Chapter 9
That evening, I was emotionally recovering from the day’s humiliation.
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The kitchen was dry, my pride was mostly patched up with snacks, and Steven had stopped making quips about ducks and red lace (barely). I was finally cozy in my room, scrolling on my cracked old phone, wearing the only pair of fluffy socks I owned, when-
Ding dong.
The penthouse doorbell rang with the kind of elegance that said: “We don’t do poor here.”
Steven called out from the living room, “Did you order another faucet?”
“Bite me.”
I opened the door, and then–I almost died. Not from attackers. Not from ghosts. But from the sheer luxury being wheeled inside.
Three impeccably dressed delivery staff entered like angels from a Saks Fifth Avenue fever dream, each pushing gold–accented racks full of clothes.
Not just any clothes. Designer.
Magazine spread. Red carpet. Runway model crying from joy levels of clothes.
There were hangers draped with Chanel tweed jackets, Gucci sneakers, Dior silk blouses, and Balenciaga hoodies that looked like streetwear sent from heaven.
There were jeans that felt like they could solve world hunger.
Heels sharp enough to pierce egos. Bags so luxurious I actually bowed at one.
I blinked.
One of the stylists smiled at me. “Miss Madison Luis, yes? This is for you. From Mrs. Elise McLeon. Congratulations.”
I stood there. Frozen. Wearing $5 pajamas with a dancing avocado print.
“Sorry… what?”
They opened one of the large boxes. Inside?
A pair of limited edition Hermès running shoes. With gold trim. Gold. On running shoes,
I squeaked. “I–I think you have the wrong girl. I’m Madison. PT Madison. Half–Asian. One spoon away from ramen debt.”
The woman just smiled again, professionally unfazed. “Mrs. McLeon says it’s a thank–you gift. She texted you
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Chapter 9
already.”
I scrambled for my phone.
And sure enough:
Elise McLeon:
:
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Darling, consider this part of your bonus. You cooked breakfast for my son. A real one. That deserves couture. You deserve to look as good as you sass.
I stared at the text like it was a riddle from God.
Me?
Clothes?
Real ones?
I looked down at the Versace leather mini purse nestled inside a box like royalty.
Steven wheeled in slowly, sipping water with one brow raised. “What the hell is this?”
I gestured vaguely at the fashion explosion. “Uh. Apparently, this is the reward for feeding your royal moody ass with garlic rice.”
He choked on his drink. “She sent you a wardrobe? For breakfast?!”
“Yeah. Which makes me terrified what I’ll get if I ever make lunch.”
Steven’s eyes skimmed over the racks, his gaze lingering when the stylist held up a figure–hugging white dress that I swear blushed just by being in the same room as him.
His voice dropped. “That’s Dior.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “And that hoodie over there costs more than my soul.”
“Did she send a runway too? Should I call Vogue?”
“I can’t wear these. I’ll sweat guilt!”
“Please wear them. It would balance out the faucet fiasco.”
I turned slowly, dramatically. “Steven McLeon, you just don’t want to admit that your kitchen has fallen in love with me.”
He snorted. “My kitchen is traumatized.”
“And yet I got a wardrobe out of it.”
He stared at me. “You’re going to wear all of this?”
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Chapter 9
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I picked up a sparkling new pair of running shoes. “Try and stop me. Tomorrow morning PT session? We do it in Gucci joggers.”
Steven looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
And me?
I just hugged my new Chanel purse and whispered sweet nothings to it.
Because guess what?
This duckling just got couture.
(Steven’s POV)
She was true to her word, of course. Because Madison Luis didn’t bluff–she delivered. Loudly. In full color. With sass.
So, when she strutted into the living room at precisely 8:06 a.m. in Gucci joggers, a matching sports bra, and her usual don’t–mess–with–me energy, I knew I was screwed.
Not because of the clothes. Because of how she looked in them.
Those stupid designer joggers hugged her waist like they were built for her curves. The top showed a sliver of toned stomach. Her ponytail bounced like a shampoo commercial and her cheeks were flushed from just being alive.
And the worst part? She smiled like she already knew she was about to ruin my morning.
“Good news,” she chirped. “Today we’re going full–body strength. No whining allowed. Also, your joints are going to thank me–or sue me. We’ll see.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That sounds illegal.”
“You’ll live.”
And then she clapped her hands. “Up. Now, Come on, race car prince, I didn’t put on a $2,000 workout outfit just to watch you sit there like a statue.”
God help me–I did as she said.
Not because I was afraid. Because I was weak. Weak to the way she looked crouched next to me adjusting the bands. Weak to the flash of skin when she reached across my lap to grab a resistance tool. Weak to her voice, her scent–something warm, like vanilla, soap, and woman.
And yeah, I’ll admit it: My joints were feeling better.
Not a miracle. But less stiff. Less painful. Easier. Which was annoying. Because now I owed her… what? My gratitude?
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Chapter 9
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Ugh. At some point, she handed me weights and demonstrated the stretch herself. Her body moved like it knew music even in silence–fluid, confident, unintentionally sexy.
And right there, mid rep, it hit me again.
That stupid thought. That damn wet shirt.
The red lace. The soft curves. The drip of water down her collarbone.
Shit.
Why was I suddenly thinking about her back?
Her smooth neck? The backless evening gown I saw hung on the rack last night?
Did she know I saw it? That deep green silk that shimmered like sin? Did she know that the thought of her in that gown had been sitting in my brain all night like an unholy tab?
I wasn’t even a dress guy. I was a fast cars, cold whiskey, loud engines guy.
And yet here I was, imagining Madison dripping in emerald satin, her hair swept to the side, bare shoulders out like an invitation to damnation.
God. I was so-
“Steven!”
Her voice snapped me out of it.
“What?”
“You were zoning out again.” She squinted. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m exercising.”
“You’re lifting a one–pound band.”
I looked at her.
She raised a brow. “Are you okay?”
No. No, I was not.
Because all I could think about was her back. Her mouth. Her skin. Her wet shirt. Her lips wrapped around a mango slice yesterday morning.
“I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Too much coffee.”
“Mm–hmm.” She didn’t buy it.
She leaned closer, brushing imaginary lint off my shoulder, and whispered, “Try not to die before lunch. I’m
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Chapter 9
making adobo.”
I groaned.
:
Not from pain. From knowing I was completely, utterly, cosmically-
Doomed.
I
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