42. Leo
42
Leo
T wo days.
Two fucking days since Luca decided to flirt with the wrong side of the overdose line. He’s still laid up at Mount Sinai, but conscious now, thank fuck. Out of the ICU at least.
Looks like hammered shit, paler than I’ve ever seen him, but the doctors say he’ll physically recover. And after a rather… pointed conversation yesterday involving Victoria, myself, and the very real threat of legal intervention if he didn’t get his act together, he actually agreed to rehab. Some high-end place upstate with scenic views and mandatory group therapy, starting the second the hospital discharges him.
Whether he actually follows through remains to be seen.
So, Luca is technically ‘stable’ and heading towards ‘treatment.’ And despite the fact that he’s been a manipulative piece of shit lately, I still feel guilty. Like what happened to him has been my fault somehow. I should have been more watchful of him. More attentive. Should have insisted on rehab sooner.
Well, he didn’t actually fucking die, so there’s that .
Doesn’t mean the pressure’s off, though. The investors are still jumpy. The panicked emails Michelle keeps forwarding haven’t stopped. Luca’s sudden “medical leave for exhaustion,” as Sabrina brilliantly spun it in the initial holding statement… is a perfect storm.
Stability? Maxwell & Briggs looks about as stable as a fucking Jenga tower in an earthquake right now.
They need reassurance.
They need the old Leo Maxwell.
The rainmaker.
The closer.
The guy who eats risk for breakfast and shits out billion-dollar exits.
Not… not this guy.
The one pacing the penthouse, haunted by the phantom weight of a baby in his arms.
I need to make a decision.
The Red Bull Chamonix invitation still sits in my inbox.
It’s the perfect counter-narrative.
It’s bigger.
Louder.
Screams ‘I’m back, motherfuckers, and I’m still untouchable.’
Sabrina won’t like it.
Fuck Sabrina.
No, wait.
Don’t fuck Sabrina.
But I do want to fuck her...
Shit, I don’t know. My head’s a mess. But this… this feels necessary.
For the firm.
And for… me?
Because maybe I need to prove it to myself, too .
That Chamonix didn’t break me.
I think about the mini PR crisis my training jump caused when it leaked.
Crisis? Barely a fucking ripple.
Sure, Sabrina fielded some annoying calls, looked at me like I’d personally kicked a puppy. But fundamentally? No investorspulled out over the jump itself. And the spin Sabrina masterminded, reluctantly or not… framing my little quarry excursion not as the reckless fuck-up she clearly thought it was, but asproof Leo Maxwell, the risk-taker who built this empire from nothing, was back in fighting form.
The ‘resilience,’ the ‘sharpened focus’ ready to conquer new markets… bullshit PR terms, maybe, but they fucking landed .That narrative actually seemed to calm the herd, maybe even excite them a little, remembering the kind of returns the ‘old Leo’ delivered.
It probably counteracted some of the panic over Luca, ironically enough, especially when she painted me as the picture of health in the aftermath.
Too bad Sabrina refuses to see it that way. Or maybe she does, and just hates that this is the version of me that actually works in this fucked-up world.
I find her in the home office. Mia’s napping in the nursery. Sabrina’s at her workstation, fingers flying across the keyboard as usual. Fucking beautiful, even with the shadows under her eyes. The sight of her sends a jolt through me. Desire, guilt, resentment, all in one.
“Sabrina,” I say, keeping my voice level. Business time. “We need to talk strategy.”
She looks up. The professional mask is firmly in place. Good. Makes this easier. “Okay, Leo. What’s the latest?”
“The latest,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, “is Chamonix. I’m doing it. The Red Bull competition.”
Her face darkens instantly. The mask cracks, revealing the fear, the anger I knew was lurking underneath. Her knuckles whiten where they grip the edge of the desk. “You’re… what? Leo, we talked about this. You promised …”
“I promised I heard your concerns,” I cut her off, my voice hardening. “I didn’t promise shit about my decision. This is happening, Sabrina. The firm needs it. After Luca… after the tabloids… we need a win. A big one. This is the narrative. Maxwell’s comeback. Conquering the mountain. Fucking phoenix from the ashes. You know the drill.”
“The drill?” Her voice trembles with suppressed fury. “Leo, this isn’t a PR stunt! This is the place that almost killed you! Mia almost lost her father before she even met him! And you want to go back?”
“It’s calculated risk,” I lie, echoing the bullshit PR lines she feeds the press. “It shows strength. Resilience. It’ll reassure the investors more than any fucking quarterly report.”
“And what about us?” she whispers, the fight seeming to drain out of her, replaced by a weary sadness that hits me harder than her anger. “What about Mia? Does she just… not factor into your calculations?”
“Of course she does!” I snap, stung by the implication. “Everything I do is for her now! Building a legacy! Security!”
Even as I say it, it sounds hollow. A justification. Am I trying to convince her?
Or myself?
“Right,” she says, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “A legacy. Just make sure you’re alive to see it.”
The conversation stalls, the air thick with unspoken words. This isn’t going how I planned. Not at all.
“Look,” I say. “I’m heading out this afternoon. Doing a practice run upstate. The quarry. Easy shit. Nothing like Chamonix. Auger’s meeting me there. We need footage. For the announcement. The PR push.”
I see the flicker of panic in her eyes again. “Today? You’re jumping today? ”
“It’s necessary, Sabrina. For the campaign.” I turn to leave before she can argue further, before I can see the full extent of the hurt, the fear, the fucking disappointment in her eyes.
It’s cowardly, I know. Walking away.
