Chapter 4
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12)
EZ 55 vouchers
Forty–five minutes later–after cleaning up, updating his therapy chart, and doing some deep–breathing exercises to stop myself from stabbing a rich man with a gold fork–I found him.
Out on the balcony.
Alone.
Leaning against the glass rail, staring out at the endless Manhattan skyline like he was personally offended by the view. His jaw was tight. His back rigid. That permanent scowl back in place.
He didn’t turn around when I stepped out.
But he spoke. Low. Cold.
“Why are you still here?”
I raised a brow. “Because your mother told me that you might fire me. Repeatedly. Dramatically. Possibly with furniture involved.”
He turned then, eyes burning. “And?”
“And,” I said sweetly, “she also told me that only she can fire me. You may be the client, Mr. McLeon, but she’s the boss. So unless your mother has personally appeared via portal to dismiss me with her queenly rage, I’m not going anywhere.”
He looked like he wanted to throw me off the balcony.
I looked like I might push him first.
“I told you to leave,” he said.
“And I told you,” I replied, folding my arms, “that I don’t take orders from moody muscle models who treat therapists like disposable slippers.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Like a rich fish gasping at the horror of being disrespected.
So I added, “Also, the food was amazing. You’re welcome.”
He let out a harsh exhale and turned back to the view.
I leaned beside him, pretending to admire the city, but really just admiring the fact that I had not murdered him yet.
And despite the tension, the silence, and the fact that he definitely hated me…
He hadn’t told me to shut up again.
Which, in billionaire man–baby language?
11:24 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 4
Was probably progress.
But of course I texted his mother.
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Right after the balcony drama, while he stood there glaring at the skyline like it owed him something, I pulled out my phone and typed a very detailed update:
Madam Elise, morning progress:
– Patient attempted to fire me.
– Patient refused to eat the food I heroically ordered.
– Patient’s stomach betrayed him.
– Breakfast war ensued.
– Therapist won battle, but war ongoing.
Kindly advise if breakfast privileges need to be included in contract.
Ten minutes later.
Ten.
The doorbell rang with the elegance of a piano note. I peeked out and–oh my god.
A delivery guy stood there in an all–black designer uniform, crisp as a tuxedo and holding a box so sleek, so polished, it could’ve been carrying royal jewelry. The packaging practically glowed. Embossed gold lettering. A satin ribbon. The smell?
Indescribable.
It smelled like…not–fake truffles bathed in angel tears and caviar harvested under the full moon by Michelin- starred elves. Like money and privilege had a baby and named it “brunch.”
I signed for it with shaking hands, partly because I was overwhelmed and partly because I recognized the logo
Maison De Soleil.
The fanciest, most outrageously expensive restaurant in the city.
The kind of place where breakfast costs more than my entire week’s groceries.
The kind of place I used to dream of eating at while crying into discount ramen.
I walked into the kitchen, still in a daze, carrying the sacred food offering like a holy relic,
Steven didn’t even glance at it.
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 4
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He just rolled in, took one look at the box, and gave me the smuggest smirk I’ve ever seen on a human face.
“You can set it up,” he said casually. “There’s a tray warmer in the cabinet.”
Oh. Of course there is. Why wouldn’t there be a warming cabinet just for trays?
I set it up.
Laid out his luxurious brunch with all the grace I could muster.
Delicate plates, gold utensils, and a tiny crystal jar of ethically sourced jam that probably had its own passport. The food was actual art. Slices of seared salmon glazed with lavender honey, truffle scrambled eggs topped with edible gold leaf, amazing ham, bacon, a croissant that shimmered with some kind of magic butter, and a tiny parfait in a glass that probably cost more than my favorite boots.
And Steven?
He looked so pleased with himself, it made my eye twitch.
He took one bite of the salmon, nodded to himself like some royal deity, then looked up at me, still smug.
“See?” he said. “You just needed to have a little patience.”
Patience? Patience?!
Sir. You’re the one who threw a steak at a chef last night because it made you emotional. You refused food this morning like a toddler. And now you’re acting like your mother’s emergency brunch bomb is proof of your divine breakfast destiny?
I watched him chew like it was a performance. Elegant. Methodical. Like he knew he was winning and wanted to rub it in.
My stomach was still full, but even I had to admit….
That croissant smelled like it had secrets I wanted to hear.
