Thepy `10

Chapter 10 

Few hours later. 

65 vouchers 

She was right. Again. Because of course she was. The chicken adobo was divine. Rich. Tender. Flavor–packed. The sauce alone tasted like it had been blessed by generations of Filipino grandmothers. 

I told myself I’d have one serving. That was a lie. I had three. Maybe four. Jeeves might have kept count. I hoped not. 

And then she brought out leche flan. 

LECHE, FLAN. That golden slice of creamy heaven with caramel that shimmered like lies and temptation. It jiggled. Mocked me. Whispered “one more bite won’t hurt.” 

So naturally, I finished it. 

“Did you lace this with sorcery?” I muttered mid–bite. 

She winked. “Butter. Sugar. Egg yolk. Childhood trauma. The usual.” 

And then she just… sauntered off. As if she didn’t just ruin me, body and soul. 

One hour later, I was in the middle of fake–exercising, groaning dramatically on the yoga mat, when a very evil idea hit me. 

I glanced toward the kitchen, where she was washing dishes in yet another ridiculous outfit–this time a casual crop top and leggings, probably costing less than the towel I use to wipe my mouth, and yet somehow making her look like a goddess on laundry day. 

And that’s when I made my move. I reached for the hem of my shirt. 

Stretched. Groaned. “Oh man… that flan workout is killing me…” 

And then–Off came the shirt. 

Just like that. 

Steven McLeon: 30 years old. Billionaire. Former racing god. 

Still got it…I angled myself just so on the mat, glistening under natural penthouse lighting like a cologne ad. The abs were there. They were showing up for battle. 

It was payback. Pure and beautiful payback for her accidental wet T–shirt moment. I was the villain now. The sexy, shirtless villain. And I knew–knew–when she turned around, she’d freeze. Maybe gasp. 

Maybe drop a plate. Any second now. 

She turned. 

11:26 Thu, Sep 18 

Chapter 10 

Looked at me. 

Paused. 

I smirked. 

: 

She blinked once, expression flat. “Put. Your. Shirt. Back. On.” 

My smirk faltered. “Excuse me?” 

“You look like a sad fitness YouTuber who got dumped mid–push–up. No one’s impressed.” 

I sat up. “Are you kidding me? These abs paid for this penthouse.” 

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She shrugged, drying her hands. “Yeah, and now they’re sitting there like two drumsticks trying to recover from lunch. Put it away, superstar. You’re full.” 

I gawked. “Full?” 

She raised an eyebrow. “You had four cups of rice. You’re in a food coma. You are the abs, but the abs are not awake right now.” 

I stared at her, betrayed. “You’re supposed to drool.” 

She smirked as she walked past me. “I only drool for leche flan.” 

Wounded. Betrayed. Played like a drumstick. I lay back down dramatically, shirtless and offended. 

She didn’t even give me a second glance. And that’s when it hit me. This girl? 

She was dangerous. Not because she cooked like a dream or tortured me with physical therapy. But because she made me, Steven Freaking McLeon, feel like I wasn’t the center of the universe anymore. 

And for some twisted reason… I kind of liked it. 

***** 

(Madison’s POV) 

Holy. Mother. Of. Garlic Rice. There he was. 

Steven McLeon. Shirtless. Glorious. Smirking like he just stepped out of a cologne ad titled “Sins of the Six- Pack 

And oh–he still got it. 

Those abs. Not six. Not seven. 

EIGHT. 

Eight–pack abs. Sculpted like they were chiseled by petty Greek gods in a midlife crisis. 

11:26 Thu, Sep 18 

Chapter 10 

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Toned, glistening, golden skin, every muscle flexing like they had contracts with Calvin Klein. I stood there, dish towel in one hand, trying to look unimpressed. 

Key word: trying. 

Because in my brain? 

Absolute chaos. 

Where did the rice and the chiken go?? He ate four servings! FOUR! 

Was he digesting it with sheer willpower?? Did he convert adobo into core strength?? 

My eyeballs? Working overtime. 

Zoom. Scan. Snap. 

Mental screenshots taken in HD. 

Memory folder: “Abs McLeon – For Scientific Research (and maybe dreams).” 

But on the outside? I gave him nothing. Hell no! 

Flat expression. Professional sass. Ice Queen energy. 

I raised one eyebrow and said, “Put your shirt back on. You look like a motivational TikTok influencer that sells questionable supplements.” 

He blinked. 

Victory. I walked past him, towel in hand, heart racing like I had just done a sprint session. 

But inside? Oh, honey. Inside, I was clutching a pillow and screaming. 

Good Lord the man is carved from regret and temptation. 

That V–line alone could bankrupt me emotionally. 

Focus, Madison. You are a professional. A mature adult. A strong, independent woman who doesn’t drool over abs in broad daylight- 

I glanced back for 0.3 seconds. 

Yep. Still shirtless. Yep. Still hot. 

I muttered under my breath, “Stupid perfect torso.” 

The worst part? 

He knew. He knew what he was doing. 

11:27 Thu, Sep 18 

Chapter 10 

: 

“Still here?” he said, voice low and slow and way too aware of itself. 

I leaned on the counter. “Still shirtless?” 

He grinned. “Still devastating?” 

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155 vouchers 

Ugh. I rolled my eyes and walked over with my glass of water. “You done flexing for the furniture?” 

He sat up, abs doing things they had no right to do, and smirked. “Depends. Did the furniture respond better than you did?” 

I gave him a look. “I was this close to calling pest control. You looked like a very hydrated gym rat.” 

He laughed–laughed, deep and rich and the kind of sound that wrapped around your spine and tickled parts. of you you didn’t know were lonely. 

“Wow,” he said. “That’s new. Usually people try to climb me when I do that.” 

I sipped my water coolly. “Well, I’m not ‘people.” 

“Oh, trust me,” he murmured, gaze locking with mine, “I noticed.” 

For a split second, everything stopped. 

No words. Just the space between us thick with tension, challenge, heat. 

Then I blinked. “Put a shirt on, Romeo. You’re too pretty to be taken seriously.” 

And with that, I turned and walked away. I could feel his smirk still burning into my back. 

And I smiled too–because he didn’t know it, but this war? I was winning. Mentally drooling? Absolutely. Publicly surrendering? 

Never. 

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