43. Sabrina
43
Sabrina
I did it.
I’m back in Brooklyn.
Operation: Escape the Gilded Cage is officially complete.
Sort of.
My one-bedroom apartment feels both blessedly familiar and ridiculously small after Leo Maxwell’s penthouse sky palace. The air smells like my usual lavender diffuser and faint traces of Mia’s diaper pail, not ozone and hundred-dollar bills.
Not sure if that’s good or bad.
I’m sitting on my slightly-too-small-but-paid-for sofa, laptop precariously balanced on a stack of overdue library books. Taylor Strategic Communications, Global HQ, has officially returned to its humble roots.
Mia is blessedly asleep in her own crib, in her own room .
The break.
That’s what I called it when I walked out of his penthouse two days ago, Mia clutched in my arms like a tiny, surprisingly loud shield. He didn’t try to stop me, not really. Just stood there, looking… wrecked.
Which almost made me hesitate.
Almost.
But then I remembered the wingsuit video, the lie, the casual disregard for the fragile thing we were trying to build.
And I kept walking.
Do I miss him?
Ugh. Complicated.
Do I miss the easy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes? The surprisingly gentle way he held Mia? The way he looked at me sometimes, like I was the only person in the room, even if the room was filled with priceless art and the ghosts of supermodels past?
Maybe.
Do I miss the sex?
The mind-blowing, wall-slamming, gym-bench-defiling sex that made me forget my own name, let alone my walls and professional boundaries?
Okay, yeah.
Definitely miss the sex.
A lot.
The way he can make my body do things that no other man—
My cheeks flush just thinking about it.
Typical, Sabrina.
But a relationship can’t be built on toe-curling orgasms alone, especially when the foundation is rotten. When one partner thinks ‘calculated risk’ involves jumping off mountains, I can’t live like that. Waiting for the phone call saying he didn’t make it back this time. I can’t do that to myself. I won’t. And I sure as hell won’t do that to Mia .
She deserves... more.
I was right after all. He’s not father material. He never was.
I don’t know why I thought I could change him.
I guess it’s a fantasy we women have, born of too many rom coms and fictional happy ever afters.
So, am I going back?
Right now, the answer feels like a firm, resounding no.
This “break...” it’s probably permanent. It hurts, yeah. More than I want to admit. But it feels a lot safer.
Speaking of safer, I dismissed the security detail yesterday. Jonas and Terrence. After a couple of days holed up here, with zero sign of paparazzi camping outside my brownstone, having two ex-military behemoths shadowing my every move felt excessive. And frankly, a little suffocating. Apparently the ‘mystery brunette’ aka Sabrina Taylor is old news already, and the tabloids have moved on to lower hanging fruit.
Anyway... distractions. I have work to do.
I pull my laptop closer, trying to focus on the draft of the press release addressing the… ahem … ‘speculation’ following Luca Briggs’ unfortunate ‘medical leave for exhaustion.’ God, even typing it feels like a lie. But it’s the narrative Leo approved. The one that keeps Luca’s overdose and the subsequent investor jitters contained. It’s damage control 101.
Leo wants me to work in his return to Chamonix as well, and spin it as a super positive thing. So I’ll do that, too.
Even though I hate the very thought of it.
My concentration breaks as an incoming video call notification pops up on my screen.
Leo .
Of course.
My stomach tightens.
We’ve been keeping in touch exclusively by email since I left, but I knew I’d have to accept a video call at some point. I guess I was just hoping it would be a few days out yet.
I smooth down my blouse, take a sip of lukewarm coffee, and accept the call, plastering on my best ‘work’ smile. You know, the ‘coke and a smile’ one.
His face fills the screen. He’s in his office downtown, the familiar backdrop of glass and steel behind him. He looks… tired. Still handsome, annoyingly so, but the lines around his eyes are deeper.
“Sabrina,” he says. No warmth. No hint of the man who held me, kissed me, fucked me like his life depended on it. Just the billionaire client.
Easier this way. Right?
“Mr. Maxwell,” I reply, matching his tone. I won’t let myself say his first name. Too familiar. “How can I help you?”
Did you need sign-off on another near-death experience?
Just checking.
“I wanted to follow up on the Briggs statement,” he says, all business. “Any pushback?”
“There was, but minimal,” I report coolly. “The ‘exhaustion’ narrative seems to be holding, for now. Key investors are cautiously optimistic, pending further updates on his recovery and return timeline. I’m also working in your return to the Red Bull competition in Chamonix, as you requested.”
