33. Sabrina
33
Sabrina
L ife in the Gilded Cage, Week Two.
Status: Still weird.
Still complicated.
Still haven’t spontaneously combusted from the sheer cognitive dissonance of it all.
That’s gotta be a win, right?
Living in Leo Maxwell’s penthouse is like living inside a very expensive, very minimalist submarine. Everything gleams. Everything is automated. Everything smells faintly of ozone and fig leaf and probably hundred-dollar bills.
Thomas, his unflappable household manager, anticipates needs I didn’t even know I had. Rafael, the personal chef, creates meals that make my usual cereal-for-dinner routine look like something out of Oliver Twist.
It’s… luxurious.
Life-changing.
And comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
And Leo? He’s the biggest source of cognitive dissonance. One minute, he’s the ruthless Venture Capitalist on a conference call, making decisions worth more than the net worth of small countries with chilling efficiency.
The next, he’s sitting on the floor, patiently enduring Mia repeatedly trying to put sticky Cheerios in his ear, looking… soft. Almost domesticated.
Almost.
Then there are the nights. After Mia’s asleep. The sex. The mind-blowing sex.
Nope. Don’t go there.
Too late.
Even though we don’t sleep in the same bed, that doesn’t stop us from sharing slow, toe-curling goodnight kisses outside my guest suite door that somehow transform into hour-long ‘strategic alignment’ sessions that definitely blur professional boundaries. Afterward, feeling breathless and confused, we retreat to our separate rooms and sleep alone.
Professionally? Things are… working. Which is almost more confusing. The PR campaign is gaining traction. The narrative is shifting.
‘Leo Maxwell: Resilient Survivor, Dedicated Father, Focused Leader.’
It’s spin, yes, but it’s spin rooted in a surprising amount of truth.
He is focused.
He is dedicated to Mia in a way that still kind of blows my mind.
And watching him push through his physical therapy without the cane these last few days, his jaw tight with pain but his eyes fiercely determined… yeah, resilient doesn’t even begin to cover it.
So now it’s Saturday. Usually my catch-up-on- work-while-Mia-naps day. Until Leo intercepts me after breakfast, looking… tense.
More tense than usual.
“Need a favor,” he says, avoiding eye contact as he stares out the window at the park below.
I’m expect something involving damage control or navigating difficult clients.
“Okay,” I reply cautiously. “What’s up?”
He turns, still favoring the leg, I notice, despite ditching the cane.
“My mother,” he says. “She’s… here. In New York.”
My eyebrows shoot up. His mother? “Here? Like, here here?”
Visions of an awkward penthouse confrontation flash through my mind. I remind myself that I encouraged him to give her a chance.
“No, not here, thank fuck,” he mutters. “Hotel. Midtown somewhere. Flew in from Boston last night. She wants to meet. Wants to see Mia.”
“Okay.” I process this new development. Is he seeking my PR counsel? My emotional support? Or just backup? “What did you tell her?”
“I told her yes. Because of what Dom said. What you said. I’m going to hear her out. For Mia’s sake.” He shakes his head. “I still think she’s got an agenda. That opening this door invites back all the old bullshit I spent my life trying to escape. But… maybe you’re right. Maybe Mia deserves… something. Even if it’s complicated as hell. So. The favor. I told her we’d meet her for coffee this morning. Ten o’clock. Some café near her hotel. Will you and Mia come with me?”
I nod slowly. I remind myself that I wanted this. Even though I’m having second thoughts. “Okay, Leo. We’ll come.”
An hour later, I’m sitting in a bustling, aggressively cheerful Midtown café, sandwiched between Leo, who looks like he’s about to face a firing squad, and Mia.
Charlie and Darius are positioned outside, standing guard. Meanwhile my personal detail, Jonas and Terrence, have taken up an inconspicuous position at a table nearby. Leo figured that since he’s paying for them, they might as well come along as well, even though it’s overkill security-wise.
If having them present makes him feel more comfortable facing his mother, then hey, I’m all for it.
I sip my decaf latte and scan the room, my PR senses on high alert. Trying to anticipate his mother’s arrival. Karen Maxwell.
What will she be like?
The brittle, smiling woman from the photograph?
Or someone else entirely?
Then the café door opens and a woman walks in, pausing just inside to scan the tables. Mid-sixties, blonde hair neatly styled, wearing expensive but understated clothes... tailored slacks, a silk blouse, a cashmere cardigan. She definitely looks put together.
But there’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight tremor in her hands as she clutches her purse.
It’s her.
Karen Maxwell.
She looks older than the photo, the lines around her eyes and mouth deeper, etched by worry or maybe just time.
Her gaze lands on our table. On Leo.
Recognition flashes in her eyes, followed immediately by a complex wave of emotions. I see at minimum hope, fear, and regret.
Then her eyes find Mia, sitting on Leo’s lap, chewing on a teething biscuit.
Karen freezes.
Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes widening, filling with instant, unmistakable tears.
Okay. Maybe not entirely an act.
Leo stiffens beside me as she hesitantly approaches the table. He doesn’t stand up. Doesn’t offer a greeting. Just watches her, his face nearly unreadable, save for the tension in his jaw.
