Seeing Sterling wrinkle his nose at the takeout, Claudia paused, chin propped on her hand. "How about I just hire a maid to cook for us?" If she paid the maid twenty grand a month, she could still pocket a tidy cut herself. "I don't like strangers in the places I live," Romero said flatly. They sat there staring each other down on the couch for a good five minutes before Sterling finally sighed. He reached out, covered her bright, unguarded eyes with one hand, and said, like he was handing down a sentence, "Order groceries. I'll cook." Half an hour later, Claudia was leaning back in satisfaction, watching the handsome man roll up his sleeves and move around her tiny kitchen like he owned the place. Sure, it was a little upside down—her benefactor cooking for her—but both of them seemed to accept it without question. The only problem was: "You sure you can handle it?" She remembered all that blood from the night before—and the cold, dangerous efficiency of the men who'd patched him up. For all she knew, he'd collapse mid–stir-fry and turn dinner into a crime scene. Sterling caught her worried look, grabbed a washed tomato, and stuffed it right into her mouth. "You wanna test whether I can handle it?" he said lazily. "Then test it properly." "…Test what?" Claudia blinked, slow to catch on. When it hit her, she shot him a fiery glare, cheeks heating. Without another word, she spun on her heel and stomped to the living room to watch TV. Sterling's soft laugh followed her. From the open kitchen, he watched her pick up her phone again. "While you were sleeping, someone wouldn't stop calling," he said casually. "I answered."That explained why her phone had been dead when she tried to order food earlier. Claudia whipped around. “Mr. Romero, ever heard of privacy? You don't answer other people's calls!" He stirred the pan with practiced ease. "Your phone wouldn't stop ringing, and I couldn't sleep. Someone was impossible to wake up." Then he added, perfectly deadpan, "Besides, I took all the yelling for you." Claudia flipped through her call log, saw the names, and just sighed. So her mother hadn't vented enough this morning and had apparently unleashed the whole family on her—each of them taking turns to call. Even Lydia's loyal lapdog Quade had joined in. Word about her sending Lydia to the ER had clearly spread like wildfire. She didn't need to listen to know exactly what was said. If Sterling were her employee, she would've called it a workplace hazard. But since he was her capitalist benefactor— "So," she asked dryly, "did you at least curse them out for me?" “No.” "Then how's that repayment? I'm not paying you if you didn't do anything." Sterling's eyes gleamed with amusement. "So if I curse them out, you'll repay me?" "Mm-hm." She nodded without hesitation. ... Clint ended the call wearing the expression of a man who'd just seen the future and didn't like it. In all his years as an assistant, he'd never received such a ridiculous order.Yes—ridiculous. What kind of boss retaliated by hiring people to prank-call his enemies and cuss them out? Normally, anyone who crossed Romero ended up with broken bones, bankruptcy, or both. Clint honestly couldn't process this new… gentle phase. It was absurdly soft—like watching a lion humor a housecat. But orders were orders. He hired a few smooth talkers and handed them the list Sterling had given him, instructing them to call every name on it and hurl the best insults they could think of. No deadline was mentioned, so… three days of nonstop swearing seemed fair. And so it began. Across the city—Lydia in her hospital bed, Zane and Jasper at her side, Clarence handling the burned house in Altrix City, the Lancaster couple mingling at a dinner party, Quade drinking in some bar—each of their phones started ringing. ... Claudia had to admit: she hadn't expected Sterling to actually be good in the kitchen. He looked like the type who'd never touched anything domestic in his life, a man carved from cold stone. The few glimpses she'd had of his ruthlessness made her think he was more familiar with knives as weapons than as cooking tools. But the dishes laid out on the table—one of them even grilled chicken, exactly how she liked it—completely won her over. There was a reason successful men stayed successful. Not only did his wounds heal unnaturally fast, he was apparently better at housework than she was. Sharing a quiet dinner at home with someone like him—it had been a long time. The air carried a strange, unfamiliar warmth. Afterward, Claudia cleaned up the kitchen and came back, drying her hands. Sterling was lounging on the sofa, one arm stretched out, curling a finger at her like he was calling a pet. She dragged her feet over, scowling. “What?” "Come see the evidence. Don't think you can wriggle out of paying me back." Clint worked fast. In the time it took to finish dinner, he'd already sent over a few of the best recordings. Sterling hit play. Wilson's furious voice blasted from the phone, full of outrage after being cussed out like never before. Claudia's jaw dropped. Wilson—the man who'd spent his whole life being pampered, deferred to, worshipped—had just been roasted over the phone.