Which I hate to my core. But it’s what you want.
Keeping the client happy.
God, sometimes I hate my job.
“Good. Good work.” He pauses, his gaze lingering on my face a fraction too long. My cheeks feel warm .
Stop it.
“It’s… uh… good to see you, Sabrina,” he says.
The unexpected personal comment throws me off balance.
Good to see me?
After I walked out?
After that fight?
“Likewise, Mr. Maxwell,” I manage, keeping my voice clipped.
He leans forward slightly, the mask slipping just a tiny bit. “Look, about the other day… things got… intense.”
Intense? That’s one word for it. ‘Relationship-imploding dumpster fire’ is another.
“It was a stressful situation, Mr. Maxwell. Understandable.” I keep my gaze fixed on a point just past his shoulder.
“Right.” He leans back. “So. Dinner?”
The question hangs there, unexpected.
Dinner? Is he serious?
My internal warning system flashes red.
“Thank you, Mr. Maxwell, but I don’t think that would be appropriate right now,” I say, my voice colder than I intend. “We agreed we needed space.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t handle rejection well, does he?
Of course not. He’s a billionaire. Used to getting precisely what he wants, when he wants it.
But there’s some things money can’t buy. I’m sure he’s figured that out by now.
I brace myself for the pushback, the argument. But it doesn’t come.
“Right. Space.” He looks away, studying something on his desk. Then, his gaze flicks back to me. It looks almost... vulnerable, now. “Okay. What about… can I schedule some time with Mia, then? Maybe tomorrow?”
My breath catches. Mia. The bargaining chip. The one thing he knows I can’t refuse indefinitely. But seeing him, interacting with him… it’s too soon.
Too raw.
The break needs to be a break.
“Leo, I… I don’t think we’re ready for that yet,” I say, hating the way my voice wavers slightly. “It’s all still too… new. Too complicated. She needs the comfort of a routine right now.”
And frankly, so do I.
He looks genuinely hurt this time. The guarded mask doesn’t quite cover the flash of pain in his eyes. “Not even… not even for an hour? At your place?”
“Not yet, Leo,” I repeat, forcing firmness into my tone.
Hold the line, Sabrina. Hold!
He stares at me for a long moment, the silence stretching. Then, his expression shifts again, becoming pleading. It’s a look I’ve never seen on him before, and it hits me right in the gut.
“Okay. Okay, I get it.” He hesitates. “Can I… can I at least see her now? Just… for a second? On the camera?”
Oh, god.
This feels like kicking a puppy. A very large, very rich, very complicated puppy who might also be secretly training to jump off the Eiffel Tower.
But the raw vulnerability in his request… how can I say no?
Wordlessly, I pick up my laptop and walk quietly towards the nursery.
Mia is stirring, making soft little cooing noises as she starts to wake up from her nap. I push the door open gently and angle the camera towards the crib.
Mia blinks, her startlingly green eyes focusing on the screen.
Leo’s breath hitches audibly through the speakers. I see his face on the small inset screen, his expression completely unguarded now. A look of such raw, aching longing washes over his features that it steals my breath.
He looks… like he’s about to cry.
“Hey, Killer,” he whispers, his voice cracking. He reaches out a hand towards the screen, as if he could actually touch her. “Hey, baby girl.”
Mia lets out a happy gurgle, kicking her little legs.
Leo manages a shaky smile, but his eyes are glistening. He clears his throat.
“Okay. Okay, thanks, Sabrina.” His voice cracks, and he looks away from Mia, back toward the camera, but his gaze is unfocused. He wipes his cheek with a finger. “Gotta go. Call… call me about the statement later.”
And before I can respond, before I can process the wave of conflicting emotions crashing through me, he hangs up.
The screen goes dark.
I stand there in the quiet nursery, Mia babbling softly in her crib, the silence of the apartment pressing in on me.
My own eyes are stinging.
Seeing him like that, so openly vulnerable, so clearly devastated by the separation, even a temporary one… it shakes my resolve.
Did I do the right thing? Walking away? Insisting on this space?
Yes, the rational part of my brain screams.
He lied.
Risked his life.
Proved he can’t be trusted.
But the other part, the part that remembers the tenderness beneath the intensity, the part that saw the genuine effort he was starting to make, the part that melted when he held Mia… that part is heartbroken.
Devastated.
And leaning heavily towards picking up the phone and telling him to come over.
No. Stop it.
I rock Mia gently as I lift her from the crib, burying my face in her sweet-smelling hair.
