47. Sabrina
47
Sabrina
O kay, Sabrina. Showtime.
I’m a professional.
I manage crises.
I spin narratives.
I can handle this.
Liar.
You’re currently running on three hours of sleep and lukewarm coffee.
Here I am, Madison Square Garden, of all places. Not exactly my usual PR stomping grounds. I’m more accustomed to sterile boardrooms and hushed investor calls.
But Leo Maxwell, father of my child and current emperor of my emotional chaos, doesn’t do anything by halves. If he’s going to announce his ‘triumphant return’ to the world of competitive wingsuiting he’s going to do it with a goddamn rock concert level of fanfare.
And he wants me hear for it. Like I’m supposed to be pleased that this is the same sport that nearly turned him into a very expensive smear on a French mountainside.
The room is buzzing. Media from every major outlet, sports bloggers I’ve been carefully cultivating (and occasionally fending off) for weeks, even a few financial journalists looking for an angle on how Maxwell it’s a schism that will rip through the entire portfolio. The Limited Partners, the massive pension funds and endowments who trust them with their billions, will be forced to choose sides. Some will follow Luca, others might stick with Leo. And the portfolio companies? They’re caught in the crossfire, their futures uncertain as ‘key man’ clauses are triggered and partnership agreements are dissected by armies of lawyers. Deals in the pipeline will stall. New funding rounds will be thrown into chaos. It’s not just a mess, it’s a goddamn financial bloodbath in the making.
Yep, it goes without saying that my carefully crafted PR strategy is in tatters.
And personally? I’m relieved, of course. Through and through. Leo retired. He chose Mia. He chose… not to jump. But I still have no freakin’ idea what this means for us .
The old Sabrina, the one who built her walls high and strong, the one who always expected the worst, is screaming at me to run. To protect myself. To protect Mia.
This is too messy now.
Too complicated.
Too dangerous.
But the new Sabrina, the one who saw a flicker of something real in Leo Maxwell’s haunted green eyes, the one who felt that fragile, terrifying hope… she’s rooted to the spot. Because maybe, Tatiana was right. And Mom was right .
Maybe this is different.
Maybe he’s different.
Or maybe I’m just a fool, about to get caught in the crossfire of a billionaire war, my heart, and Mia’s future.
One thing’s for certain. This press conference, the one I came to dreading, will go down in the annals of venture capital history.
It’s become the opening salvo in a whole new kind of crisis.
And I’m right in the goddamn middle of it.
Again.
Leo tries to step off the stage as the official part of the press conference ends, but he’s immediately mobbed by a throng of reporters. Microphones are thrust in his face, questions are shouted at him from all directions.
I see Charlie and Darius moving in, trying to create room, but it’s a losing battle.
The sharks are in a feeding frenzy.
Showtime, Sabrina, I tell myself, squaring my shoulders.
If I leave now, while the reporters are still occupied, the traffic around Madison Square Garden will be minimal.
I pull out my phone, ignoring the constant chime of incoming emails, and order an Uber.
Time to earn the next retainer.