41. Sabrina
41
Sabrina
S o here I am, working out of Leo’s home office, trying to spin gold out of the straw that’s his current public image situation. Meanwhile, Leo himself is… ‘at work’ again.
Yeah, right. ‘Work.’
Is that the new code for ‘flinging himself off high places while wearing glorified bedsheets?
He swore yesterday, before the… incident … in the gym, that he’d only jumped once so far. Do I believe him?
Honestly?
Flip a coin, Sabrina. Heads he’s telling the truth, tails he’s currently strapping into a wingsuit.
My track record for trusting charming men with a penchant for disappearing isn’t exactly stellar. Exhibit A: my own father. Exhibit B: the guy whose ridiculously expensive sofa I occasionally have mind-altering sex on.
And speaking of sofa-gate adjacent activities… yesterday. The gym.
Holy hell .
After that blow-up fight about the lies, about the sheer nerve of him… the sex was…
I’m not even sure how to describe it.
It wasn’t rough and desperate like so many nights before.
It was… angry. Possessive. Like he was trying to stake a claim, not just on my body, but on my defiance. He was so present . Focused entirely on me, on pushing me, on breaking down every wall I raised.
It was terrifying.
And hotter than the surface of the sun.
Which, naturally, leaves me completely messed up.
Because apparently, the only way to get the fully engaged, ‘I-see-you-Sabrina’ version of Leo Maxwell is to have a screaming match first. That’s the secret sauce.
A knock-down fight followed by borderline violent fucking that leaves my pussy still aching a day later.
Well, that’s a healthy relationship dynamic right there.
Sign me up for the long haul.
I’m so confused. Like... really.
I was almost ready to pack Mia’s cotton onesies and flee back to my comparatively sane (and definitely less confusing) Brooklyn apartment. But then… the memory of his hands on me, his tongue inside me, the way he made me feel completely undone…
God, stop it.
My lunch with Tatiana yesterday didn’t exactly clear things up. Tati, bless her practical, happily-married-to-a-reformed-billionaire heart, just doesn’t quite grasp the specific brand of chaos that is Leo.
Her advice as usual boiled down to: “He’s trying, Sabrina. Mia clearly adores him, even if she mostly uses him as a climbing frame. Maybe stop overthinking and just… see where it goes? ”
Easy for her to say. Dominic builds sustainable resorts. Leo jumps off mountains for fun .
Not exactly parallel universes.
She thinks I should keep trying. Give him the benefit of the doubt. But the lying… if he lied about the wingsuiting, something so fundamental, something he knew was my biggest fear, what else is he hiding? What else has he lied about?
But he was also right about my own deception... I did hide his child from him for twenty months, after all.
That little voice in my head can be annoyingly logical sometimes. My hands aren’t exactly clean here. But still… this feels different. Risking his own life and then lying about it after feels like a completely different category of betrayal.
My laptop screen blurs. I’m supposed to be drafting a statement reassuring investors about the long-term stability of Maxwell & Briggs, following the major tremor caused by the leak of his most recent wingsuit jump video.
The Chamonix accident is still casting a goddamn mile-long shadow, and now this? How can I possibly spin this in a positive light?
Maybe frame his risk-taking as integral to his success? He always said calculated risks yielded the highest returns. He spotted those unicorn IPOs while everyone else was playing it safe, maybe the wingsuiting was his edge, his way of sharpening his focus before making billion-dollar bets...
Right. Brilliant, Sabrina. And now he has a daughter and a reconstructed shoulder held together with titanium and sheer stubbornness. Totally the same winning formula.
Let’s pitch that to the pension funds. ‘Invest with Maxwell & Briggs: Our co-founder might literally fly into a mountain again, but remember those early returns! High risk, high reward, right?’
God, I need more coffee.
Because honestly, how can I spin this jump, the one he lied to me about, into anything other than reckless endangerment and a middle finger to responsibility?
My phone buzzes, startling me. The caller ID flashes Leo’s name.
“Leo?” I answer, trying to ignore the butterflies I suddenly feel, and trying to pretend I haven’t spent the last twenty-four hours oscillating between wanting to strangle him and wanting to drag him back to that gym bench.
“Sabrina.” His voice is tight. Not the smooth, controlled tone of the billionaire businessman. Nor the rough growl of the lover. This is… something I’ve never heard in his voice before. Panic? “Sabrina, I… fuck.”
