35. Sabrina
35
Sabrina
O kay, new rule for cohabitating with a billionaire baby daddy whose penthouse you’ve reluctantly moved into.
Never check your work email before coffee.
Especially when said email is from Vivian Wong, executive assistant and direct proxy for Luca Briggs.
Subject: Fwd: Chamonix Invitational. Early Bird Entry.
My stomach clenches before I even open it.
Chamonix.
The name alone sends a shiver of pure dread down my spine.
The place where Leo almost… where Mia almost…
Nope. Don’t go there. Not today.
Utterly oblivious, Mia is babbling happily in her highchair beside me, currently conducting a vigorous smear campaign against her chin with a spoonful of organic sweet potato.
The email is from Red Bull’s official event coordination team. A glossy, adrenaline-soaked invitation for Leonardo Maxwell to compete in the upcoming Chamonix Wingsuit Championship.
The same one that nearly killed him.
There, I said it.
My blood runs cold.
Attached to Vivian’s forward is a separate document. A PR strategy proposal, drafted by… Luca Briggs?
My eyes narrow.
It’s slick, aggressive, all about framing Leo’s potential participation as a ‘triumphant return,’ a ‘redemption arc,’ a ‘testament to the indomitable human spirit.’
It’s also utter bullshit, designed to appeal to Leo’s ego and the media’s hunger for a dramatic narrative. It positions his near-fatal crash not as a consequence of reckless behavior, but as a heroic battle against the elements.
Give me a frickin’ break.
Vivian’s cover note is so brief it’s almost laughable.
Sabrina,
Luca thought you might find this useful for crafting potential proactive media angles should Mr. Maxwell decide to accept the invitation. Luca believes a strong narrative could further bolster investor confidence in Leo’s resilience. Thoughts?
V.
Should Mr. Maxwell decide to accept.
And I’m sure Luca ‘The Enabler’ Briggs isn’t subtly (or not so subtly) pushing him in that direction at all. This has Luca’s manipulative fingerprints all over it.
He’s using me , using my PR expertise, to try to legitimize this insanity. To give Leo a professionally (and personally ) sanctioned excuse to go jump off another freakin’ cliff.
The sheer audacity.
My hands are shaking slightly as I put down my coffee cup. Mia chooses that moment to fling a spoonful of sweet potato with surprising accuracy, hitting my laptop screen.
“Good aim, kiddo,” I mutter, wiping it off with a napkin. “I couldn’t agree more. This is definitely poop.”
I spend the rest of the morning on edge, every email notification making me nervous, every ring of the phone sending a jolt of anxiety through me.
Is Leo going to mention it?
Is he even considering it?
He’s been so… different lately. More focused on Mia, on his recovery. And on restoring the business. He hasn’t mentioned wingsuiting even once since I moved in, not even in passing. I’d almost allowed myself to believe that part of him, the reckless, adrenaline-junkie part, was… dormant. Maybe even… gone forever?
Wishful thinking, Sabrina.
Naive, stupid, wishful thinking.
Later that afternoon, after Mia’s nap, I find him. Not in his office, not on a conference call.
He’s in the massive home gym, the one that looks like something out of a luxury sports magazine. He’s not working out, though.
He’s standing in front of a massive flatscreen TV, watching… wingsuiting videos.
Of all things.
It’s old footage of him... younger, leaner, launching himself off impossibly high cliffs and carving lines through the sky with terrifying grace.
He doesn’t hear me approach. His focus is entirely on the screen. As I get closer, I can see the longing in his eyes, the hunger that makes my stomach clench with dread.
It’s the look of an addict staring at his drug of choice after a period of forced sobriety.
My carefully constructed PR strategy... the one focused on ‘calculated risk-taker,’ ‘resilient leader,’ ‘responsible father...’ suddenly feels like a house of cards.
Because by successfully rehabilitating his image, by convincing the world (and maybe even himself) that he’s stable and in control… have I inadvertently paved the way for him to return to the very behavior that almost destroyed him?
Have I, in my professional competence, handed him the justification he needs to go dance with death again?
Oh god, please no.
The irony is almost to much, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from bursting into tears.
I step back, and take several moments to compose myself, and then finally approach him again. I try to pad louder, but he still doesn’t notice me.
“Leo?” I say softly.
