39. Sabrina
39
Sabrina
L eo’s been ‘away at work’ a lot this week. More than usual.
He still materializes for his nightly Mia playtime, which I’ll admit melts my cynical heart a little. He’s surprisingly good with her.
Patient, even. Who knew ‘billionaire adrenaline junkie’ and ‘adept at peek-a-boo’ could coexist in the same human?
But then, after Mia’s asleep, after our own… encounters… he’s distant.
Yes, the sex is still mind-blowing, don’t get me wrong.
Like, curl-your-toes, forget-your-own-name mind-blowing.
But something’s still off. It’s less connection, more… release. Like he’s trying to burn off some restless energy he can’t quite contain. Again, I’m getting the strange feeling from him that he’s worried every time might be the last time, and I’m not quite sure how to process that.
I’m still retreating to the guest suite. My little ‘fortress of solitude’ as Leo sarcastically called it. And lately, I’ve been glad for that small, self-imposed distance. It feels like a buffer against… well, against this .
This whatever-it-is we’re doing.
This tightrope walk between co-parents, colleagues, and something far more combustible.
I’m not sure how long this is going to last, and the not-knowing gnaws at me.
What am I going to do if I lose him?
Lose him how, Sabrina?
As a client?
As a co-parent?
As the guy whose touch makes you forget every sensible rule you’ve ever made for yourself?
All of the above, probably.
This morning, I’m trying to be productive. In my corner of Leo’s home office, I’m researching new PR angles for Maxwell & Briggs, trying to spin the whole ‘recovered daredevil embraces fatherhood’ narrative into something even more compelling.
Maybe he should invest in a line of designer baby-proofing gear?
Maxwell & Minis: For the Billionaire Baby Who Has Everything, Including a Death-Defying Dad.’
Too on the nose?
My laptop screen is a mess of open tabs: financial reports, investor profiles, industry blogs.
I click on a sports news aggregator, thinking I might find some inspiration for a ‘Leo Maxwell: The Comeback Kid’ angle, focusing on his physical recovery.
And that’s when I see it.
A headline that makes my stomach clench: “Daredevil Maxwell Takes to the Skies Again? Exclusive Footage!”
No. Oh god no .
It can’t be.
My hand trembles as I click the link. The video loads. It’s grainy, probably shot from a distance with a long lens, but there’s no mistaking him. That sleek, aerodynamic wingsuit. That terrifying grace as he launches himself from a cliff.
So that’s why he’s been ‘away at work’ so much this week...
After everything... he’s been keeping this from me? Lying to me?
This is also why he’s probably been so distant.
The footage shows maneuvers that look, to my untrained but terrified eye, incredibly dangerous. He’s threading needles between rock faces, pulling up at the last possible second.
My breath catches.
This isn’t just a casual flight.
This is him, back on the edge.
The same edge that nearly killed him.
The same edge that almost made Mia fatherless before she even had a chance to know him.
My carefully constructed narrative, the one I’ve been painstakingly building for the public, for the investors, even for myself, is now worthless.
Throw away by this one, stupid reckless jump of his.
He has no idea what he’s just done. No idea.
‘Leo Maxwell: Resilient Survivor, Dedicated Father, Focused Leader.’
Yeah, right.
Try ‘Leo Maxwell: Reckless Liar, Adrenaline Addict, Still Dancing with Death.’
The fragile trust I’d started to feel, the hope that maybe he was changing… it’s gone.
Then the emails start. The first one is from some sports blogger, a smarmy little subject line: “Maxwell’s Back in the Game?”
Oh, you have no idea.
He’s asking for a comment, a confirmation. I type out the standard non-answer: “Mr. Maxwell is currently focused on his full recovery and his commitments to Maxwell & Briggs. No decisions regarding future competitive events have been made at this time.”
The usual PR bullshit. Typed out in a rage.
Another email ping. Another. The video must have just leaked wide.
“Thought you said he wasn’t wingsuiting anymore?” one particularly obnoxious one reads.
I never said that. I said no decisions about Chamonix had been made. Semantics, asshole. It’s what we do.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, crafting careful, vague responses.
But the anger remains under the surface. A cold knot in my stomach.
And the betrayal... it stings. Really stings.
He lied to me.
He went behind my back and did the one thing he knew would terrify me the most. And for what? To prove he still could? To chase that high he so craves?
My phone rings. Mom. Of course. Her usual check-in.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. Mia is babbling in her highchair beside me, blissfully unaware that her father is apparently still trying to unalive himself for sport.
“Sabrina, honey! How’s my grand-peanut? And how are you? You sound a little… stressed.”
Stressed?
Oh, you have no idea, Mom .
