44. Leo
44
Leo
T wo weeks.
Fourteen fucking days since Sabrina walked out, Mia wailing in her arms, leaving behind a silence in this penthouse so absolute it feels like the end of the world.
Fourteen days of rattling around this hollow, multi-million dollar monument to my own ambition.
Fourteen days of emptiness. Inside and out.
Communication between us has been… minimal. Strictly professional. She sends emails with PR strategy updates for Maxwell & Briggs. We’ve had maybe two brief phone calls, all business, her voice clipped and distant, my own carefully guarded.
I haven’t asked her to dinner again, not since she shot me down that first time. Haven’t asked to see Mia, either. Can’t fucking bring myself to. Can’t bear the thought of another rejection hitting me where it actually hurts. Not yet.
Damn it.
My life used to be optimized for ruthless efficiency and maximum personal freedom. You know, closing deals, chasing thrills, and cycling through disposable women.
Now? Now my fucking expensive Italian leather sofa mocks me with the phantom imprint of where Sabrina used to sit, nursing a glass of wine, pretending not to watch me play blocks with Mia.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I find myself standing in the doorway of the nursery more often than I care to admit. The ridiculously overpriced crib is empty. The Diaper Genie stands guard, never employed. The minimalist llamas hanging from the mobile sculpture are perfectly fucking still.
It’s just a room again.
Four walls. Expensive furniture. Zero life.
Zero Mia.
Zero Sabrina.
Just a room.
Fuck!
I miss them. Both of them.
I miss Mia’s gummy grin, her surprisingly strong grip on my finger, even her ear-splitting rage-quota meltdowns.
And Sabrina… fuck, I miss her quiet presence, her sharp intelligence, the way she called me on my bullshit, the heat in her eyes when we fought, the fire when we…
Don’t go there.
Too late.
Already there.
The memory of her, sitting on my face, flushed and breathless, is a constant, low-grade torture. The feel of her surrounding me when I’m making love to her, tasting her shoulder, smelling her hair, biting her neck, licking her throat .
Yes. It’s literal, fucking torture.
The intercom on my desk buzzes, startling me out of my self-pity spiral. Jake, head of building security, speaks over the line. “Mr. Maxwell, Luca Briggs is in the lobby. Unscheduled.”
Luca.
Just the name sends a jolt of irritation through me. I haven’t spoken to him since he was released from the hospital, before he checked in to rehab.
“He’s done rehab already?” I ask, my voice flat.
“Apparently so, sir,” Jake replies.
“All right,” I sigh. “Have Thomas bring him up.”
I head to the living area and take a seat.
Soon, the private elevator dings. Thomas, ever the stoic household manager, ushers Luca into the living area.
Luca looks… superficially better, maybe? The energy about him isn’t quite as frantic today, possibly dialed down by his medically supervised detox.
Or maybe he’s just on better drugs.
His expensive Italian suit is still impeccable, as usual, and his dark hair is perfectly styled.
“Thanks, Thomas,” I say, dismissing him. He gives a slight nod and retreats back to the elevator, leaving me alone with my partner-in-crime.
Luca flashes his trademark white grin, the one that usually precedes him suggesting something monumentally stupid or illegal.
“Leo! Partner! Good to see you, man.” He gestures around the quiet penthouse. “Enjoying your… newfound freedom?”
Freedom? Is that what he calls this echoing fucking tomb?
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a familiar sleek vial.
He unscrews the top and taps a small mound of white powder onto the back of his hand.
Cocaine.
Of course.
“Thought we could celebrate,” Luca says, holding it out to me with that same old conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Your return to the land of the living. My… uh… successful sabbatical. To old times. And to getting back to what we do best, partner... printing fucking money! Let’s line up the next unicorn, nail the next billion-dollar exit! Time to make it rain fucking bills and whores again!”
I stare at the white powder, then up at his face. The casualness of it. The assumption.
After everything.
After the overdose that nearly killed him.
After the PR nightmare he unleashed.
A nightmare we’re only just starting to recover from, thanks to Sabrina.
