36. Leo
36
Leo
T he familiar burn.
Muscles screaming.
Sweat dripping.
The rhythmic clang of weights.
This… this feels right.
This feels like me .
Or at least, the me I used to be.
The me I’m trying to fucking reclaim from the wreckage of Chamonix.
Auger, my new personal trainer, watches me with clinical detachment. He’s nicknamed for the way he drills impossible lines through canyons. I first spotted him doing jumps on YouTube a while back. And now, he works for me.
He’s going to train me, get me back into wingsuit flying shape.
So at least I’ll have the option to someday fly again.
If I want to.
I smile sadly. I already know I want to.
“Core tight, Maxwell!” Auger says. “Explode up! Control the descent! Think about the airflow, the balance point!”
I’m on a specialized rig in my home gym, a contraption of pulleys and resistance bands designed to mimic the insane forces of wingsuit flight, specifically targeting the muscles needed for stability and control.
My repaired shoulder howls in protest. My leg, still not 100%, trembles from the effort, pain stabbing through it with every hold. But I push through. Embrace the fucking pain. I have to.
It’s a hell of a lot simpler, cleaner, than the emotional clusterfuck currently occupying my penthouse.
“Again!” Auger commands.
Sabrina’s disapproval has been a fucking cloud hanging over us for the past week. She hasn’t said anything since that day, hasn’t issued any ultimatums. She likely knows that would just make me dig in my heels.
But the worried glances, the forced brightness in her tone when I talk about my ‘rehab progress,’ the way she pointedly changes the subject whenever wingsuiting even remotely comes up… yeah, I get the message.
Loud and fucking clear.
She thinks I’m going to choose the cliff face over my daughter.
Over her.
And you know the worst part?
I don’t know if she’s wrong.
This training… it’s just preliminary. Just weight and balance exercises. Meant to rebuild atrophied muscle. Get my body back into fighting trim.
At least, that’s what I tell myself .
And that’s what I tell her , when she asks. It’s not actual wingsuit training. Not yet. Just… responsible rehabilitation. Calculated risk management.
Bullshit.
Every rep, every agonizing stretch, every simulated flight maneuver… it’s all pulling me back.
Back to the edge.
Back to the silence.
Back to the only place I’ve ever felt truly alive.
The Red Bull invitation sits unanswered in my inbox. A ticking fucking time bomb.
Luca keeps texting, prodding, sending links to course simulations, talking about new suit designs, practice runs on nearby canyons.
The manipulative bastard knows exactly which buttons to push.
“All right, Maxwell. Break.” Auger’s voice cuts through my internal monologue. “Hydrate. Five minutes.”
I collapse onto the bench, grabbing a towel, my chest heaving. My body aches, but it’s a good ache. An honest ache. The kind that tells you you’re still capable of pushing limits. Still alive.
Something I might not be, if I do Chamonix again.
Thoughts of Mia intrude, unbidden. Her gummy grin this morning when I fed her smashed banana. The surprisingly strong grip of her tiny hand on my finger. The soft weight of her sleeping against my chest.
These images, feelings… don’t fit here.
Not in this selfish hunger for the sky.
Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?
Selfishness.
God, how the fuck do I reconcile this?
The man who wants to hurl himself off a mountain, and the man who wants to protect that tiny, perfect human from every possible harm?
They can’t coexist.
Can they?
My giant wall-mounted screen flickers to life. Incoming video call.
Dom.
Fucking perfect timing.
“Auger,” I call out, wiping sweat from my face. “Take five. Kitchen. Rafael will sort you out.”
Auger nods, already heading out. He doesn’t do small talk. Just results.
I like that about him.
I hit ‘accept’ on the call. Dom’s face fills the screen, looking annoyingly fresh and well-rested. Tatiana is probably glowing with maternal bliss beside him, their own little bundle of joy cooing peacefully.
My life, on the other hand, feels like a goddamn cage match between responsibility and self-destruction.
