Chapter 7
(Steven’s POV)
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I woke up to the scent of something so good, so unholy, that for a split second, I thought I’d died.
It wasn’t espresso. It wasn’t avocado toast.
It was… divine. Warm. Sweet. Garlicky. Meaty. Tangy. Slightly smoky.
I blinked against the morning light, eyes squinting as my brain slowly booted up. For the first time in what felt like months, I didn’t wake up in pain or drenched in existential rage. No nightmares. No twisted muscles. Just… food.
And not just any food.
I knew this smell.
Asia.
Manila.
Four years ago. Post–race celebration. My team’s head mechanic, Raffy, dragged me to a small hole–in–the- wall restaurant–bare plastic chairs, humid air, no AC–and fed me a breakfast that made me forget I was a spoiled rich boy for exactly twelve minutes.
Garlic rice. Marinated beef. Sweet sausages. Fried fish. Mangoes. Egg yolk that oozed like melted gold.
It was heaven. Pure, edible heaven.
The kind of food that clung to your memory like perfume.
And now? It was in my kitchen.
I sat up, confused. Groggy. My first thought was: Did Jeeves cook?
Our family’s old, loyal butler–slash–ninja–operator. Did he suddenly master Filipino cuisine overnight?
But no. Jeeves would never fry anything.
He was a boiled–egg–and–light–toast kind of man.
He thought “adobo” was a type of Italian leather.
Which left only one possibility.
Her.
Madison. I groaned, dragging a hand down my face, already hearing the sass before I even rolled to the door.
Chapter 7
She’d been here less than 24 hours and she was already taking over my kitchen, like she didn’t know I had chefs who graduated from culinary academies in Paris.
And yet-
That smell… It was better than anything they ever made.
I wheeled out of my room, grumbling, shirtless, my sweatpants hanging low on my hips, my hair doing something ridiculous because I did not care. I turned the corner into the kitchen-
And there she was.
Madison Luis.
Tiny terror. Sass gremlin. Full–on domestic goddess.
Hair in a bun. Singing–singing–some old OPM ballad while flipping longganisa like she was born in a breakfast–themed telenovela. She didn’t even see me at first. She was too busy arranging a plate with garlic rice, egg, tapa, mango slices, and something brown and sticky and beautiful I didn’t even know the name of.
She was dancing. In my kitchen.
And laughing. And glowing. And my stomach growled so loud, she turned.
“Wow,” she said, one brow raised, “you look like a hungover Greek god.”
I ignored that. “What… what is that smell?”
She grinned. “It’s called breakfast, your highness. Real food. Made by real hands. No foam. No microgreens. Just carbs, meat, and love.”
I glanced toward the stove. “Did Jeeves approve of this?”
“Does it look like I need his permission?”
“I thought you were my assistant.”
“I am. That’s why I’m assisting your taste buds today.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but then she walked past me, her plate in one hand, the other brushing against my arm as she passed–and the smell hit me all over again.
My stomach rumbled.
Louder. Embarrassingly loud.
She paused. Smirked. Looked me up and down like I was the child and she was the tired mom who already
won.
“I made you a plate,” she said, sliding another one from the counter. “But if you’re going to complain again, I’ll eat both. Just sayin“.”
Chapter 7
I stared at the food.
Then at her. Then back at the food. And for the first time in months… I didn’t feel rage. Or shame. Or emptiness.
I felt hungry. I reached for the plate.
Madison just smiled and turned on the kettle.
“Coffee coming up,” she said over her shoulder, “but if you sass me again before 9 a.m., I swear I’ll replace your rice with kale for a week.”
God help me-
I almost smiled. I stared at the plate like it might explode.
It didn’t. It just sat there–innocent, warm, delicious, real. A fried egg smiled up at me, yolk glowing like a sunrise. The garlic rice shimmered with crispy bits. And the meat? It looked like it had been blessed by a holy flame.
I took a bite.
And then I saw God.
Okay–not literally. But damn. It was good.
My fork hesitated in the air for a second, because it felt… wrong. Not the food. The food was heavenly. What felt wrong was the way it cracked something in me.
Because for the first time in forever, I wasn’t thinking about what I lost.
Not the accident. Not the chair. Not the racing career that died in Dubai.
Not even the chef I might’ve accidentally screamed at for serving overcooked duck.
Right now? I was just a guy, in a kitchen, eating breakfast. And enjoying it.
Meanwhile, she moved around like she ran the whole penthouse.