He raised a perfect brow. “Jealous?”
I scowled. “I’m professionally offended.”
He just grinned and reached for the golden parfait.
Okay, Fine,
He won this round.
But I’m keeping score,
And next time?
I’m ordering the truffle mac and cheese for me.
11:25 Thu, Sep 10
Chapter 4
*****
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After another full–scale war–and yes, it absolutely qualifies as a war–of trying to get Steven Freaking McLeon to do the most basic PT routines, I was done for the day.
Not tired.
DONE.
Like, throw–myself–onto–a–mattress–and–dream–of–a–banana–free–life kind of done.
I didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t have the energy. He was in the middle of complaining about the resistance bands being “too neon” and the yoga mat smelling like lavender “trauma,” whatever that meant. Honestly, it was like arguing with a six–foot–tall child who had a black AmEx and an anger management problem.
So, I slipped out, grabbed my oversized hoodie, and made my way into the subway–blessed, grimy, loud, and miraculously billionaire–free.
That’s when I texted his mother.
Update: PT session survived. Barely. Zero murders committed. Small victories.
Two stops later, she replied. Not with a message. No emojis. No pleasantries.
A PDF file.
Curious, I opened it while holding my iced coffee in one hand and balancing against a metal pole that smelled like regret.
And then… I choked.
I choked so hard I almost dropped my phone into the mysterious puddle near my feet.
Because this PDF?
WAS A CONTRACT.
A real one.
Professionally written, watermarked, legally–binding life–changing contract.
And it said:
Salary: doubled.
Position: Full–time Private Physical Therapist AND Personal Assistant to one cranky Steven McLeon.
Duration: One year.
Location: His Manhattan penthouse. (Meals, room, unlimited espresso included.)
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 4
Advance bonus: $20,000.
Company car under my name. Mine.
And the kicker?
:
If patient (a.k.a. Grumpy Prince of Manhattan) shows progress or full recovery-
Bonus payout: $500,000.
Half. A. Million. Dollars.
I read it three times. Blinked at the screen. Then read it again.
People don’t get this kind of offer.
Not people like me.
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A lowly orphan with a mountain–sized student loan, a leaky ceiling, thrifted shoes, and a coffee machine on its last gasp. A girl who worked three part–time jobs and cleaned yoga mats at night just to graduate. A girl who’s basically clawed her way through life with nothing but stubbornness and cheap eyeliner.
Do I have the luxury to say no?
Absolutely freaking not.
With the bonus alone. I could pay off a massive chunk of my student loan.
I could move out of my tiny apartment that constantly smelled like garlic and heartbreak.
I could breathe for the first time since I was seventeen.
Sure, I’d have to live with a billionaire rage monster with cheekbones and commitment issues–but still.
I needed a second opinion.
So when I got home–kicked off my sneakers, collapsed on my bed, and tried not to scream–I did what any emotionally fried adult does.
1 called Max.
My best friend. My ride–or–die. My favorite emotionally–repressed, gym–obsessed, deeply–closeted human.
Max, who looked like he could bench press a truck, but still had to lie to his ultra–Catholic parents about “being too busy dating women” because he’d rather fake a girlfriend than be kicked out of his family’s three- story brownstone.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 4
Then his deep voice answered:
:
“Did he touch you? Do I have to fight a billionaire today?”
I snorted. “No. But listen–his mom just offered me a contract.”
I read him the terms.
Silence.
Then:
“GIRL. TAKE IT.”
“I-”
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“No. No. Don’t ‘but‘ me. I don’t care if he bathes in liquid arrogance and farts $100 bills. Take. It. That kind of money? That kind of offer? You could pay off your debt and buy me a new blender.”
“I don’t think a blender is part of the deal.”
“Still. Take. It. You’re gonna live in a penthouse with heated floors and possibly a sauna. He has a private elevator, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does the espresso machine work now?”
“Kind of. He made me cry once. But like… luxurious tears.”
“Then shut up and sign it.”
I laughed, flopping onto my pillow, the contract still glowing on my screen like a promise from the universe.
Okay.
Fine.
This wasn’t how I imagined my life going, but who was I to fight fate when fate came with salmon, sass, and six–figure bonuses?
Tomorrow, I was packing my bags.
Because Madison Luis was moving in with Manhattan’s most insufferable patient.
And somehow… I didn’t hate the idea.