“You learned absolutely fucking nothing?” The words are quiet, stripped of anger, filled only with a weary disgust.
Luca’s grin falters. Then he shrugs, bends over and sniffs hard, absorbing the line himself before I can even decline. “Learned what? That life’s too short to sweat the small stuff? That a little pick-me-up helps smooth the edges?”
He wipes the white powder from the edges of his nose, trying for nonchalance, but his eyes have become too bright.
“Fuck rehab, Leo,” he continues. “Bunch of whining quitters trading war stories. I learned I need this shit to function. Keeps me sharp.” He gestures to the vial again. “Come on. For old time’s sake. Remember how we closed that Series B for MetaFlow after pulling an all-nighter fueled by coke and sheer fucking willpower?”
I remember. I also remember the crash afterward. The paranoia. The hollow feeling that no amount of money or success could ever quite fill.
“No, Luca,” I say, standing. I turn my back to him and walk to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. “I’m never touching that shit again. Not ever.” I see my reflection in the glass, transparent, looking like a ghost floating over the city. The ghost of who I once was.
The realization hits me then.
He hasn’t changed.
But I have.
Somewhere between finding out I was a father, holding Mia in my arms, fighting with Sabrina, and watching Luca almost die… something fundamental shifted inside me.
The old escapes, the chemical shortcuts, the hollow thrills… they don’t hold the same appeal. They feel… dangerous.
Like playing Russian roulette with a life that suddenly feels like it might actually be worth living.
“Never?” Luca scoffs behind me. “You sure?”
I see his reflection in the window, too. Behind me, he’s extending a hand, offering another line of coke.
“I’m good,” I reply.
“Since when are you just ‘good?’ You’re Leo Fucking Maxwell. King of Venture Capitalists. And soon, the world. You don’t do ‘good.’ You do epic . Legendary.” He sniffs the next line, then walks over to stand beside me. He looks out at the skyline. “So, what’s the plan? Heard Balinski and Accel are back in play. Good save with the PR chick, by the way. Though maybe hiring your baby mama wasn’t the smartest move, optics-wise.”
“Leave Sabrina out of this,” I growl.
“Whoa, touchy,” Luca raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Forget the baby mama. Let’s talk business . The real shit. We need a big win, Leo. Show the world Maxwell & Briggs hasn’t gone soft, that the king hasn’t lost his crown just because he took a tumble.” He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, buzzing with that familiar manic energy. “Chamonix, partner. Chamonix! It’s perfect. I saw the promo footage from your quarry jump. Fucking poetry , man! I’m so excited. Only six months to go. Imagine the narrative! The comeback! It’s the ultimate fucking PR move! We’re so back, baby!”
He’s practically vibrating with excitement, high on coke and the prospect of reflected glory. He assumes the jump, the training, means I’m back to being the old Leo.
The old Leo.
The one who just drove Sabrina away.
The one who might actually orphan Mia.
“Luca…” I start, trying to find the words. Trying to reconcile the man standing in front of me, the partner who helped build this empire, with the hollow ache in my chest left by Sabrina and Mia’s absence.
“I’m so excited, Leo!” Luca cuts me off, clapping me hard on the shoulder, ignoring the wince it causes. “This is it! This is us! Back on top! We train together, push each other like the old days. Fucking invincible!” He flashes that wide, shark-like smile. But then he realizes I’m not returning his grin. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me the PR chick actually got to you? She doesn’t approve of Chamonix, does she?”
“No,” I say, pulling away slightly .
“So who cares?” Luca laughs. “She’s just some stupid bitch. You fly, you win, we make more fucking money. End of story.”
My fist clenches. “What did you say?” My words are barely a whisper.
He visibly flinches at my tone. “What did I do now?”
“If you call her some stupid bitch ever fucking again...” I don’t even recognize my quiet voice now. It’s not me. It’s pure, sheer fucking anger.
His eyes drop to my fist for a fraction of a second. “What? You’ll punch me in the face now? Me? Your oldest friend. The partner you made billions with?”
I don’t answer him. Just stand there with my fist clenched, waiting for him to call her a stupid bitch again...
Give me a reason...
