Chapter 6
ลด
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I lay there like a cat who just took over a billionaire’s sunspot, arms behind my head, wrapped in a comforter that probably cost more than my monthly rent and Wi–Fi combined.
Meanwhile, in the living room, Steven McLeon was having a meltdown worthy of a luxury reality show.
His voice boomed from down the hall, rich and furious.
“She didn’t even knock–she just walked in like it was a damn Airbnb!”
“No, Mother, I will not share my laundry room!”
“She’s already nesting in the guest room next to the kitchen like a–like a–coffee goblin!”
I nearly choked on my laughter.
Oh, this was delicious.
I imagined Queen Elise lounging somewhere in Monte Carlo, sipping champagne while twirling her phone and wearing a silk robe that whispered “I run everyone’s lives and look fabulous doing it.”
After a few more shouts, a dramatic click echoed down the hall.
He’d been hung up on.
I grinned like the chaos gremlin I was born to be.
A moment later, wheels whirred, and he stormed into my room.
-or, well, rolled in dramatically, which honestly had the same effect.
“Are you seriously just lying there like this is a vacation?” he snapped, brows furrowed, jaw tight, wearing an expression somewhere between offended royal and constipated movie villain.
I yawned. “It kind of feels like one.”
“This is my home.”
“And now it’s also my workplace–slash–temporary–residence. You should be honored.”
His eyes narrowed. “You can’t just-”
“I can. Your mom said so. Want to see the contract again? It’s got gold digital borders and everything.”
He looked ready to explode. Or cry. Possibly both.
Instead, he let out a long–suffering groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are… infuriating.”
I sat up slowly, crossing my legs on the bed. “Aww, is that your version of saying I make your lonely billionaire
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 6
heart race?”
“No.”
I winked. “Denial is the first step.”
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He turned and wheeled out, muttering curses under his breath in what I could only assume was fluent Billionaire Broodingese.
I waited for the satisfying whoosh of his door slamming shut.
Then flopped back down on the mattress with a victorious sigh.
I had arrived.
Not just physically. But metaphorically. Emotionally. Cosmically.
This was my turf now.
And if Steven McLeon thought he could scare me off with growls and fancy tantrums?
He had another thing coming.
Let’s see who breaks first, your grace.
Because I’ve survived:
A student loan statement that once made me cry in a grocery store,
A leaking apartment ceiling mid–shower,
And a best friend who accidentally shaved one of my brows during wine night.
- Do. Not. Break.
But Steven?
Oh, sweetheart.
He was already cracking.
****
The next morning, I woke up like a Disney princess who just inherited a cursed castle and decided, “Yep, I run
this now.”
I had the best sleep of my entire sad little adult life.
That mattress? A literal cloud. The air? Temperature–controlled perfection.
The pillow? Hugged me better than any ex ever did.
Chapter 6
I didn’t even hear Steven’s haunted ghost wheels in the hallway once.
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I woke up with a damn smile. Hair a mess, heart light, and still high off the chaos of yesterday’s victory, I did what any grown woman with authority in her bones would do:
I marched to the fridge. And, baby, it was glorious.
What was once a sad, empty tundra of filtered water and lonely bananas had transformed overnight into a fully–stocked gourmet paradise. Like magic.
There were fresh fruits glistening like they’d been kissed by angels, imported cheeses that probably needed passports, cold–pressed juices in colors I didn’t even know existed, AND Eggs. Bacon. Tapa. Longganisa. Tocino. Milkfish. Rice. Vinegar. Soy sauce.
Someone had ordered Filipino groceries. A LOT of them. That someone? Steven mom’s butler. Yes. He existed. Yes. He was real.
An actual quiet, smooth–talking, gray–haired British gentleman straight out of a Bond movie showed up last night while I was brushing my teeth and casually mentioned:
“Good evening, Ms. Luis. I’ve arranged the boss’s standard breakfast items. He prefers eggs with minimal seasoning, pan–seared toast, a fresh detox juice-”
I’d waved him off with a cheerful smile.
“Thanks, Jeeves, but he’ll eat what I cook or he can practice intermittent fasting in peace.”
The man blinked. “Erm… very well, miss.”
And that was that. Today? I owned the kitchen.
I tied my hair into a high bun, rolled up my pajama sleeves, turned on the stove, and began cooking like a woman with a mission.
Filipino breakfast, baby. The garlic hit the pan first–sizzling, fragrant, divine.
Next came the rice, perfectly cold from last night, turning into golden garlicky sin in the wok.
I fried the tapa until it was crisp at the edges. Longganisa? Check. Tocino? Caramelizing to perfection. Eggs? Sunny side up, with the yolk still jiggling like it had secrets.
I even sliced up mangoes and arranged them like I was on Top Chef: Pinoy Edition.
All while humming, dancing in my slippers, and owning this billionaire kitchen like I was the rightful heir to
the McLeon throne.
Spoons clinked. Oil popped. The scent filled the penthouse. And I knew–I knew–that somewhere in his moody batcave of a bedroom, Steven was stirring.
Nose twitching. Stomach growling. Soul confused.
11:25 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 6
Because today? He wasn’t getting detox juice or sadness toast.
He was getting a Filipina breakfast bomb. And he was going to like it, or starve in style.
Either way, Chef Madison has arrived.
AD
