Thepy `14

Chapter 14 

(Madison’s POV) 

55 vouchers 

It was Monday. The universal day of regret, coffee, and questioning your entire existence. But in the McLeon household? 

It was “Visit the Therapist” day. And according to Steven’s very official schedule, I was to accompany him to his shrink. 

Not just drop him off. Not wait in the car. 

Accompany. Like I was his wife. Or emotional support human. 

At 9:00 AM sharp, he rolled into the living room looking like a damn runway show had thrown up Armani on him. 

Charcoal gray tailored suit. Crisp white shirt. No tie, because of course he’s emotionally unavailable but make it fashion. Hair brushed back like he was about to give a TED Talk about “How to Be Devastatingly Handsome While Being an Ass.” 

Cologne? Woodsy, sinful, and designed to confuse my ovaries. 

I sat there on the velvet couch, sipping my overpriced oat milk latte, wearing: 

My Gucci hoodie (gifted, thank you Regina McLeon, you legend), 

Levi’s that had survived the college apocalypse, And Dior running shoes that cost more than my old car. 

Lipstick? Just a soft cherry–red dab. Still glowing from spa day because why not. 

I was the literal definition of “high–low fashion.” 

“You’re wearing that?” he asked as I buckled the strap on my bag. 

I looked up, slowly, sipped my coffee. 

“Yup. I like to be comfortable when I listen to millionaires unpack their trauma.” 

He scowled. “It’s therapy, not brunch.” 

I winked. “And yet, I still look edible. Weird, right?” 

He muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “unfair advantage“, but I pretended not to hear because I was too busy admiring my reflection in the hallway mirror. 

“Is the therapist hot?” I asked casually as we waited for the elevator. 

Steven blinked. “What?” 

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Chapter 14 

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“I just want to emotionally prepare myself. I don’t want to be blindsided by a sexy brain whisperer, you 

know?” 

He stared. “You’re insane.” 

“I’m spicy,” I corrected, stepping into the elevator. “And possibly under–caffeinated. Keep up.” 

The car ride was tense. 

Not because anything bad happened–but because we looked like a scandal waiting to happen. 

Me in my casually luxe outfit. Him in full–on billionaire CEO mode. 

The driver kept peeking in the mirror like he wanted to ask if we were famous. Or fighting. Or both. 

And Steven? 

He was unusually quiet. 

Glancing at me. Frowning. Glancing again. 

“What?” I finally asked, annoyed. 

He looked out the window. “Nothing. You’re just… loud today.” 

“Emotionally or fashionably?” 

“Both.” 

“Thank you.” 

He gave a half–smirk that almost made me forget he was about to go talk about his deep, dark feelings to a stranger while I probably sat in a leather chair pretending not to eavesdrop. 

The clinic was sleek. Modern. 

Like the therapist was paid in gold bars and stock options. 

Steven wheeled in like he owned the building–which, knowing him, he probably did. 

The receptionist smiled at him, then looked at me. And blinked. 

I knew that look. 

That “Who is she?” look. 

I gave her a sweet smile and said, “Hi, I’m his favorite nightmare. Madison. I’m with him today.” 

Steven let out a sigh that was half groan, half laughter. 

And I swear I saw the therapist in the hallway watching us with an amused smirk. 

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Chapter 14 

Game on. 

Because this was therapy day. 

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And therapy or not, I was still going to be the best–dressed emotional support tornado Steven McLeon ever brought to an appointment. 

But… 

Let me tell you something–therapy waiting rooms are liars. 

They’re dressed up all warm and serene with their pastel walls and bonsai plants and lavender–scented air like it’s a yoga retreat for your feelings, but in reality? 

It’s just overpriced boredom with a candle. 

I sat there for thirty minutes sipping sparkling water that tasted like regret, flipping through magazines with names like Forbes Mindfulness and Therapy Chic. Across the room, the flirty green–haired receptionist was sneak–glancing at Steven’s direction every five minutes like he was on the cover of her imaginary romance novel. 

Steven? 

He looked like he’d rather be racing on a track filled with lava than inside a building where he had to talk about his feelings. 

He came out of the session with a poker face, nodding politely to the receptionist, but then- 

Da–dan. 

The moment of chaos. 

Fate. Drama. 

Enter: the villain. 

A tall man. Olive skin. Designer sunglasses even indoors. A stupid gold chain glinting on his neck like a trophy he gave himself. His suit was tight enough to scream midlife crisis, and his stupid shiny hair was slicked back like he was auditioning to be the villain in a telenovela no one asked for. 

But the worst? The mustache. Thin. Pointy. Trimmed like he sculpted it with a fork. 

Straight up looked like the rat villain in my invisible nephew’s favorite animated show, “Mousetropolis Vengeance.” 

He gave Steven that smug look–the one men give other men when they’ve won something big. Like a trophy. Or, in this case, a race in Dubai that ended in Steven’s career–shattering accident. 

“Ah,” he said in a thick Italian accent that was way less sexy when it came from someone oozing arrogance. “Steven McLeon. I thought you’d be taller… or at least standing.” 

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Chapter 14 

Oh, hell. No. 

I blinked. 

Looked at Steven. 

He was stone. 

: 

: 

Muscles taut. Jaw clenched. Hands gripping the armrest so tight I thought the leather would cry. 

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He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. And that made me livid. Because no one–and I mean no one–gets to talk down to Steven like that. 

Except me. With love. And sarcasm. But still–ME. 

So I smiled sweetly. 

Rolled Steven’s chair right up to him like I was the hostess of the “End You With Words” table. And then: 

“Hi, sorry, did you say something? I thought I heard a dying weasel speak, but it must’ve been your mustache.” 

The man blinked. “Excuse me?” 

“Oh no, you’re excused. From fashion. And basic human decency. That thing on your face?” I pointed. “Is it growing a personality? Or is it auditioning to join Ratatouille 2: The Revenge of Alfredo?” 

The green–haired receptionist choked on her gum. 

He opened his mouth. 

I raised a brow. “You know, I always wondered what would happen if ego and gel had a baby. And now… here you are.” 

He took a step forward, but I wasn’t done. 

“Oh, and by the way,” I leaned in, lowering my voice like a dagger wrapped in velvet, “Steven might be in a chair, but at least he has class, talent, and dignity. All of which you traded in for a Rolex and a comb.” 

The receptionist snorted. Someone near the front desk clapped. 

Steven? 

He didn’t say a word. 

But his chest was rising. Slowly. Like he just inhaled oxygen made of petty revenge and justice. I patted his shoulder. “Come on, champ. Let’s leave before this cartoon rat grows a tail.” 

And just like that, we rolled out–not just walking, but strutting. 

Victory? 

11:29 Thu, Sep 18 

Chapter 14 

Ours. 

Audience? 

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Stunned. 

The Italian mustache villain? 

Humiliated. 

Steven McLeon? Smirking like a man who just found out his personal therapist was also dating karma. I sipped my sparkling water on the way out like it was victory champagne. Because no one messes with my billionaire PT baby. Unless it’s me. And even then? 

I come with waffles and love. 

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