50. Leo
50
Leo
T oday has been a masterclass in unproductive anxiety.
My inbox is a goddamn warzone, a hundred unanswered emails screaming for attention.
Investors panicking about Luca’s implosion, lawyers demanding statements, Michelle forwarding increasingly frantic requests for damage control.
And Sabrina? Radio silence. Except for that one cryptic text this morning: We need to talk. This evening? Your place. Just us. Mia will be with Mom.
Just us.
The words have been ricocheting around my skull all day, a fucking mantra of impending doom or… or something terrifyingly hopeful.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Leo.
This could be it. The final nail in the coffin. She quits as my PR consultant. She officially ends whatever the hell this is between us.
Or maybe she’s willing to talk. To listen. To actually fucking try .
And let me try in return .
I should be strategizing. Putting out fires. Reassuring LPs that Maxwell Capital isn’t about to go supernova. But I can’t focus. My entire goddamn universe has narrowed to tonight.
To Sabrina.
To whatever verdict she’s about to deliver on my fucked-up, newly reconfigured life.
This isn’t just another high-stakes negotiation. This is… this is everything. The defining moment.
And for once, I have no fucking clue how to play it. No leverage. No angle. Just… raw, exposed nerve endings .
Evening finally fucking arrives, dragging its feet like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. Or maybe that’s just me.
Thomas announces her arrival, his voice as impassive as ever, though I swear I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Pity? Amusement?
Maybe just indigestion.
Again, that’s probably just me.
She walks into the living room, and my breath catches. No power suit tonight. Just soft, dark jeans, a simple sweater that hugs her curves in all the right, distracting ways.
Her hair is down, those dark curls framing her face, making her look younger, softer. More… Sabrina. Less Ms. Taylor, PR crisis manager extraordinaire.
She looks tired.
Stressed.
But also… resolute.
There’s a new steel in her spine, a quiet determination in her eyes that wasn’t there before.
It’s fucking intimidating.
And hotter than hell .
“Sabrina,” I say, my voice a bit rougher than I intend. “Thanks for coming.”
“Leo.” She takes a deep breath, her gaze sweeping across the room, lingering for a moment on the spot where we had the most amazing…
No. Don’t go there.
Then, she looks back at me.
I sit, and gesture for her to take a seat. She does, sitting across from me.
So close. Yet she might as well be on the opposite side of the world.
“Okay, Leo,” she begins. “Let’s talk about Jen Takahashi. And Page Six.”
Right. Straight to the fucking point. No foreplay. Just gut punches.
“Yeah,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Look, Sabrina, I…”
“Did you?” she cuts me off, her voice deceptively calm. “Did you sleep with Jen Takahashi while she was your personal trainer? Did you do lines of coke off her breasts in your home gym? Did you have... sessions... with other employees? Michelle Park? Victoria Kowalski?” She ticks them off like items on a goddamn grocery list.
My jaw clenches. The tabloid didn’t just leak. It fucking excavated . “Sabrina…”
“Yes or no, Leo?” Her eyes are like hard chips of obsidian. “I need to hear it from you. Not from Page Six. Not from Luca. From you .”
There’s no point in denying it. No point in spinning it. She deserves the truth. However ugly.
“Yes,” I say. “To all of it. It was… a different lifetime, Sabrina. Before Mia. Before… you.”
Before I realized what a hollow, fucked-up existence I was living.
She nods slowly, her expression unreadable. The professional mask is firmly in place. But I see the flicker of pain in her eyes.
This isn’t just PR fallout for her.
This is… personal.
“Okay,” she says, her voice ominously quiet. “How am I supposed to trust you, Leo? To believe that your priorities have actually changed? That this… this ‘responsible father’ routine isn’t just another performance? How do I know you won’t revert to the old Leo the second things get tough, the second Mia’s not looking, the second some other Jen Takahashi offers you an easy escape, at work or anywhere else?”
Her words are like a barrage of tiny cuts. Each one hitting a nerve. Each one exposing a truth I’ve been trying to outrun.
There’s no deflection possible. She’s not asking about the firm. She’s asking about me . About the man I am, the man I’m capable of being.
I take a deep breath, the air in my living area suddenly feeling thick. “You don’t, Sabrina. You don’t know . Not yet. Because I haven’t fucking earned that trust. Not from you. Maybe not even from myself. That ‘old Leo’… he’s been my default setting for a long, long time. Running on autopilot, chasing the next distraction, the next high, the next way to not feel the goddamn emptiness.”
I meet her gaze, unflinching. “But Mia… and you… you’re not a routine, Sabrina. You’re not a performance. You’re the first goddamn thing in my life that feels… real. Solid. And yeah, it scares the absolute shit out of me. Because the thought of fucking this up, of reverting, of hurting either of you… it’s a hell of a lot more terrifying than any cliff face. Wi ll it be easy? No. Will I stumble? Probably. But am I trying ? With every goddamn fiber of my being, yes. Because that ‘old Leo’… he was hollow. And what I feel when I’m with you, when I hold Mia… it’s the opposite of hollow. It’s… everything.”
She searches my face, eyes still wary. Then, she asks another question. “And the wingsuiting, Leo.” Her voice gains a dangerous edge. “You retired. Publicly. Grandly. But do you resent it? Do you resent us ? Mia? Me? For taking that away from you? For being the reason you gave up… that? And will you always be looking for that next thrill, that next escape, even if it’s not jumping off a fucking cliff?”
I actually manage a small, genuine smile this time, a little bit of the weight lifting from my chest. This part… this part I’ve actually thought about. More than she knows.
