Chapter 5
(Steven’s POV)
That night…
I couldn’t sleep.
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Which, okay, wasn’t exactly new. Insomnia and I were on a first–name basis ever since the accident. We’d spent countless nights together, brooding and bargaining with ceiling shadows, trying to forget the noise of the crash and the silence that followed.
But this time, it felt different.
My body wasn’t in agony. My legs weren’t on fire. There was no overwhelming pain radiating through my spine like a bitter storm. Just a dull ache, the kind that whispers instead of screams.
And the thing that pissed me off the most?
I had… progress.
Today–no, yesterday—I actually did my full basic routine without dripping sweat like a dying athlete or growling at gravity. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But it wasn’t hell either.
And I hated it.
Because it made me feel normal.
And then it made me feel pathetic.
Doing small, mundane exercises like I was some fragile old man. Breathing hard just from lifting my damn arms. Like I wasn’t the same guy who used to push Ferraris past 200 mph on tracks lined with fire and screaming fans.
That version of me? Gone. Buried under muscle atrophy, guilt, and pity. Especially the kind I gave myself.
So yeah, I was grumpy. Bitter, Sharp–tongued.
But I didn’t expect her to deal with it.
And she did,
That annoying, loud, little woman who looked like chaos in sneakers and talked like she ran her own sarcasm empire… she didn’t flinch. Not once. Not when I insulted her. Not when I growled. Not even when I told her to
get out.
She finished her food, burped like a goblin, and walked out like a goddamn queen.
And somehow?
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 5
She haunted me.
Even in my dreams.
:.
:
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At around 3 a.m., my exhaustion finally won. I fell asleep–and immediately found myself in the most bizarre, unsettling dream imaginable.
She was there.
Madison Luis.
Except in the dream, she wasn’t just my PT. She was yelling at me again–fierce, wild–eyed, calling my name like she owned me. Telling me to stand. To move. To stop acting like a “sad, rich statue with trust issues.” At some point, I think she slapped a croissant out of my hand.
I jolted awake at 8 a.m., heart pounding, eyes dry.
Like a zombie, I wheeled myself out of bed, ran a hand over my face, and made my way into the kitchen.
Empty.
Dead silent.
No banana. No sarcastic commentary. No tiny woman judging my espresso preferences or side–eyeing my fridge.
I checked the living room.
Still no sign.
No loud footsteps. No clipboard slaps. No angry humming of Britney Spears under her breath while she searched for resistance bands.
Did she quit?
I frowned.
Not because I cared. Obviously. It’s just–she had a mouth on her. The kind of mouth that wouldn’t back down just because someone yelled. The kind that stayed, insulted you harder, then brought you your pain meds like it was all part of her grand routine.
But now?
Gone.
By 12 noon, the penthouse was still a damn tomb.
So, naturally, I did what any grown man in crisis does. I called my mother.
She answered on the second ring.
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 5
“Mother,” I grunted. “I need food. The fridge is still empty.”
She was quiet for a beat. Then sighed.
“Wait.”
Click.
She hung up.
No ‘hello. No ‘how are you.‘ No mention of Madison.
I stared at my phone, scowling.
Weird.
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Madison was loud. And obnoxious. And chaotic. But also dependable. Consistent. Annoyingly present.
She wasn’t the type to disappear without a fight.
So where the hell was she? And why did this place suddenly feel… Too quiet without her?
Dammit.
(Madison’s POV)
The whole day? I was packing.
Well… if you could call it packing.
It was more like–gathering all my worldly possessions that didn’t smell like garlic fried rice or existential dread and stuffing them into two sad boxes and one beat–up luggage.
Mrs. McL.con–aka Queen Elise, Empress of Elegant Threats and Designer Manipulation–had told me very directly over the phone:
“Only pack what you absolutely need, darling. We’ll handle the rest.”
And by “handle the rest,” she meant:
She already scheduled a spa day for me.
Booked a personal shopper for my upcoming day off
And casually mentioned that her stylist would “fix whatever damage retail poverty has done to my wardrobe.”
So yeah. Apparently, I was about to be adopted by rich luxury.
Which was great… but also kind of made me stare at my sad little pajama set like it had personally failed me.
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 5
In the end, I packed the essentials:
:.
I set of PJs (aka my oversized unicorn tee and ratty shorts).
My PT uniform (which still smelled vaguely like hospital–grade peppermint oil).
5 okay–ish shirts and pants that weren’t entirely shameful.
A week’s worth of undies.
2 pairs of shoes, both of which had seen better years.
And my essentials: charger, toothbrush, and attitude.
Two boxes. One luggage.
That’s it.
Everything else?
Apparently, I was about to be sponsored by drama and Dior.
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I hailed a taxi and, by 5 p.m., I was standing at the front door of Steven McLeon’s penthouse, ringin‘ the doorbell like I owned the damn place.
He opened it.
And oh–his face?
Pure confusion. A blend of rich–boy disbelief and mild panic.
Eyebrows up. Hair tousled. Espresso mug in hand. The man looked like he’d just been ghosted by his own
shadow,
He blinked.
I smirked.
“Hey, roomie,” I said with full sass as I wheeled my boxes in like I was checking into a five–star hotel. Tl be living here now
He stood there, stunned, like I’d just announced I was pregnant with his emotional support monkey.
“You’re what?”
I strolled past him like I paid rent, headed straight for the nearest guest room beside the kitchen–because duh, coffee proximity was top priority.
“Your mom hired me. Full–time. PT–slash–personal–assistant. Penthouse comes with the job. You can take it up with her.”
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Chapter 5
He followed me, fuming like an over–boiled espresso pot.
“Wait–wait! This is my home!”
“Tell that to your mother. She signed the contract.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can, I did, and I even brought my own soap.”
I flopped onto the bed and–oh my god.
It was heaven.
Mattress? Cloud.
Blankets? Warm hug from a billionaire’s guilt.
Carpet? Softer than my childhood memories.
Meanwhile, Steven was pacing in his chair like he was about to sue the air.
“I’m calling her.”
“Do it,” I yawned, rolling onto my back like I was sunbathing on luxury.
A few minutes later, I heard him in the living room–arguing with his mother.
Loud. Furious. And completely ignored by said mother.
I caught snippets:
“You didn’t tell me she’d live here-”
“No, I don’t need–Mom! She called my espresso machine stupid!”
“This is my home, not a dormitory for sarcasm gremlins!”
And me?
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I was smirking, wrapped in 800–thread–count linens, contemplating if I could steal a croissant from the fridge later,
Because while Steven was busy spiraling?
I was busy living.
Let the games begin.
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 6
