The next day? Heaven.
And then came my day off.
A sacred thing.
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I imagined sleeping in. Watching trashy reality shows. Maybe stealing some more waffles from the expensive kitchen.
But no.
Instead…
Regine Elise…
Steven McLeon’s mother.
Yes. The High Queen of Elegance herself, Lady Elise McLeon–fashion icon, philanthropy goddess, and a woman whose perfume smelled like “old money and lawsuits“-had other plans.
“Darling,” she said that morning, her voice as crisp as iced champagne, “I’ve made you an appointment.”
I blinked. “An appointment?”
She smiled. “For your transformation.”
That should have been my first clue.
Because apparently, my day off meant:
SPA. DAY. But not just any spa.
Oh no.
This was La Maison de Riche, a spa so rich even the towel hooks had attitude.
The elevator had gold trimming. The receptionist spoke in a whisper, like she was addressing royalty–or pricing diamonds. There was a tea butler, I kid you not, whose only job was to offer me hibiscus elixir with edible 24k petals every time I blinked too loud.
And the towels?
Folded into swan sculptures so delicate I was afraid touching one might trigger a security alarm or summon a French lawyer.
“Relax, Madison,” Steven’s mother said with a gloved hand on mine. “Today is all about you.”
Oh, sure. All about me. And also about waxing, pedicures, manicures, a full blowout, a diamond dust facial,
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and something called a “Brazilian blackout skin detox“, which sounded like a Marvel villain’s origin story.
I was terrified.
I sat on the luxurious recliner in a robe that maybe cost more than my entire college education and whispered to myself, “You are strong. You survived Steven’s abs. You can survive rich woman spa torture.”
Spoiler: I almost didn’t.
It started innocent enough.
Manicure? Fine. I still had all ten fingers.
Pedicure? A bit ticklish. Whatever. I lived.
Then came the waxing. Oh sweet mother of sin.
No one prepared me for this. The aesthetician was a six–foot–tall Eastern European woman named Inga. She had the arms of a Viking and the smile of a person who enjoys watching people cry.
“You first time?” she asked, snapping on gloves with the enthusiasm of a Marvel villain.
I nodded. “Yes. First time… anywhere.”
Inga smirked. “Good. Make strong girl today.”
Then came the wax. The heat. The countdown.
The scream. “AAAAA-”
“Shhh,” Inga cooed, “You’re scaring the cucumbers in facial room.”
Lady McLeon was sipping lavender tea like nothing was happening while I gripped the spa bed like it was the last raft on the Titanic.
“This is… normal?” I squeaked as another strip was torn from
my
soul.
She nodded. “Beauty requires sacrifice.”
“Well, I hope beauty appreciates how much leg hair died today.”
After the waxing war, I was ushered to the facial room, where diamonds were allegedly rubbed into my skin, and someone massaged my face like I was a princess with trauma.
Then came the hair blowout. They did things to my scalp I didn’t even know were legal.
By the end of it?
I looked in the mirror and did not recognize myself.
Smooth glowing skin. Hair like it belonged on a shampoo commercial. Nails? Perfect. Legs? Smooth like
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:
marble. My face? Bright like someone who drinks green juice and doesn’t cry over taxes.
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I turned to Elise Regina McLeon, who inspected me like a jeweler admiring her most chaotic diamond.
“Well?” she asked.
I blinked. “I look expensive.”
She grinned. “You are, darling. Get used to it.”
And maybe… maybe for once in my poor, chaotic, caffeine–fueled life-
I believed her.
*****
By the time I left La Maison de Riche, I wasn’t walking–I was gliding. My skin? Glowing.
My hair? Flowing. My legs? Silk sheets could never.
My nails? French–tipped and ready to slap a tax audit into place.
I felt like a walking Vogue cover meets Asian–Italian Cinderella who just got her fairy godmother certified in skincare.
I smelled like roses, wealth, and emotional healing.
Elise kissed me on both cheeks and whispered,
“Make sure my son sees you before the glam fades. Men are tragically visual.”
Wait. Why?
Anyway. I nodded, clutching my designer purse like a baby, and climbed into the black town car she summoned like magic. The seat warmer hummed beneath me like it knew I was a changed woman.
And me? Oh, I was feeling myself.
I arrived at the penthouse, heels clicking against marble tile like I was about to auction off my old life. The doorman opened the door like he’d seen a hundred billionaires but no one quite like me.
I entered. Ready.
Transformed. Glowing.
And then… There he was.
Steven Freaking McLeon. On the couch. Shirtless. Again. Eating grapes like some Roman God of Mild Annoyance.
I stood by the door dramatically, one hand on my hip, Dior sunglasses on top of my head, glowing like I had
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been blessed by seventeen seraphim and two luxury estheticians.
He looked up. Paused.
Eyed me. Up.
Down. Blink.
And then he said-
“You changed your shampoo?”
Excuse me?
I blinked. “You’re joking.”
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He looked at me with the same level of mild interest he gave to deciding between oat milk and almond milk.
“You look… clean?” he offered, biting another grape.
Clean.
Not divine. Not stunning. Not radiant. Clean.
This man has the emotional range of a houseplant.
I strutted into the living room like a panther in silk and sat on the farthest couch with the most audible sigh in Manhattan history.
“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered.
He tilted his head. “What? I noticed something was different.”
“You said I look clean, Steven. Like a mop. Like a recently washed fruit.”
He shrugged. “Better than looking dusty?”
“I had a glow–up, sir. A luxurious, painful, wax–ripping, soul–scraping GLOW–UP. And you’re sitting there half–naked eating grapes like you’re immune to beauty?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not immune. I’m just used to it.”
“Oh my God.”
He chuckled, popping another grape. “Okay, fine. You look good.”
I crossed my arms. “Good?”
“Like… upgraded. Still you. But deluxe version. Madison 2.0.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Try again.”
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He sighed dramatically, stood up, rolled closer–grape bowl in hand–and looked at me properly this time. Eyes trailing from my polished toes to my still–sássy smirk.
Then quietly, like it slipped past his ego-
“You look… beautiful.”
Boom.
I smirked.
He blinked, clearly panicking he just admitted something dangerously genuine.
So I stood, tossed my hair, and whispered near his ear-
“Too late. You noticed. Abs or not… I win.”
Then I strutted off, headed toward my room.
And just as I reached the hallway, I heard him grumble from behind:
“Still look better in shirts, though.”
Oh no he didn’t. This man was playing with fire.
And guess what? I brought matches.
曲
AD
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11:28 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 13
