Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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It was raining the kind of chilly, misty, dramatic drizzle you only ever see in old black–and–white movies.
And Manhattan was dressed in its usual expensive hustle–chaotic traffic snarled between Teslas, limos, and cabs, and people with boring dark umbrellas and Gucci swarmed the sidewalks like a parade of rich shadows.
The rain didn’t stop the glimmer of the city, though. No. It only made everything shimmer. Like the whole world had been polished in grief, Prada and money.
And I? I stood in front of the most exclusive, private penthouse in all of Tribeca, gripping my red umbrella in one hand and the strap of my ridiculously oversized PT bag in the other.
It was my first day as a private physical therapist.
Not just to anyone–but to Steven. Freaking. McLeon.
At 30, he was once the poster boy for speed, muscle, hotness, and luxury. Formula One royalty. The Ferrari God. Endorsed by more brands than I had shoes in my closet. And trust me–I have a lot of old shoes. He had graced everything from Calvin Klein billboards in Times Square to grinning beside luxury watches on every airport lounge screen in Europe. He was the abs, the jawline, the smirk. The bad boy who made speed look like seduction.
But that was a year ago.
Then came the accident in Dubai. Ferrari. Flames. Headlines. Screaming fans. And then–silence.
He hadn’t walked since.
No more races. No more billboards. No more smirks or speed.
Now? Now he lived like a ghost in a penthouse that probably cost more than the GDP of a small European country. And I, Madison Luis–half–Italian, half–Asian, standing at a proud 5’3” and armed with sass, sarcasm, and a physical therapy license–was apparently his last shot at “getting better.”
Or at least that’s what his mother said when she hired me.
Lady Elise McLeon was terrifying in a Grace Kelly–meets–dragon–empress kind of way. Think silk gloves, pearl necklaces, and a rich British accent sharp enough to slice parmesan. She grilled me over tea and biscotti one week ago in a suite that smelled more expensive than my apartment building. But I got the job.
“You have fire,” she said, with one perfectly arched brow. “Steven will hate you. Which is why I think you’re perfect,”
Interesting…
So here I was.
Dripping in the hallway of his expensive penthouse with a private elevator. On the luxurious 87th floor. Inside a building where the walls were dark marble, the elevator had a chandelier, and the doorman looked like he’d once guarded the Queen.
11:24 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 1
1 knocked.
The door didn’t open.
I knocked again–louder.
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“Oi! Hold your damn horses,” a low growl snapped through the intercom. Then a click. Then silence.
Very British!
The massive black door swung open automatically.
And damn.
clean
The inside, however, looked like something out of a Bond villain’s dream. Chic! Floor–to–ceiling, very glass windows revealed the rain–soaked skyline of Manhattan glowing like molten silver. Gold–covered chandeliers hung like icicles from a ceiling higher than my ambitions because why not? Rich people are weird. White velvet couches. A fireplace the size of my bathroom. And a scent of cedar, old money, and… was that espresso?
“Take off your shoes,” a voice barked.
I turned.
And there he was.
Steven McLeon.
Alive.
Brooding.
Unsmiling.
He sat in a yellow and black, high–tech wheelchair that looked like it had more horsepower than a Tesla. Dressed in gray sweatpants, a fitted white shirt that clung to his broad chest, and that signature stubble that made women and tabloids swoon. His hair was longer now–messier–but the eyes were the same. Cold. Icy blue. Staring at me like I was a fly or a moth that dared land on his perfectly polished glass.
I raised a brow. “Hello to you too, Sunshine.”
His jaw twitched. “You’re the new PT?”
“I’m the miracle worker. Madison Luis. And yes, I brought pain and sass in equal measure.”
He didn’t smile.
Good.
Neither did I.
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Chapter 1
I kicked off my old sneakers and stepped into the palace of pain.
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“So where do we start?” I asked, slinging my bag down dramatically onto a velvet chair worth more than my college tuition.
Steven narrowed his eyes. “We don’t. You’ll be gone in a week like the rest.”
I smirked and looked around, admiring the absurd luxury. “Oh honey, you better hope I stay. Because without me, you’ll still be a handsome nightmare with a bad attitude and no one to hand you your protein shake.”
He blinked.
I winked.
The storm outside rumbled louder.
But something told me–the real storm?
Was just the beginning.
Then of course, I looked at him.
Really looked at him.
Yes, his jawline could slice cake. Yes, his cheekbones could cut glass. And yes, his shoulders looked like they were carved by ancient gods with a personal vendetta against T–shirts. The man was deadly handsome.
But his eyes?
Lifeless.
Flat.
Grayish blue, like they forgot what the color joy even looked like.
And I thought–really?
You’re a billionaire. You live in a Manhattan penthouse that has a view of three states and a piano no one touches except the cleaner, who polishes it for show. You probably have custom expensive soap. There’s gold trim on your wine glasses and a literal indoor koi pond in your hallway. And you–you dare look lifeless?
Sir.
Sir.
I live in a small one–bedroom apartment in Brooklyn with walls thinner than my patience and my bank account. My neighbor dances to Britney’s Toxic at I a.m. sharp every Sunday like it’s a silly sacred ritual. There’s a Chinese restaurant downstairs that I love but also kind of hate because the oil smell clings to my curtains like a possessive ex. Hell, my washing machine is second–hand and sounds like it’s summoning a demon every time I use the spin cycle. And don’t get me started on the thrifted shoes that I superglue every
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other week because apparently, therapy degrees don’t come with a trust fund.
And this man?
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This rich, privileged underwear model–turned–emo–in–a–wheelchair has the audacity to sit in his modern expensive throne and look like life personally offended him?
Pathetic.
I squinted at him. “Okay, first things first… did you eat today?”
Steven blinked slowly, like I just asked him if he believed in fairies. “Excuse me?”
“I said,” I crossed my arms and tilted my head, “did you eat, or are you just cranky because your billionaire stomach is empty? Because clearly, you’re moody. Grumpy. Growling at people like a cartoon villain. And the only reason I’m not turning around and taking the elevator of salvation out of here is because I’ve seen worse attitudes. From toddlers. At daycare.”
He narrowed his eyes on me. “I don’t recall hiring a therapist with a mouth.”
I smiled sweetly. “You didn’t. Your mother did. And honey, my mouth’s the only thing that’s going to get you walking again–so unless you want to spend the rest of your life being pushed around like a royal baby, I suggest you sit back and let me sass the pain into you.”
His nostrils flared.
Good.
Be scared!
I walked toward the massive kitchen area–or what I assumed was a kitchen. It looked like something out of a Vogue spread. All black and white marble, gold and silver hardware, and a coffee machine that probably cost more than my apartment. I opened the fridge and found it mostly empty save for a suspicious green and yellow juice, five brands of expensive water, and enough protein shakes to feed a small gym cult.
I grabbed a banana and tossed it at him. “Here. For the attitude. I heard potassium helps with being a pain in
the ass.”
He caught it, barely, and looked at me like I’d just insulted his bloodline.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
I grinned. “It takes one to rehab one.”
He didn’t say anything. He just peeled the banana slowly and bit into it like it had personally offended him.
Honestly, I was impressed.
He looked like a grumpy Greek god on house arrest.
But me?
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Chapter 1
I wasn’t intimidated.
Hell no!
…
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I was exhausted. Underpaid for years. Drenched from the rain. And still not caffeinated enough to bring this man to his knees–literally.
“Alright, Mr. Broodywheel. Time to stretch. Let’s see if we can find a single working muscle beneath that designer sulk.”
He glared.
Of course…
I smirked.
The real therapy had begun. And may the gods have mercy on him.
Because I sure as hell wouldn’t.