He starts, turning abruptly, his eyes wide for a second before the usual guarded mask slams back into place .
He quickly turns off the TV and the screen goes black.
“Sabrina.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
“Mia’s napping,” I say, trying to keep my tone equally casual, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Just… checking on you.”
Liar. I’m checking to see if you’ve completely lost your goddamn mind.
“I’m fine,” he says curtly, standing. He busies himself re-racking some weights that weren’t even being used. Avoiding eye contact.
Classic Leo deflection.
I decide to just rip off the Band-Aid.
“Vivian Wong emailed me this morning,” I tell him. “About the Red Bull Chamonix invitation.”
He stiffens, his back still to me. “Yeah?”
“And Luca’s… helpful… PR strategy proposal.” I can’t keep the sarcasm entirely out of my voice.
He finally turns around, leaning against the weight bench. He’s been moving with more fluidity lately, ever since giving up his cane.
Progress.
Dangerous progress, maybe.
“Luca’s enthusiastic,” he says dryly. “Always looking for the next big angle.”
“And you?” I press gently, trying to gauge his reaction. “Are you… enthusiastic, too?”
He shrugs noncommittally. “It’s an invitation, Sabrina. I get them all the time. Doesn’t mean anything. Luca wants to put a PR spin on everything. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
Bullshit.
This isn’t just any invitation. This is Chamonix.
The scene of the crime.
The place that almost took him before he even knew Mia existed.
“Are you sure?” I ask quietly, firmly meeting his gaze. “It looked like more than ‘nothing’ when you were watching those videos.”
His jaw tightens. “Nostalgia. Muscle memory. Nothing more.”
“Leo,” I say, pleading now despite myself. “Please tell me you’re not actually considering this.”
He looks away again, staring at the blank TV screen. “It’s… tempting. The ultimate comeback story, right? Conquering the mountain that almost killed me. Good for the brand. Good for… me.”
Good for you?
Or good for the adrenaline junkie still lurking beneath the surface?
“And what about Mia?” I ask, the words catching in my throat. “What about… us?”
Us?
Did I just say us?
He finally looks back at me, and the conflict in his eyes is painful to see. “Mia changes things, Sabrina. Of course she does. She changes everything. But… this…” He gestures vaguely at the blank screen. “It’s part of who I am. Or who I was . I don’t know how to just… turn that off.”
“Maybe you don’t,” I suggest, choosing my words carefully. This is delicate. One wrong move and he’ll shut down completely, or worse, dig in his heels just to prove a point. You know, the whole reverse psychology thing. “Maybe you… sponsor teams? Other jumpers. Back them. It’s like finding a company before it IPOs. You discover talented wingsuit flyers, and pay them to wear the Maxwell & Brigg logo. ”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking cornered. “And live vicariously through them? I don’t... it’s not the same.”
“But if you fly, you could have another accident,” I press.
His jaw tightens. “You think I don’t know that? You think I want to leave Mia fatherless? You think I want to put you through... that?” His voice is rough with emotion.
“Then don’t,” I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Don’t do it. Please, Leo. For her. For… for your own sake.”
I can’t bring myself to say ‘for my sake’ because that implies a level of emotional entanglement I’m not ready to admit, not even to myself.
He stares at me for a long, agonizing moment. The silence stretches. I see the battle raging in his eyes... the lure of the jump, the pull of the abyss, warring with his new, fragile sense of responsibility.
“I haven’t decided anything yet, Sabrina,” he says finally, sounding weary. “It’s just… an invitation. An option.” He pushes away from the weight bench, limping slightly as he walks towards the gym door. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “But I hear you. Okay? I hear your concerns.”
He doesn’t say he won’t do it. He doesn’t say he will . He just… leaves me standing there in the silence of his home gym, with a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.
He hears my concerns.
Great.
That’s PR speak for ‘I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want anyway, but thanks for your input.’
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Red Bull has issued the challenge.
Luca has planted the seed.
And Leo Maxwell, for all his talk of change and new priorities, is still a man who defines himself by the risks he takes.
And I, Sabrina Taylor, PR crisis manager, have just realized I’m facing the biggest crisis of my career.
And this time, it’s not about saving a client’s reputation.
It’s about saving the father of my child from himself.
And I have absolutely no freakin’ idea how I’m going to do it.