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By then… five months in. Five chaotic, emotional, banana–filled, flirt–to–fight–to–flirt months.
I was still technically his physical therapist, and he was technically still the most emotionally constipated former Formula One god to ever wear a hoodie shirtless. But now? He laughed. He smirked less with rage and more with smug affection. He didn’t throw protein bars across the room anymore–he handed them to me with an eye–roll and a “don’t sass me, therapist.”
Progress. Real progress.
Until-
Boom. Cue thunder.
Cue rain like it wanted to audition for a K–drama soundtrack.
And then-
“MADISON!!”
That was not a drill. That was Steven Mcleon, the man who once said my voice gave him migraines, now screaming my name like a horror movie final girl.
I bolted up from bed like the exorcism of my broke college soul. No slippers. No dignity. Just panic and frizzy hair.
I ran across the penthouse barefoot like a manic elf and turned the hallway like my taxes depended on it—
And there he was.
Steven. Freaking. Mcleon.
Standing.
Standing.
WITHOUT MY HELP.
One hand braced against the wall. The other gripping his thigh. His chest heaving. His legs trembling.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
And then he sat–rather dramatically, might I add–almost missing the wheelchair.
“What the actual–Steven!”
His eyes were glassy. Lips parted. “I stood,” he whispered, like even he couldn’t believe it.
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Chapter 19
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“You stood,” I echoed, my voice breaking, heart doing full somersaults inside my chest.
I dropped to my knees and hugged him like my body forgot personal space. Like my soul had been holding that breath for five months.
And he hugged me back.
Tight.
Our tears were loud, ridiculous, messy, probably Oscar–worthy.
“You stood,” I kept repeating, like I needed to hear it a thousand times just to make it real.
He just nodded into my shoulder. “I stood for you.”
I smacked his arm. “No! You stood for you, idiot!”
Then I kissed his cheek.
Okay, I might’ve hovered around his lips for 0.5 seconds but let’s not talk about that.
My hands were shaking when I grabbed my phone. Still kneeling beside him. Still in shock. Still… proud.
Called Regina.
She answered in 1.5 seconds. “Did he crash another blender?”
“No,” I breathed, voice quivering. “He stood.”
Dead silence.
Then: “I’m bringing champagne.”
Ten minutes later, thunder still banging like the universe was partying too, Regina McLeon burst through the penthouse door like Zeus in a tailored power suit and flawless blowout.
She hugged Steven so tight I thought he might break again. Then she grabbed me like I was a long–lost daughter and whispered, “Bless you, my fierce little sass queen. You gave me back my boy.”
Then she stepped back dramatically, eyes already glossy from mascara tears and future grandchild visions,
“We’re celebrating. Beach house, Tomorrow. No excuses.”
I blinked. “Wait–beach? Me? Swimsuit?”
She narrowed her eyes at me with full maternal menace. “Would you rather I invite that Botoxed British ravioli and let her wear a two–piece on my beach?”
Oh. It was war now,
I straightened. “I’ll pack my Dior bikini.”
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Chapter 19
Regina grinned like she just crowned a new heiress.
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Steven just wheeled away whispering something about “not surviving women in swimsuits and sass attacks.”
I smiled.
He stood. He laughed.
And tomorrow, we were going to the beach–with me in high fashion revenge swimwear.
Luciana better duck.
The next day arrived like it was personally sponsored by the Greek gods. Sun blazing. Waves crashing. Wind doing that sexy thing where it flutters your hair like a shampoo commercial.
We were at Casa McLeon, a private beachfront villa so fancy the sand probably came with a trust fund. The kind of beach where billionaires casually lose their Rolexes and find enlightenment over rosé.
And I?
I had a mission. A revenge mission. Operation: Dior Two–Piece Take Down.
Because no ex–fiancée, fake–smile British glam queen was going to out–glow me on this beach. Not today. Not
ever.
I slipped into my new Dior bikini–black, sleek, elegant but sassy–with a gold chain detail that said “don’t mess with me unless you can spell sass in six languages.” Paired with oversized shades, a sheer cover–up that floated like drama, and legs freshly waxed by that terrifying spa lady Regina hired.
And the bikini? Oh, it fit. Like destiny.
Curves?
Present.
Waist?
Snatched.
Confidence?
Somewhere between Beyoncé and a dragon queen in stilettos.
I walked out to the patio where brunch was being set up like an A–list wedding.
Steven was sitting under a wide umbrella, sipping something expensive, wearing sunglasses and a black linen shirt that shouldn’t look that good while seated.
He glanced up.
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Chapter 19
And. Froze.
:
Full on, cartoon–level jaw–drop. If his jaw had dropped any lower, it would’ve needed PT.
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His sunglasses didn’t even hide it. The way he stared at me like he forgot how legs worked–even though, ironically, he just re–learned how his did.
I smirked. “What? Too much skin for your fragile billionaire heart?”
He blinked. “You- That’s illegal. What you’re doing. That bikini-”
“Came with sass,” I shrugged, striking a pose that should be illegal in thirteen countries.
From the side, Regina appeared like a glamorous fairy godmother in a caftan.
“Well, well, well,” she drawled, holding a mimosa with grace and chaos. “If you don’t give me a grandchild in ten months after that outfit, I’ll riot.”
“Mother,” Steven warned, face redder than the lobster on the brunch table.
“I’m just saying!” Regina lifted her glass to me. “She’s got hips. A womb built for legends. I can see twins.”
I choked on my coconut water.
“Mother-”
“Don’t ‘Mother‘ me, Steven. I’m already naming them. Maximus and Valentina. Or maybe Lola if she gets your sass.”
I was wheezing.
Steven was glitching.
And Regina? Unbothered. Fully enjoying her fantasy family saga under the sun.
I turned to Steven, who was still staring like he’d never seen a woman before–specifically, me in that bikini.
“You alright there, McLeon? Need CPR?”
“I’m trying not to propose,” he muttered under his breath.
I blinked.
He blinked.
Regina cackled.
I snatched my mimosa. “Right. That’s my cue to sunbathe and pretend that didn’t emotionally slap me.”
Steven just leaned back in his chair, still watching me like I’d invented the female form.
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Chapter 19
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And from the corner of my eye, I caught Regina texting someone.
О
Probably the wedding planner. Or Luciana’s therapy hotline. Because baby, this beach just turned into a bikini war zone, and I came armed with curves and chaos.
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