He shakes his head. “Don’t tell me this whole dad-playing-house thing is actually serious? You’re really trading your balls for a Diaper Genie? You’re choosing that? Domestic fucking boredom over this? ” He gestures at the skyline. “Over the empire we built? Over me ?”
I look at my translucent reflection again, and find myself calming down. My reflection... the ghost of who I was.
My fist relaxes. His words are meant to wound, to provoke. But only if I let them.
I refuse to let him have any influence over me anymore
So no, his words don’t ignite more defensive rage. Instead, they just highlight the growing chasm between us. Between the man I was, the man he still expects me to be, and the man... maybe... I am trying to become.
“Things are different now, Luca,” I say quietly, looking toward the empty nursery down the hall. “Priorities… shift.”
“Shift?” He stares at me, his expression turning from contempt to genuine disbelief. “Leo, what the fuck are you talking about? Don’t give me that sentimental bullshit. We’re Maxwell & Briggs. We don’t do shifted priorities. We do seed funding rounds and fuck-you money. Remember?”
“I remember,” I say. “But maybe… maybe there’s more.”
Luca just gapes at me, speechless for once. He runs a hand through his perfect hair, shaking his head slowly, looking utterly bewildered.
Like he doesn’t recognize the man standing in front of him.
The fight drains out of him, replaced by a look of… pity?
“You’ve lost it,” he finally mutters. “Completely fucking lost it. Whatever this is… it’s not you. It’s pathetic.” He turns abruptly and stalks toward the elevator alcove. “Fine. Whatever. Your loss. Rot here with your fucking diapers. I’ll train for Chamonix myself.”
He doesn’t even say goodbye.
I watch him go, then hit the intercom. “Thomas? Mr. Briggs is ready to leave. Please escort him down.”
“Yes, Mr. Maxwell.”
In a few moments, I hear the elevator doors open. I know that Thomas has arrived.
The elevator doors hiss shut again and silence descends on my penthouse.
I walk over to the nursery door, pushing it open gently. The room is dark, save for the soft glow of the nightlight .
Mia...
I stare at the empty crib, blinking back tears. Then I turn away.
I go back to my study and move towards the closet. I pull out the sleek, aerodynamic wingsuit, and the carbon fiber helmet. I lift the wingsuit, run my hand over the familiar fabric... I can almost feel the call of the void. The silence of the fall.
The feeling of being truly, terrifyingly alive.
It used to be the only thing that mattered. Escape. Control.
Control.
That’s the key, isn’t it?
As I stand there, holding the suit, I suddenly see with blinding clarity.
My obsession with the edge, with pushing limits, with wingsuiting… it wasn’t just about the adrenaline. It was about control. The razor-thin control required to navigate the chaos of the jump.
The antithesis of my childhood. My father’s drinking, the instability, the fear… I had no control over any of it.
So I found an arena where I did. Where precision and focus meant survival, and one wrong move meant oblivion.
And it’s not just control that drove me to wingsuiting, but also... the fear of failure.
My father drank himself into oblivion. Failed utterly. In life. And as a father.
Was I terrified of becoming him? Of failing Mia? Of failing the firm? All three?
Chamonix, the comeback, was just another desperate attempt to prove I wasn’t him. To prove I was still Leo Fucking Maxwell, invincible, untouchable, and not a failure.
Fuck.
All this time I thought I was chasing freedom.
But maybe I was just running from the past, dressed up in Kevlar and carbon fiber.
I look from the wingsuit in my hands to the empty nursery down the hall.
Two different worlds.
Two different Leos.
The man who jumps off cliffs, and the man who changes diapers.
The man defined by risk, and the man defined by… Mia. By Sabrina.
Can they coexist? Dom asked if that guy, the father, was so terrifying I needed to jump off a cliff to escape him.
Maybe he was right.
Vulnerability.
Connection.
Love.
Those things feel way fucking scarier than Chamonix ever did.
I carefully fold the wingsuit, placing it back in the closet. Not throwing it away. Not yet. Maybe never.
It’s a part of me.
But it’s not all of me.
Not anymore.