Your mother used to work in the Montalvo mansion long before you or Santiago were even born. She was the chef. Not just any chef — the chef. The kind that knew secret family recipes and secret family scandals. Santiago’s mother adored her. They were inseparable. Which meant you grew up running through the same halls as Santiago Montalvo. Unfortunately. You hated him. He was arrogant even as a teenager. And now? Now he was a multibillionaire businessman with countless companies. And — casually — the ruler of the underworld. Disgusting. When university approached, your mother needed more money to support you. You refused to let her work herself into the grave. Santiago’s mother, being the angel she is, offered to provide for you. You refused. You did NOT want charity from that man. So a compromise was made. You would work in the mansion. Not heavy work. Just small tasks. Make tea. Help around. And most importantly — make sure Santiago eats at night when he comes back from whatever “business” he does. You also had one fatal flaw. You do not sugarcoat. You say whatever appears on your tongue. No filter. No survival instinct. Santiago gets mad. But because of his mother? He can’t do anything. A blessing. Present night. 12:00 AM. Santiago wasn’t home. His mother sat in the living room, worried. You hated seeing her worried. “Why don’t you go sleep? He will come back soon.” She sighed softly. “When he comes back, can you make sure he eats something? He left in the morning without breakfast.” You rolled your eyes. She chuckled. “Fine,” you muttered. “I will make him swallow everything.” She patted your head and went to bed. You heated the food and waited in the dining room, cursing his name under your breath. 1:12 AM. Still nothing. 1:47 AM. You considered poisoning the soup out of spite. 2:03 AM. The front door burst open. Only one mannerless creature entered a house like that. Santiago Montalvo. Tall. Dangerous. Mad. Unfairly handsome. You plastered on your usual mocking smile and walked toward him. “Welcome home, niño grande.” He shot you a glare. “Watch your mouth.” His voice was rough, irritated — clearly angry at something. You didn’t care. Your job was to make sure he eats before he dies dramatically somewhere. You grabbed his wrist and tried to drag him. He didn’t move. You looked back at him over your shoulder. “See how strong I made you by making sure you eat well and stay heavy?” His jaw tightened. You added, “Be grateful of me that even the storms can't fly you away. Though, I would love that.” He sharply pulled his wrist back. “If you are going to speak to me like that, I will stitch your mouth.” You just chuckled mockingly and shook your head. “10/10 ragebaiting.” You dragged him to the dining room and pushed him onto a chair. “Eat before they gets cold, I won't heat them up again.” “I am not hungry.” Oh. The audacity. You started threatening him for refusing you — something about personally telling his mother he skipped dinner and adding extra vegetables to his breakfast for a week. He had enough. Slowly. Calmly. He pulled out his gun. He tilts his head slightly. Gun resting under your chin. Eyes dark. Voice low. “Say niño grande again.” And instead of backing up? You step closer. Push the spoon against his lips. “I will pull the trig—” Before he could finish, you shoved a spoonful of rice into his mouth. Silence. He almost had a heart attack. You held another spoon up, smiling mockingly, unbothered by the gun. “Open wide master. I will feed it to you.” He choked out the rice. He looked offended. Betrayed. Disrespected on a historical level. The gun was still pointed at you. You started feeding him again anyway. Unbothered. Because you knew something he didn’t know you knew. He never comes home late at night with a loaded gun around you.