The carefully constructed professional Sabrina wants to deflect, to manage the narrative. But the scared, angry, betrayed daughter part, the part that’s terrified of repeating my mother’s history, just can’t hold it in anymore.
“Mom,” I begin, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “Something… something happened. With Leo.”
“Leo?” Her voice sharpens instantly with that protective maternal radar. “What’s wrong? Is Mia okay?”
“Mia’s fine. It’s… I saw something online this morning, Mom. A video.” The words tumble out. “It’s Leo. He… he went wingsuiting again. He told me he was going to work all week. At the office. He lied.”
There’s a heavy silence on the other end of the line. I can almost hear the gears in her ‘I-told-you-so’ brain clicking into place.
“Sabrina…” The disappointment in her voice, when it finally comes, feels like a physical blow even though I expected it. “I warned you. Oh, Honey, I warned you. Men like that… they don’t change. They choose the thrill, the risk. They always do. Just like your father.”
And there it is. The comparison. The one that’s haunted me my whole life. The fear that I’m doomed to repeat her mistakes, to love men who will ultimately choose themselves, choose the escape over family and responsibility.
And for the first time, I can’t defend him.
I can’t spin this.
Because deep down, I know she’s right.
“He lied, Mom,” I repeat, because I don’t know what else to say.
“Of course he did, Honey.” Her voice is softer now, laced with weary understanding. “That’s what they do. They promise, they charm, and then they disappear, either literally or emotionally. Are you okay?”
No, Mom, I’m a complete emotional wreck.
Not to mention an idiot.
I actually started to believe him.
Started to hope.
“I… I don’t know, Mom.” My voice cracks. “I just… I thought maybe this time… with Mia…”
“Oh, sweetie.” I can hear the tears in her voice now. “A baby doesn’t change a man like that. Not fundamentally. It might make him pause, it might make him try for a little while. But that pull… that need for... escape... novelty... it’s stronger. I know you wanted to believe. I did, too, with your father. But you have to protect yourself, Sabrina. And you have to protect Mia. Because no one else will. Always remember that.”
Protect Mia. That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?
My own stupid, hopeful heart can take a beating. It’s had practice.
But Mia… she deserves better.
She deserves a father who chooses her, unequivocally.
Not one who sneaks off to cheat death while pretending to be at the office.
“I know, Mom,” I whisper. “I know.”
We talk for a bit longer, but I’m not really listening to what she’s saying. She’s trying to soothe me, I think. Comfort me. But it’s just not penetrating. Finally I say my goodbyes and hang up.
The next hour passes in a blur of unanswered emails from increasingly agitated investors and snarky sports bloggers. I manage a few more deflections, a few more vague statements, but my heart’s just not in it.
The professional mask feels suffocating today. Like a carefully constructed lie wrapped around a completely fraudulent core. Because how can I project an image of Leo Maxwell as a stable, responsible leader when I know, with a sickening certainty, that the reckless daredevil is still very much alive and kicking?
Not to mention, he’s a liar.
My mother was right.
He chose the fall.
He’ll always choose the fall.
It’s in his DNA.
This opulent cage feels suffocating. Leo is still ‘at the office,’ or so his schedule says.
More like ‘at the jump site,’ high on adrenaline and who knows what else.
The thought makes me sick.
I can’t stay here. Not right now. I need to breathe air that doesn’t smell faintly of his expensive cologne.
I need to talk to someone who gets it .
My fingers, surprisingly steady, dial Tatiana’s number.
“Hey,” I say when she answers. “Emergency strategy session needed. You free? Because this… this involves needing to understand the billionaire psyche, and you’re the only expert I know.”
And maybe you can talk some sense into me before I completely lose it.
“Sabrina? What’s wrong?” Tati’s voice is instantly concerned.
“Leo. He… he jumped again. There’s video. It ’s a mess.”
A sharp intake of breath on her end. “Oh, Sabrina. I’m so sorry. Of course. Come over. Bring Mia. We’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks, Tati. I… I really need this.”
I hang up and quickly text Jonas and Terrence, my newly assigned shadows.
Heading to the Rossi residence.
They’ll coordinate the armored transport. At least that’s one less thing to worry about, getting Mia safely across town. Unfortunately, I have him to thank for that transport.
Not sure how much longer I can continue to rely upon him...
I look at Mia, who has finally drifted off in her highchair, a smear of organic pear still on her chin.
She’s so innocent, so oblivious to the storm her father has just unleashed.
My heart aches.
I have to protect her.
Even if it means protecting her from him.
From the man he can’t seem to stop himself from being.
My walls feel like the only sane defense right now.
And the father of my child, the man I’d started to glimpse beneath the billionaire facade, feels like a dangerous and unpredictable stranger all over again.
Because he’s the man who chose the fall.
The man who left me, and Mia, waiting for the impact.