“Leo? What is it? What’s wrong?” My own panic spikes instantly. Mia. Is Mia okay? No wait... she’s here in the penthouse with me.
“It’s… it’s Luca.” He sounds breathless. “He… Sabrina, he overdosed.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Luca Briggs. Leo’s partner. The smarmy, manipulative asshole who tried to get me to sign an NDA. The enabler.
He’s overdosed. On who knows what.
“Oh my god. Leo, is he… is he okay?”
“I don’t know,” Leo says. “They just called me. He’s at Mount Sinai. Unconscious. In the ICU. They… they don’t know.” There’s a tremor in his voice now. I hear real fear there. Real distress. Not for hi mself, but for his friend. His toxic, fucked-up friend, but his friend nonetheless.
And just like that, the anger, the resentment, the relationship drama… it all evaporates. This is bigger. This is a crisis, a real one, not just a PR headache.
And Leo… he sounds lost.
He needs me.
“Okay,” I say, blinking away the tears. The PR strategist kicks into gear automatically. “Okay, Leo. Where are you now?”
“Still at the office. Just found out. I… I need to go. To the hospital.”
“I’ll meet you there.” The words are out before I even think. My boundaries, my resolve to keep him at arm’s length… all meaningless in the face of this.
“You don’t have to…” he starts, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Yes, I do,” I say firmly. “I’ll call Jonas and Terrence. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Just… hang tight, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Sabrina.” He sounds genuinely grateful.
And more than a little bit broken.
I hang up, my mind racing. Luca Briggs overdosed. This is… huge. Not just personally for Leo, but professionally. Maxwell & Briggs. Investor confidence. Stability.
My job just keeps getting harder and harder.
But I can’t think about that now. Not when Luca is in the ICU, fighting for his life.
I quickly make the calls. Jonas and Terrence confirm they’ll have the armored SUV ready to go. I grab my purse, my laptop bag. A quick glance at the baby monitor shows Mia still sleeping peacefully, oblivious.
I ring Thomas. Bless his unflappable soul, he confirms he’ll come right up from his staff quarters downstairs to watch her. She’s safe.
The ride to Mount Sinai is tense. Jonas drives with calm efficiency, Terrence sits beside me in the back, radiating quiet vigilance.
I try to focus on work, on drafting potential holding statements, anticipating media fallout.
Because you know this will leak. Everything around Leo eventually leaks.
But my mind keeps drifting. Leo’s voice on the phone. That raw fear. It’s a side of him I haven’t heard before. The vulnerability peeking through the cracks again.
At the hospital, the scene is controlled chaos. Darius, part of Leo’s own security detail, meets us at a private entrance. He blends seamlessly with Jonas and Terrence, a small army of grim-faced men in dark suits creating an impenetrable perimeter.
Inside, the air hums with that specific hospital tension. You know, the cloying smell of antiseptic, the hushed voices, the beep of distant monitors.
We’re directed to a private waiting area near the ICU. Leo is already there with Charlie. He’s pacing restlessly, his limp more pronounced than usual. He’s shed the suit jacket, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and his hair is mussed from running his hands through it. He looks… wrecked. Pale, strained, his green eyes haunted.
He stops pacing when he sees me. There’s a flicker of relief in his eyes.
“Sabrina. Thanks for coming.” His voice is tight.
“How is he?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “ Still unconscious. Doctors aren’t saying much. Critical. Touch and go.”
Charlie’s not alone in the uncomfortable seating area. Two unfamiliar guys in suits, built like they eat security threats for breakfast, sit near him. Luca’s detail, no question.
And beside one of them, looking impossibly chic even in crisis, is Vivian Wong, Luca’s assistant. Her usual poised composure is gone, replaced by red-rimmed eyes and a palpable anxiety.
She looks up as I approach Leo.
“Vivian,” I murmur, a silent acknowledgment.
She gives me a shaky nod. “Sabrina.” Then, her gaze flicks towards Leo, laden with something that looks unnervingly like accusation.
“What happened?” I ask her.
“Luca has been… spiraling,” she says, her voice low, trembling slightly. “Ever since… well, ever since Chamonix. Since things… changed.”
She doesn’t have to elaborate.
Since Leo’s accident. Since Leo got a daughter. Since Leo started pulling back from the old life. From Luca.