Madison placed a mug of coffee beside me with a loud clink, like she was declaring victory. “Here. Fresh. No gold flakes. No overpriced beans. Just honest coffee. You’re welcome.”
I sipped it cautiously. Bold. Smooth. Slightly sweet. She added just enough milk. The kind of balance no one ever got right.
“I didn’t ask for sugar,” I muttered, just because being agreeable would shatter the natural order.
“You didn’t ask for flavor either,” she shot back, plopping down in the seat across from me with her own plate. “Yet here we are. A man and a miracle breakfast.”
I eyed her. “You’re very smug this morning.”
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55 vouchers
“I slept on a mattress that feels like a thousand baby angels weaved it with unicorn hair. Of course I’m smug.”
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
She snorted. “Of you? Please. I survived my landlord trying to sell my apartment to crypto bros mid–lease. I’ve eaten week–old leftovers with a straight face. You think you scare me because you own the building?”
“I also have lawyers.”
“I have screenshots of your angry texts to your chef about foie gras trauma. We’re even.”
I chewed silently, not sure if I was more impressed or offended.
She really wasn’t like anyone else I’d met.
No fear. No boot–licking. No fragile egos wrapped in designer desperation.
Just… Madison.
And somehow, that made this penthouse feel less like a prison and more like a home for the first time since the crash.
She stood up, collected our plates like she was in her own apartment, and winked. “Now that you’re full, it’s time for PT. No excuses. Don’t make me chase you with a banana again.”
I groaned, dragging my hand down my face. “Can’t we have one morning where I’m not tortured by resistance bands?”
“Nope.” She tossed a towel at me. “Time to suffer, McLeon. Let’s go.”
As she walked off–bright, bossy, barefoot–I stared after her for a beat longer than I should have.
Because somehow, despite all logic, she made this ridiculous, broken version of my life feel like something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Possible. And worse?
She made me feel like maybe I wasn’t as broken as I thought.
Madison POV
The next morning started like every morning with Steven Freaking McLeon:
Loud. Petty. And caffeinated. We argued about everything. Whether or not leg lifts counted if he grunted dramatically after each one.
Whether the new Netflix series was genius or absolute trash (it was trash, and he was wrong).
Whether oatmeal was “an insult to breakfast,” or just “a warm hug in a bowl.”
11:26 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 7
And yes, the socks he left behind the yoga mat like he was shedding skin.
“You live here,” I snapped at him. “You don’t need to mark your territory with left socks!”
“They’re compression socks. They’re working.”
“At being gross?”
“I’m a patient, not a house elf!”
Typical.
After that, we hit a temporary ceasefire because I bribed him with fried rice and mangoes again.
But peace was a lie.
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Because that afternoon, I had an incident. A horrifying, humiliating, drenched–in–regret incident.
It started when I noticed the kitchen faucet leaking. Just a little drip. Innocent. Harmless.
So naturally, like any overly confident woman raised by Google and bad decisions, I rolled up the sleeves of my extra–large white T–shirt, barefoot and determined.
“I got this,” I muttered.
Spoiler: I did not got this.
I yanked the handle a little harder–maybe a lot harder–and then the faucet exploded like it had been storing rage since 1997.
Water. EVERYWHERE.
A violent, screaming geyser of betrayal.
It hit the counter. The floor.
My face. And then, my shirt.
Which was white. And now see–through.
With nothing underneath but a very red, very lacy bra that I definitely forgot I was wearing because laundry day snuck up on me like a debt collector.
“OH MY GOD!” I shrieked, slipping on the now lake–like tiles as I scrambled to grab a towel, a pot, anything. “Why?! WHY?!”
The faucet mocked me like a devil possessed. My entire front was soaked. My hair stuck to my cheeks. My shirt clung like it had dreams of modeling for a soap commercial.
And then-
11:26 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 7
Enter the Devil Prince himself.
:
Steven rolled in at full speed, the motor of his upgraded chair humming like danger.
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He stopped dead at the edge of the kitchen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like his entire operating system froze.
“What the hell happened-”
Then he saw me.
And suddenly, the only thing more flooding than the floor… was his gaze.
My soaked white shirt. The red lace.
My legs. My face, flushed with panic and pure embarrassment.
I was standing there, drenched, clutching a dishtowel and a ladle like they were weapons of war.
He blinked slowly, eyes dragging up and down my body like I was some kind of soggy goddess fallen from heaven’s plumbing system.
“I… uh…” I stammered. “The… the faucet… it, um–attacked me?”
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