This break is the right choice.
For her.
For me.
It has to be.
I need to be strong. I need to protect her from the inevitable heartbreak.
Like I said, I’m leaning towards making this break permanent.
Ending it before he disappears for good, leaving us shattered and holding the bag.
It’s the only logical, self-protective thing to do.
So why does it feel so monumentally wrong?
Later that day, after fielding another dozen PR calls and successfully feeding Mia a meal of mashed peas, I call Tatiana. She already knows I moved out. I’d texted her the tearful, abbreviated version yesterday.
“Hey,” she answers. “How are you holding up?”
“Define ‘holding up,’” I say, trying for sarcasm but mostly just sounding exhausted. “I haven’t eaten ten Black Forest cakes in a row, so I guess that’s a win?”
“Baby steps,” she says gently. “Want me to come over? I can bring wine. Or Rocky Road. Or ten Black Forest cakes.”
“Don’t tempt me.” I sink onto my sofa and pat my curves. “I’m still trying to get rid of the… uh… lingering effects of gestating a tiny human.”
“Sabrina,” Tatiana says, her tone becoming more serious. “About Leo. I just wanted to say... well... are you sure you’re not… you know… projecting?”
I stiffen. “Projecting? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just… your dad,” she says carefully. “The abandonment. The unreliability. Maybe you’re painting Leo with that same brush, without really giving him a real chance to prove he’s different.”
“Different?” I scoff. “Tati, he literally lied to me and went wingsuiting! And now he wants to go to Chamonix. The same flight that almost killed him! How is that different? It’s the exact same pattern ! Choosing risk, choosing himself, over responsibility! Over Mia! Over me! ”
“Okay, yes, the wingsuiting is insane. Terrifying,” Tatiana concedes, sounding genuinely troubled. “And him telling you he’s doing Chamonix, after lying about the quarry jump… God, Sabrina, your anger, your fear? Totally justified. It’s like he’s choosing that rush over you and Mia, point blank.”
She pauses. “And maybe he will, in the end. Maybe that pull, that need for the rush, is just too strong for him right now. Maybe he’sincapable of choosing differently, especially with the pressure from the firm mounting after the Luca incident.
“But Sabrina, think about this specific situation for a second, separate from your dad, if you can. Leo didn’t just decide this in a vacuum. He feels backed into a corner, doesn’t he? His partner nearly died. His company’s stability is shaky. His identity as ‘Leo Maxwell, Billionaire Venture Capitalist’ took a massive hit with the original accident and the sudden fatherhood reveal. He’s flailing. He’s reaching for the one thing he knows, the one sport where heprobably usedto feel completely in control. Wingsuiting.
“It’s a monumentally stupid, self-destructive coping mechanism, absolutely. And maybe it proves he’s not ready. But is it the same as your father just… checking out? Walking away because it got inconvenient? Or is this Leo acting out of a warped sense of needing to fix things, to reclaim control, even if his method is insane and terrifyingly dangerous? He told you he heard your concerns, right? He didn’t just dismiss them entirely, even if he made the wrong choice afterward?
“Look, I’m not saying you have to stay and watch him potentially self-destruct. Hell no. You protect Mia, you protect yourself, always. But walking away completely right now, making this break permanent before he even gets close to that Chamonix cliff… are you closing the door on the man who held Mia like she was the most precious thing in the world? The one who actually listened to your mom, even when she was tearing him down?”
The one who looked absolutely gutted when you showed him Mia on FaceTime?
“I don’t know, Sabrina,” she continues. “It’s your call. But... there’s a difference between a man who runs from responsibility, and a man who runstowarddanger because he’s terrified of responsibility and doesn’t know any other way to feel in control. Is one just as bad as the other in the end? Maybe. But are they exactly the same thing? No.”
Her words land quietly, but with surprising force.
She’s right. To a degree.
My father walked away. Leo… Leo came back. He’s trying , however clumsily, however infuriatingly. He wants access to Mia. He wants… something.
Even though his latest decision could kill him.
I shake my head.
I don’t know.
I just don’t, anymore.
Is it possible? Could Tatiana be right? Am I so blinded by my own past, so braced for the inevitable abandonment (or even death, heaven forbid), that I’m pushing away the one man who might actually be trying, in his own flawed way, to break the pattern?
The thought is… unsettling. It doesn’t erase the lies, the risks, the fear.
But it does… complicate things.
And it does plant a tiny seed of doubt in my resolve.