
“Because,” she interrupts firmly, though a faint blush colors her cheeks, “I don’t want to wake you if Mia needs handling at 3 AM again. Sharing a bed… it’s too… disruptive. For you. For Mia’s routine.”
Bullshit.
That’s an excuse. A well-reasoned, practical excuse, maybe, but still an excuse. Because when Mia cries at 3 AM, I wake up regardless of whether Sabrina leaves my bed or not.
I realize she’s keeping that one last boundary firmly in place.
A way to avoid full commitment?
A way to keep an escape hatch open?
Maybe just residual distrust?
Probably all of the above.
Fine.
I won’t push it.
For now.
“All right, Sabrina,” I concede. Too easily? “Guest suite it is. Your little fortress of solitude. Minus the ice crystals.”
“And my apartment,” she adds. “I’m keeping my apartment. My business address. My… independence.”
“Understood.” I get it. She needs her safety net. Needs to know she’s not trapped here, dependent on me. Fair enough. “But when you do need to go out... to your office, meetings, whatever. You’re not going alone. Not anymore.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means I hired additional security,” I say matter-of-factly. “Dedicated detail for you and Mia. Whenever you leave the building. Non-negotiable.” I pull out my phone, navigate to the file Michelle sent over earlier. “Meet your new shadows.”
I show her the screen. Two photos. One guy, mid-thirties, serious expression, military buzz cut: Jonas Fulsome. Ex-Delta Force, apparently. The other, slightly younger, built like a fucking tank, with a shaved head and intense eyes: Terrence ‘The Terminator’ Jackson. Former Secret Service.
Both top-tier operators from the firm Carter Security Solutions recommended. Sam Carter’s firm... yes, that would be the same Sam from Vegas.
Sabrina stares at the photos, her expression shifting from surprise to resignation. “Seriously? ‘The Terminator?’”
“Nickname, apparently,” I shrug. “Point is, they’re the best. They’ll be discreet, but they’ll be there. Outside your apartment when you go back to pick up any personal effects, shadowing you to meetings, running interference with any paparazzi assholes. I can’t keep sharing my own detail with you. You need your own. Especially if we want to be in two separate public places at once.”
She sighs again. “Is all this really necessary, Leo? They sounds expensive.”
“They are expensive, and yes they’re necessary.” I meet her gaze, letting her see the absolute conviction there. “Protecting you, protecting her … it’s the only th ing that is necessary right now. Everything else is just noise.”
She studied me for a moment.
“Okay, Leo,” she says finally. “Okay. And... thank you.”
Those last words land with surprising weight.
Thank you.
Not something I hear often.
Not something I usually care about hearing.
But from her?
Right now?
It feels… good.
Really good.
And maybe this is what progress looks like. Not giant leaps, but small steps.
Shared exhaustion over a colicky baby. Agreements about living arrangements. Hiring fucking Terminators. Building something… different.
Together.
The thought is still terrifying.
But tonight?
It also feels right.
Like maybe we'll be able to get through this after all.
Maybe.