“Leo,” Dom says. He can apparently see the gym equipment behind me, because he adds, “Good workout?”
“Productive,” I grunt, taking a long swig of water. “Rehab’s on track.”
“Rehab for what, exactly?” Dom asks quietly, but there’s an edge to his voice.
He knows.
He fucking knows.
This isn’t normal equipment.
“Getting back in shape,” I deflect. “Doctor’s orders. Increased physical activity.”
“Right.” He doesn’t buy it. “Increased physical activity that just happens to perfectly mimic wingsuit training. Coincidence, I’m sure.”
“What’s your point, Dom?” I snap, my patience already wearing thin. I don’t need a fucking lecture from Captain Responsible.
“My point, Leo,” he says, his voice firm now, “is that you have a daughter. A beautiful, innocent little girl who needs her father. Alive. And preferably in one piece. You have Sabrina, a woman who, against all odds, seems to be willing to build something with you. At least, so I surmise from everything you’ve told me. So the question is: are you really going to throw all that away for some fucking adrenaline rush?”
Defensive anger flares, hot and immediate. “This isn’t about throwing anything away!” I retort. “This is about who I fucking am! That accident… it took something from me, Dom! It broke me! Getting back in the suit, conquering that fear… it’s not just an adrenaline rush. It’s… it’s about reclaiming myself!”
“Reclaiming yourself? Or running from the man you’re becoming?” Dom challenges, his gaze unwavering. “The man who changes diapers and reads bedtime stories? The man who actually looks… happy… when he’s holding his daughter? Is that guy so fucking terrifying you need to go jump off a cliff to escape him?”
His words hit too close. Too fucking accurate. That guy… that father… he is terrifying.
Because he’s vulnerable.
Because he has something to lose.
Something more important than any IPO, any thrill, any fucking title.
“You don’t understand,” I bite out, turning away from the screen, unable to meet his gaze.
“Then make me understand, Leo.” Dom’s voice softens slightly, but the intensity remains. “Because right now, all I see is the same old pattern. You find something good, something real, and you immediately start looking for the self-destruct button.”
Suddenly, a faint sound cuts through the tension. A whimper. Then a full-blown cry. Mia.
From the nursery monitor still active on my desk.
“Fuck,” I mutter, torn.
Dom.
Or Mia.
“Go to her, Leo,” Dom says quietly. “She needs you. We’ll talk later.”
He’s right. She does. Whatever existential bullshit I’m wrestling with can wait.
My daughter is crying.
“Take care, Dom,” I say curtly, already moving towards the door. My leg protests the sudden movement, but I ignore it.
Earlier, Sabrina took Mia out to meet Tatiana for a playdate thing with her own kid. So Mia should be happy and played out by now. Not crying.
But when I push open the nursery door, it’s not Mia I see first. It’s Sabrina. She’s standing by the crib, her back to me, gently rocking Mia in her arms, murmuring soft, soothing words.
Beat me to it.
Mia’s cries are already subsiding, her face buried against Sabrina’s shoulder.
Sabrina turns as I enter, and her eyes meet mine. And the look on her face… it’s not relief. It’s not welcome. It’s… accusation. A quiet, knowing sorrow that hits me harder than any of Dom’s angry words.
She already knows. She sees the familiar patterns. And she’s bracing herself for the inevitable disappointment .
She’s already picturing me at the top of that Chamonix cliff, a tiny figure poised for oblivion.
And in that moment, staring at her resigned face, holding our daughter who has finally quieted in her arms… the hunger for the sky, feels… tainted somehow. Almost shameful.
What the fuck am I doing?
Who the fuck am I trying to be?
And who am I going to destroy in the process?
Myself?
Mia?
Sabrina?
All of the above?
But then the look on her face is gone. Replaced by a forced smile.
The silence in the nursery stretches.
And for the first time, the thought of flight doesn’t feel like actual freedom anymore.
It feels like betrayal.
And I suppose, it is.