The implication hangs between us.
This is your fault.
I glance at Leo. I see him flinch, almost imperceptibly.
He blames himself for this. Or me. Or both of us.
Leo turns away, takes a deep breath, then focuses on me. His expression hardens, shifting into business mode. His default setting.
“Sabrina. This… this is going to get out. Luca Briggs. OD. The press will be all over it. We need…” He sighs. “It’s another goddamn thing we need to control.”
“It is,” I agree, stepping into my own professional role. It’s easier than dealing with the raw emotion swirling around us. “Any thoughts on what you want the narrative to be?”
“Accidental,” he says immediately. “Stress-related. Exhaustion. Whatever. Not… not what it probably is.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “We have to minimize the damage to the firm. Reassure the Limited Partners. Standard procedure.”
Standard procedure for a potential drug overdose threatening to destabilize a multi-billion dollar investment firm.
Of course.
It’ll be easy as pie, given all the other PR problems his company has had recently.
Right.
“I can handle the external communications,” I say. “Draft a statement, manage the media inquiries. But Leo…” I hesitate, knowing I’m crossing a line, but I need to ask. I lower my voice, stepping closer so only he can hear. “Vivian mentioned… Luca spiraling. But Leo, are you … are you still using? Anything?”
His eyes flash, a brief spark of the old anger. Then it’s gone, replaced by something weary.
He shakes his head. “No, Sabrina. Not since… not since you told me about Mia.” His voice is almost rough. “You have to believe me. I wouldn’t lie about this.”
I search his eyes. I know, in my heart, he’s telling the truth. And I nod slowly. “I do.”
He presses his lips together, and his chin starts to quiver. I can tell he’s holding back tears. “Fuck, maybe… maybe that’s part of it. Maybe if I hadn’t pulled back so hard… maybe he wouldn’t have…”
He trails off, the implication unspoken but clear .
Maybe if I was still partying with him, this wouldn’t have happened.
More guilt.
Oh, Leo.
My heart aches for him. The reckless playboy, the ruthless businessman… he’s also just a guy grappling with a fucked-up past and a future he never planned for, trying not to destroy everything, including himself, in the process.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Okay. Let me handle the PR. You… be here for Luca.”
Be the friend he needs, even if he was a shitty one to you.
He gives me a curt nod, his gaze becoming distant again, already lost in whatever internal battle he’s fighting.
I find an unoccupied, blessedly sterile waiting room chair across from him, sinking into it. Jonas and Terrence sit as well, mirroring Charlie and Darius.
I pull out my laptop.
Time to do what I do best.
For the next couple of hours, the waiting room becomes my temporary command center. I draft statements, field calls routed from Michelle, map out media outreach, all while acutely aware of Leo across from me. He doesn’t pace anymore. He just sits there, staring blankly ahead, occasionally running a hand through his hair or checking his phone.
We don’t talk much. The silence is thick, but it’s a shared silence this time.
Later that night, when I return alone to the penthouse, using my newly supplied access card, Thomas meets me at the elevator, his usual unflappable demeanor firmly in place.
“Mia was an angel, Ms. Taylor,” he reports softly. “Slept soundly after her bottle.”
“Thank you, Thomas. For everything. You can head down now, I’ve got it from here.”
He gives a slight bow and disappears inside the elevator.
I walk down the hall to the nursery. The door is slightly ajar. Pushing it open quietly, I see Mia sleeping peacefully in her crib, one tiny fist curled near her cheek, bathed in the soft glow of the llama-shaped nightlight.
I go to her, leaning over the railing just to watch her breathe for a moment.
Then I scoop her up carefully, holding her warm, solid weight against my chest, burying my face in her soft curls. She smells like lavender.
She stirs slightly, snuggling closer.
Relief washes over me then, so potent it makes my knees weak.
Thank god.
Thank god it wasn’t Leo in that hospital bed. Thank god Mia still has her father, flawed and complicated as he is.
But as I hold my daughter close, rocking her gently in the dim light, a cold dread snakes around my heart.
Yes, it wasn’t Leo this time.
But with Chamonix looming, with the pull of that old life still so evident, how long will that continue to be the case?
How long before I’m the one sitting vigil in a sterile hospital room, waiting for news I don’t think I could bear?
It could have been him.