Chapter 15
(Steven’s POV)
I did not expect that. Honestly, I thought I was going to be humiliated again.
It happens–more often than I admit.
People look at me and see less now. Less threat. Less power. Less man.
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I’ve heard it in whispers. Seen it in glances. That familiar flicker of pity, of discomfort. Of disrespect.
And when he showed up–Alessandro freaking Rizzo, Ferrari’s poster boy and the guy who “won” the race that cost me my legs–I prepared myself for the sting. The insult. The subtle flex.
But what I wasn’t prepared for…?
Was Madison. Holy hell.
That woman? She turned into a divine, sassy avenging angel in a Gucci hoodie and Dior sneakers.
One second, I’m tightening my jaw, trying to play it cool-
And the next, she’s roasting the man like he’s a Thanksgiving turkey with a fake Italian accent and a tragic mustache.
Her words were weapons. Her smirk? Explosive. Her energy? Unstoppable.
I swear, when she leaned in and delivered that final insult, the guy visibly inhaled like he’d just been scorched by a fire–breathing dragon.
And me?
I didn’t even need to say a word.
I just watched. Watched her protect me–no, defend me–like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Not because I was broken. But because she didn’t think I was.
Not once did she pity me. Not once did she flinch.
She didn’t see a wheelchair. She saw me. And by the time we left that building, I wasn’t the ex–racer in a chair
anymore.
I was her partner in crime. Her accomplice. Her damn VIP passenger on a victory tour.
So yeah. I couldn’t just let that
- go.
As we rolled into the car, her sunglasses on, victorious smirk still painted on her face, I quietly texted my assistant.
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“Find her the best brown sugar milk tea in Manhattan. With cheese foam. Boba. Whatever she wants. And deliver it now.”
Madison leaned back in the seat, humming a victory song like she’d just ended a man’s entire reputation and was now ready for snacks.
“Hey,” I said, clearing my throat.
She turned. “Yeah?”
I looked at her, really looked. At her flushed cheeks, her wild energy, her glowing sass. And I realized I hadn’t felt that light in months.
“You’re ridiculous,” I muttered.
She grinned. “Thank you, I know.”
Pause.
“And you’re amazing,” I added under my breath. “That too.”
She blinked.
Before she could sass me back, the car pulled up in front of the penthouse–and right there, standing like a beautifully dressed milk tea angel, was my assistant holding a gold–rimmed tray with her favorite boba tea.
She gasped.
“Is that-?”
I nodded. “Brown sugar milk tea. Extra boba. Cheese foam. The one you wouldn’t shut up about for three days.”
She looked at the tea. Then me.
“I–what? Did you–Steven?”
I smirked. “Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your glow.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not crying. I’m just emotionally touched by the arrival of lactose.”
And as she took her first sip, eyes closing in genuine bliss, I felt it-
That impossible, dangerous warmth in my chest.
Because I wasn’t just thinking She defended me.
I was thinking:
“God, I might be falling in love with this woman.”
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Chapter 15
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She took the first sip with both hands around the cup like it was some ancient relic, her lips brushing the straw in a reverent slow–motion moment that probably deserved a soundtrack.
Then she moaned.
Like… not that kind of moan–okay maybe exactly that kind of moan but innocent–adjacent.
“Sweet baby tapioca,” she whispered. “This is it. This is joy. I could marry this.”
I watched her–watched her sway a little in her seat, eyes fluttering like she was having a milk tea–induced religious experience. I should have been amused.
But no. I was ruined. Absolutely ruined.
Because Madison in battle mode was a goddess, sure. But Madison in milk–tea bliss, hoodie slouching off one shoulder, lip gloss slightly smudged from the straw, cheeks flushed from sass and sugar?
That was dangerous. I was doomed.
“You’re making noises,” I said, trying to sound bored. I wasn’t. At all.
She blinked, deadpan. “Don’t come between a woman and her boba, McLeon. I’ll fight you.”
“You already fight me. Daily.”
“Yes, and I win. Daily.”
She sipped again, one leg curled under her, looking like chaos wrapped in designer sneakers and pure serotonin. And I realized that no model, no heiress, no producer’s daughter had ever made me feel like this.
Like I could breathe.
Like the air didn’t taste like metal and regret anymore.
She glanced over at me, catching me staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I lied.
Lying was easier than saying everything.
Because everything was:
The way you didn’t blink when someone tried to humiliate me.
The way your fire didn’t burn me–it warmed me.
The way your laugh made my chest ache in the good way.
The way you looked in that stupid hoodie like you were made to be here. With me.
But I said none of that. Instead, I smirked.
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“Next time someone insults me in public, I’m bringing a microphone so everyone can hear you ruin their life properly.”
She grinned. “Please do. I’ll add background dancers. Maybe confetti.”
Then she reached into the bag my assistant handed over and pulled out the second milk tea I’d added last- minute. She shoved it in my hand.
“For you.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Shut up and drink it.”
I took a sip, begrudgingly, because I do follow orders when she’s holding snacks hostage.
It was good. Sweet. Perfect.
She raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“It’s okay.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re something else,” I muttered.
Her eyes flicked to mine.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Because I couldn’t say it. Not yet.
Couldn’t say: You’re becoming my favorite thing. My peace in the chaos. My constant fight and quiet salvation.
Couldn’t say: You make me want more again. Not just walk again. Live again.
So I looked out the window instead.
Pretended this was just another Monday,
Pretended I wasn’t falling for the sass queen in my passenger seat.
But deep down?
I knew.
I was hers.
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Chapter 15
Whether she knew it or not.
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Chapter 16