“Resent you, Sabrina?” I shake my head. “No. Absolutely fucking not. Giving up competitive wingsuiting, the Chamonix runs, the insane risks… that wasn’t taking something away . That was… making space. For something better. Something that actually matters. In fact, you fucking gave me something. Something I didn’t even know I was missing. Something to land for. You and Mia.
“Look, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me, the old adrenaline junkie, that won’t miss the sheer fucking thrill of it. The silence. The focus. But the truth is, even before the press conference, even before Luca’s OD threw everything into sharper relief, I was already thinking about it. About how to channel that… that need for the edge, for pushing boundaries, into something else. Something constructive. Something that doesn’t involve me potentially leaving Mia fatherless.”
She cocks her head, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.
“I’m launching a new venture fund, Sabrina,” I explain. “Maxwell Safety Innovations. We’re going to invest in cutting-edge technology for extreme sports. Better gear, better training protocols, advanced safety systems. Finding purpose not in risking my own life, but in helping make those sports safer for everyone else who loves that rush. We can make a real difference. Save lives, maybe.”
I see a dawning understanding in her expression.
“And the sponsorships,” I continue, remembering her earlier suggestion, the one I’d dismissed at the time, but she’d clearly planted a seed. “You were right. I can still be involved. Emotionally. Financially. We can sponsor a team. Talented flyers. They can wear the Maxwell Capital logo, promote the safety fund. I can mentor them, guide them. Still be part of that world, but from a different perspective. From the ground. With both feet planted.”
I meet her gaze, trying to convey the sincerity, the absolute conviction I feel. “So, no, there’s no resentment. Because you didn’t take anything away. You… you showed me a different way. A better way. A way to still be… me, the part that craves innovation, that pushes limits, but without risking everything that actually fucking matters now. Because what I’m building, or what I want to build, with you, with our daughter… it’s not a cage, Sabrina. It’s… it’s an anchor. It’s the reason I don’t need to chase that oblivion anymore. The thrill I get from watching Mia figure out how to stack blocks, or from that look in your eyes when you actually let your guard down… it’s a different kind of rush. A better kind.
“The old thrills… they were about forgetting. Ab out not feeling. What I feel with you, with Mia… it’s about remembering . Remembering what it means to actually give a shit. To have something to lose. Something worth fighting for, instead of just fighting against myself.
“I don’t resent you. No. I’m fucking grateful. You and Mia… you saved me from a different kind of crash. One I might not have walked away from.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then abruptly bursts into tears. They’re tears of joy.
She gets up suddenly, and holds out her arms to me, like I’m the only lifeline she has in this world.
I know for a fact she’s my only lifeline.
I get up, and I go to her, and wrap my arms tight around her. The scent of her fills my nostrils. I just hold her, and hold her.
“It’s going to be all right,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be fine, my vixen.”
She cries on my shoulder for the longest time.
“I believe you,” she says softly. “I believe everything.”
Eventually the tears dry up, but I continue holding her.
Finally, something shifts.
The trembling in her shoulders subsides, replaced by a different kind of tremor, a subtle tension that has nothing to do with sorrow.
I feel it in the way her breath hitches when I shift my grip, my hand sliding from her back, down the curve of her waist, settling on the swell of her hip.
Her body, pressed so tightly against mine, feels… receptive. The air between us, thick with unshed tears and my raw confession only moments ago, now crackles with a different kind of el ectricity.
The kind that always seems to ignite when we’re this close, this vulnerable.
I pull back just enough to look down at her. Her eyes are still red-rimmed, her cheeks tear-stained, her mascara ruined, but there’s a new light in them.
Not just belief.
But… desire.
Raw.
Unmistakable.
It mirrors the fucking inferno raging inside me.
“Sabrina,” I murmur, my voice a low growl. My thumb traces the line of her jaw, then dips to the pulse hammering at the base of her throat.
Her skin is hot, flushed.
The feel of her in my arms overrides everything else. The PR crises, Luca’s betrayal, the ghosts of my past… they all fade into the background.
Right now, there’s only her.
Only this.
“Leo,” she whispers back, her voice shaky, her gaze locked on my mouth. Her walls… they’re gone. Finally gone.
Shattered.
Leaving only this raw, aching need that mirrors my own.
Fuck, I love this woman.
The thought is terrifying. Liberating.
But I don’t say it.
Can’t say it.
Not yet.
The words are too big, too new.
Too much like a promise I’m still learning how to keep.
Instead, I lower my head, capturing her mouth in a kiss that’s anything but tentative. It’s a claiming .
You’re finally mine.
Her lips part under my own, soft, yielding. She kisses me back with such a desperate intensity that it steals my breath.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, her body arching against mine. I can feel the hard points of her nipples through the fabric of her sweater, pressing against my chest. My cock, already hard from just holding her, throbs painfully inside my jeans.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue tangling with hers, tasting her, devouring her. The sound of her soft moans, muffled against my mouth, is the most intoxicating sound I’ve ever heard.
Better than any billion-dollar IPO.
Better than the roar of the wind in a wingsuit.
My hands roam, rediscovering the curves of her body, the places I remember, the places I’ve dreamed about.
I slide one hand under her sweater, my fingers finding the warm, bare skin of her back. She shivers at my touch, pressing herself even closer.
My other hand cups her ass, pulling her tight against my erection, letting her feel exactly how much I want her.
She gasps into my mouth, her hips grinding against mine, a silent invitation.
Yes. Fuck, yes.
I break the kiss, my forehead resting against hers. Both of us are breathing hard, our bodies humming with a shared, desperate need.
“I want you so bad,” I manage, my voice a ragged rasp.
But she can’t even talk. Her eyes are dark, dazed, her pupils blown wide.
That look. The one that makes me feel like the only fucking man on the planet.
I take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers, and lead her out of the living area, down the hallway, toward my bedroom.