“Leonardo?” his mother whispers, stopping beside our table. Her gaze drops to Mia, the tears now openly tracking down her carefully made-up cheeks. “Oh, Leonardo… she’s… she’s beautiful.”
Mia, sensing the emotional shift, turns her wide green eyes towards the newcomer, regarding her solemnly, the biscuit in her mouth momentarily forgotten.
“Hello, Mother,” Leo says finally, his voice flat. “Sabrina, Mia, this is my mother.”
I force a polite smile, murmuring a hello. I feel supremely awkward.
“Ms. Taylor,” his mother says, tearing her gaze away from Mia to look at me. She offers me a shaky, watery smile. “Sabrina. Thank you… thank you for letting me… for being here.”
Her eyes flick back to Mia.
“May I?” she asks Leo, gesturing towards the empty chair beside him.
Leo gives a curt, almost imperceptible nod.
Karen sinks into the chair, her entire focus on Mia. “She looks… just like you did, Le onardo. Those eyes…” She reaches out a hesitant hand, then seems to think better of it, pulling it back. “She’s perfect.”
“Yeah,” Leo says. An uncomfortable silence descends.
“So,” Karen begins again, turning her attention to Leo, trying for a brightness that doesn’t quite land. “How… how have you been, honey? Since the… the accident? You look… better. Stronger.”
“Recovering,” Leo replies noncommittally.
“And… this?” Karen gestures vaguely between Leo and Mia. She looks at me, her expression almost pleading. “How did... when did you find out?”
Here we go. The interrogation. I brace myself, but Leo answers before I have to.
“Recently,” he says curtly. “Sabrina kept her... situation... private.” The implication hangs there.
Private from him.
His mother’s gaze sharpens slightly. She looks at me again. Is that judgment I see in her eyes? Or just maternal concern?
“I see. Well.” She takes a shaky breath, then focuses on Leo once more. “Leonardo, I… I know I wasn’t… I wasn’t the mother I should have been.” Tears well up again, genuine this time, filled with decades of regret. “Your father… his drinking… it consumed everything. It consumed me . I was so focused on just surviving, on keeping things from completely falling apart, that I… I failed you. I see that now.”
She reaches across the table then, her hand covering Leo’s where it rests near his coffee cup. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away.
“I enabled him,” she continues, her voice thick with tears now. “Made excuses for him. Protected him when I should have been protecting you . I thought I was keeping the peace, keeping the family together, but I was just… letting the poison spread. Letting it hurt you.” Her shoulders shake with silent sobs. “And I am so, so sorry, Leo. For all of it. For not being stronger. For not choosing you.”
My own throat tightens. Listening to her broken confession… it resonates with uncomfortable familiarity. My own mother’s fierce protectiveness, her warnings about men like Leo… it comes from the same place, doesn’t it? A place of deep hurt.
Different circumstances, different addictions maybe. Leo’s father’s alcohol, my father’s… unreliability? But the pattern… the enabling, the fear, the impact on the child left behind… it’s hauntingly similar.
Leo sits frozen, staring down at his mother’s hand covering his. Is he hearing her apology? Or just the echo of old wounds?
“I know I can’t change the past,” Karen whispers, pulling herself together enough to wipe her tears. “But Mia… she’s a second chance, isn’t she? A chance for connection. For us. For family. Please, Leo. Don’t shut me out completely. Let me… let me try to be the grandmother she deserves. Let me try to make up for…” Her voice breaks again.
The raw vulnerability in the room is suffocating. My PR brain is screaming about managing optics, controlling narratives. But my human brain, the one shaped by my own father’s absence, just feels… sad. For the broken little boy still inside the billionaire. For the mother consumed by regret. And for Mia, born into this legacy of pain.
But I also feel hope.
And the potential for forgiveness.
Leo slowly, deliberately withdraws his hand from under his mother’s. He looks up, meeting her tear-filled gaze.
His expression is still guarded, but the granite hardness seems to have softened slightly.
“Trying isn’t enough,” he says quietly. His voice is rough but lacking the earlier bitterness. “Showing up is what matters. Consistently. Reliably.” He glances down at Mia, then back at his mother. “Mia deserves reliability. No more broken promises. No more disappearing acts.”
It’s not forgiveness. Not acceptance. But it’s not outright rejection either.
It’s… a boundary.
A condition.
A challenge, maybe.
His mother seems to understand. She nods vigorously, fresh tears spilling. “Yes. Yes, absolutely. I understand. I’ll be here, Leonardo, as much as I can. I promise. I’ll visit at least once a month.”
But can he truly let her in, even a little?
Will she? Can she?
Looking between the hopeful, tearful grandmother and the wary, wounded son holding my daughter, I don’t have any easy answers.
This isn’t a PR crisis with a clear solution. This is just… life.
Messy and complicated.
Filled with second chances and the terrifying possibility of repeating the same damn mistakes.
All I know is, sitting here in this ridiculously cheerful café, surrounded by generations of pain… something feels different.
Like maybe breaking the cycle isn’t entirely impossible after all.
I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.