Chapter 2
Thirty–four seconds.
That’s how long I had peace.
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Thirty–four whole seconds after I gently–gently!-asked him to lift his arms for a basic range–of–motion test, the kind even my retired uncle with a beer belly can do after a nap, his royal highness finally opened his mouth.
And what came out?
Not gratitude. Not cooperation.
Complaints.
Big, juicy, deluxe–grade, premium–aged complaints.
“Why are you holding my wrist like that? Are you trying to dislocate it?”
“This stretch is pointless. I’ve done it a hundred times.”
“My last PT didn’t manhandle me like this-”
I dropped his arm.
“Oh, I see,” I said, dramatically brushing off invisible lint from my leggings. “We’ve entered the ‘Brooding Billionaire Baby Mode.’ Cool. Noted.”
He scowled, the banana from earlier long gone but the attitude still ripe. “Excuse me?”
“Nope. You’re not excused. We’ve only just begun.”
I stood back, hands on hips, glaring at him like I was about to bless him with holy water and two decades‘ worth of sarcasm. What the actual hell is wrong with this man?
All I did was ask him to do a very basic series of exercises–ones recommended by his last three therapists, including the poor woman who, according to Elise McLeon herself, quit after only three hours of employment yesterday. I honestly thought she was exaggerating.
She was not.
“I’m literally following the exact same routine your gold–plated medical team prescribed. I printed it out. In color. On cardstock. With bullet points and smiley faces,” I said, waving the clipboard in his face. “Yet here you are, acting like I’m waterboarding you with jazzercise.”
He rolled his eyes and muttered something about “incompetent clowns in overpriced yoga pants.”
Oh, hell no.
11:24 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 2
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you
“Listen, Steven. Can I call you Steven? No? Great, because I’m calling you Steven anyway.” I crouched beside his wheelchair, eye level now, voice lower and sassier than my bank account at the end of the month. “Let me be real with you. I don’t care that you used to be a billboard with abs. I don’t care that women cried when took your helmet off on the podium. I don’t even care that your socks probably cost more than my monthly rent. I am here because your mom thinks I’m the last sliver of hope between you and becoming a very rich, very bitter statue.”
He blinked, stunned at my boldness. Or maybe the fact that I was so close he could see the eyeliner I perfectly winged in the cab this morning. “You’re insane.”
“I’m persistent,” I corrected, tapping his shoulder. “And lucky for you, I don’t scare easily.”
He tilted his head, a smirk ghosting–ghosting—his lips. “Most people don’t speak to me that way.”
“Well,” I smiled, sweet as arsenic. “Most people don’t have to fix your broken butt.”
His brow shot up. “Did you just say-?”
“Yes. I said ‘fix your broken butt. Now if we’re done insulting my perfectly valid degree and excellent wrist support technique, can we please get back to making you slightly less of a grumpy tragic romance novel cliché?”
He stared at me for a beat.
Then–slowly, reluctantly–lifted his arm.
Progress.
Tiny, moody, banana–fueled progress.
Rich kids are a menace, I thought, as I guided his limb through the motion again. Spoiled, dramatic, muscle- sculpted menaces with too much money, too much time, and apparently zero ability to say “thank you.”
But I wasn’t going anywhere.
Let him brood. Let him pout. Let him shoot icy glares until the penthouse turned into Elsa’s castle.
Because I, Madison freaking Luis, was going to drag this man–abs, wheelchair, and all–back into the land of the living.
One eye roll at a time.
*****
Steven’s POV
To say I was surprised was a gross understatement.
I was… offended. Outraged. Personally attacked. Spiritually wounded.
How dare this small little human with dark jet–black hair, wild eyes, and a mouth that clearly had no concept
11:24 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 2
:
of hierarchy or self–preservation speak to me like that?
How dare she?
I am Steven Mcleon.
The one and only.
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The face of half the billboards in Tokyo, the abs that launched a thousand gym memberships. Women used to scream when I so much as winked on camera. Producers fought to get me in their ads. Talent managers lined up just to pitch deals. Heiresses, celebrities, models–I didn’t even remember half their names. They all worshiped the ground I walked on.
And yet…
Here I am.
Sitting.
No walking. No racing. No abs in Calvin Klein.
Just… this chair. This prison with wheels.
And this woman. This tiny sass goblin in leggings, armed with a banana and a clipboard, daring to call me pathetic–with smiley face bullet points and everything.
The audacity.
Of course I was moody. Who the hell wouldn’t be?
My personal chef ghosted me this morning. Ghosted. Me.
- ME.
Why? Because I may have thrown his ridiculous filet mignon across the dining room table last night. The thing tasted like sorrow and nostalgia. It reminded me of the night I celebrated my fifth win in Monaco- surrounded by lights, roaring crowds, and a steak that didn’t taste like regret.
I was emotional. Whatever.
I didn’t ask to be reminded of the version of me that used to win.
But still. He could’ve stayed.
That was the third chef this month.
And now? I’d been sitting here all morning, no breakfast, no espresso, no “Good morning, Mr. McLeon,” no warmth, no care–just silence and pity, echoing through these luxury walls like a ghost I can’t outrun.
I hate this life.
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Chapter 2
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I hate what happened to me.
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I hate the way my legs feel like they’re missing–like someone took them away and forgot to leave a receipt.
And then she showed up.
Madison Luis.
Tiny. Loud. Drenched from the rain. Wearing scuffed sneakers and a ponytail that swung with purpose. And when I didn’t greet her properly? She didn’t blink. She just waltzed into my penthouse like she owned the place and tossed a damn banana at my chest.
“You need potassium for that attitude,” she said. With a wink.
I didn’t know whether to fire her or marry her.
And now? Now she’s looking at me like I’m some sort of tragic sculpture in a museum exhibit called Billionaire in Self–Pity. Her eyes were dark, expressive, judgmental as hell, and I swear–she looked like she wanted to slap me.
Me.
Steven Mcleon.
I should have yelled. Ordered her out. Called my mother. But I just sat there, chewing on the damn banana like it personally offended me, while she rolled her eyes and said things like:
“Lift your arm like you’re trying to reach for a life that doesn’t suck.”
And weirdly?
I did.
I lifted my arm.
Because deep down, buried under the bitterness, the bruised ego, and the thirty–two therapist rejections, there was something about her–something relentless, infuriating, and alive.
She didn’t look at me like I was broken.
She looked at me like I was being annoying.
And God help me, maybe I needed that.
Just not before coffee.
“Do you know how to make espresso?” I asked flatly, watching her scribble something on her cursed clipboard.
She didn’t even look up. “Do you know how to say thank you?”
11:24 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 2
I blinked.
:.
And for the first time in months…
I almost smiled.
Almost.
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