The steak was fucking incredible.
Phei hadn't realised how ravenous he was until the next bite hit his tongue—perfectly seared, juices bursting with salt and smoke and something expensive that made his taste buds throw a party and send thank-you notes. A meal that made you understand why rich people acted like food was a personality trait.
And Melissa had made this. With her own hands. For him.
The world had gone properly mental.
Between bites, his mind kept drifting back to the timeline. To everything that had changed. To everything that could still go catastrophically, hilariously wrong.
The original week—the one that ended with him stepping off a rooftop—had been a carefully orchestrated symphony of shit. Each day building on the last, each humiliation compounding until the weight of it all crushed him flat.
But now?
Now the symphony was playing a different tune entirely. Something with more bass, more teeth, and a lot less violin weeping.