But at least this time, she can’t accuse me of lying.
I told her exactly what I was doing, even though I knew she wouldn’t approve.
Progress, right?
Fucking stellar.
The chopper ride upstate is a blur. When we land, Auger checks my rig, all quiet competence and professional detachment.
Luca absence is glaring. Usually, he’d be buzzing, high as a kite, feeding off the pre-jump tension. Somehow it feels… wrong to jump without him.
That familiar twinge of guilt again.
Fuck him. He made his choices.
And I’m making mine.
Standing on the edge of the cliff, the wind whips around me, cold and sharp. The drop yawns below.
My heart hammers. I see Sabrina’s face again. The look in her eyes when I told her. When I walked out.
Fuck it.
I exhale.
And jump.
The cliff face drops away.
Michelle emails the footage to Sabrina almost immediately upon my instruction after I land.
When I arrive back at the penthouse, I find Sabrina there, staring at her laptop screen, her face pale.
“So,” I say, trying for casual. My leg aches like a motherfucker after that jump. The parachute landing was a bit... hard. “Did Michelle send over the footage? Good stuff for the announcement, right?”
She looks up at me, and the careful neutrality is gone. Her eyes are blazing, not with fear this time, but with a cold anger that unnerves me more than any investor panic.
“Good stuff, Leo?” she spits. “I watched it. Frame by fucking frame. You were feet from that cliff face. Feet . Don’t you dare tell me that was an ‘easy run.’”
“It was controlled, Sabrina,” I argue, the defensiveness rising again. “Auger was there. I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“Did you?” Her voice trembles. She’s furious. “Did you know what you were doing to me? To Mia? What am I supposed to do when it’s you in the hospital, Leo? Not Luca. You . When the doctors are saying ‘touch and go?’ Am I supposed to just issue another fucking press release about your ‘indomitable spirit’ while praying our daughter doesn’t lose her father? I won’t be able to bear it, Leo. I can’t .”
The argument escalates quickly from there. She accuses me of being selfish, of prioritizing adrenaline over my daughter, of risking orphaning Mia just to prove some macho bullshit point to myself.
“You’re being ridiculous!” I shout back, abandoning any pretense of calm. “This is who I am! And you’re being controlling! Besides, this is your own fucking PR strategy! The one selling my ‘resilience,’ my ‘comeback,’ remember? You’re fine leveraging the narrative when it suits the firm, right?”
“That narrative,” she spits back, her cheeks flushed, “was about your recovery ! About building something stable! It included the wingsuiting only because you fucking insisted on keeping that door open! Because you wouldn’t let it go! Not because I thought it was a good idea for the father of my child to keep flirting with death!”
“I need to do this!” I tell her, gesturing wildly. “To get the attention off Luca! To show the investors I’m not fucking broken! This is just business, that’s all it is!”
The fight in her, the fire… it’s fucking intoxicating. Part of me, the dark, primal part, wants to cross the room, grab her, push her against the wall, channel this raw energy into something physical and explosive, something that ends with both of us breathless and spent, like it did in the gym.
I scan her face, looking for that mutual flicker of desire, that heat I saw in the gym.
But it’s not there. Not even a spark. Her eyes are filled with a different kind of fire now. Not passion. Just… resolve. A chilling, heartbreaking re solve.
I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That we’d fight, and then…
And then what? Fucking explode into angry sex again?
Is that your brilliant fucking solution to everything?
“No, Leo,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet. “It’s not just business. Not anymore. I can’t build a life like this. I can’t build a future with someone who would choose the risk, over us. Over Mia.” She takes a deep breath, and the next words land like hammer blows. “I need space, Leo. We… we need a break. A real one.”
Break?
What the fuck is she talking about?
“I’m moving back to my apartment,” she continues. “Tonight. The paparazzi can camp outside for all I care. I’ll keep the security detail, for Mia’s sake. For now. But I can’t… I can’t stay here. Not like this.”
She turns before I can even process her words. She walks towards the nursery. Towards Mia.
“Sabrina, wait!” I call out, my voice hoarse. But she doesn’t stop.
I just stand there, like a fool.
Am I really going to let her go?
But what else can I do?
I can’t force her to stay with me.
A few moments later, she emerges with Mia bundled in her arms, a hastily packed overnight bag slung over one shoulder.
Mia is wailing, a high-pitched, heartbroken sound that seems to understand, on some primal level, that something is fundamentally wrong.
She reaches a tiny hand towards me.
“No,” I whisper, the word choked. Tears sting my eyes.
My baby .
My baby.
I take a step towards them, my leg screaming in protest, my hand outstretched.
But Sabrina just shakes her head, her own eyes glistening, but her expression resolute.
She turns and walks towards the elevator, Mia’s cries echoing in cavernous penthouse.
She steps inside. Scans her keycard. The doors slide shut.
Gone.
I stare at the closed elevator doors, stunned. The fight, the adrenaline, the bravado… it all drains away, leaving me trembling.
I was actually hoping… fucking idiot … hoping the argument would lead to sex.
To connection.
To something .
Anything but this.
My legs give out. I just sink to the floor, right there in the middle of the vast living room, the city lights glittering indifferently outside the massive windows.
I lie flat on my back, staring up at the ridiculously high ceiling, the silence pressing down on me.
It’s just a relationship break, I tell myself. Just a break. She needs space.
She’ll come around.
But the hollow ache in my chest, the silence where Mia’s cries were moments before, tells a different story.
The reality hits me with the force of a terminal impact.
She’s gone.
They’re both gone.
And it’s all my fucking fault.