4. Maxwell
MAXWELL
I stare at the quarterly reports spread across my desk, but the numbers blur. My mind keeps drifting back to Millie—curled up in my bed this morning, blonde hair spilling across my pillow, wearing one of my shirts because she still doesn't keep clothes at the penthouse.
That needs to change.
She's been coming here almost every night for a week. Staying over more often than not. But she arrives in those same simple jeans and worn sweaters, leaves in the morning looking exactly like what she is—a college student struggling to make ends meet.
She's mine now. She should look like she belongs to me.
I pick up my phone, pull up her contact, type out a message: Clear your afternoon. I'm picking you up at 2 PM.
Her response comes after a minute: I have class until 3.
I don't hesitate: Skip it. This is more important.
Maxwell, I can't just skip class.
You can. And you will. Be ready at 2.
I set the phone down without waiting for her response. She'll comply. She always does when I use that tone, even if she protests first.
I press the intercom button. "Karen, clear my afternoon. Cancel the 3 PM with Henderson."
My assistant's voice crackles back. "Of course, Mr. Graves. Should I reschedule?"
"Next week is fine."
I lean back in my chair, looking out at the Manhattan skyline from my office on the forty-second floor of Graves Industries headquarters. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a commanding view—exactly how I designed it.
Millie's been to my office once, eyes wide at the minimalist modern design, the expensive art on the walls, the way everyone deferred to me instantly. She'd looked so out of place in her college sweatshirt and backpack.
I want her in designer clothes. Expensive jewelry. Everything the best money can buy.
I want everyone who sees her to know she's with someone who values her enough to give her everything.
The Rolls-Royce Phantom pulls up to Ashford University's main campus at exactly 2 PM. Students stop mid-conversation, staring as I exit the vehicle. The attention doesn't register—I'm focused on the dorm building entrance where Millie stands waiting.
She's wearing jeans and a simple navy sweater. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She looks beautiful and frustrated.
"I really did have class," she says as I approach.
"And now you have me. Better deal."
I guide her toward the car with my hand on her lower back. The driver opens the door. Millie's eyes widen as she takes in the cream leather interior, the wood paneling, the sheer luxury of it.
"This is excessive," she murmurs as I slide in beside her.
"This is standard."
The door closes. The driver's voice comes through the intercom: "Where to, Mr. Graves?"
"Fifth Avenue. Start with Bergdorf Goodman."
Millie turns to me. "What are we doing?"
"Shopping."
"For what?"
"For you."
Her expression shifts from confusion to alarm. "I don't need anything."
I let my eyes trace over her outfit—the worn denim, the simple sweater that's probably from a chain store. "You need everything."
"Max—"
"We're going shopping, Millie. Accept it."
She crosses her arms but doesn't argue further. The car glides through Manhattan traffic, heading toward one of New York's most exclusive shopping destinations.
The moment we enter Bergdorf Goodman, everything shifts. Associates recognize me instantly—they know my black Amex, know my spending habits, know that when Maxwell Graves walks in, commissions are about to be earned.
A woman in an immaculate black suit approaches, smile professional and warm. "Mr. Graves, wonderful to see you again. How can we assist you today?"
"My companion needs a complete wardrobe. Clothes, shoes, accessories. Whatever she wants."
The associate's eyes light up with the promise of a major sale. "Of course. Right this way, please."
Millie tugs on my arm, voice low. "I don't need a complete wardrobe. I have clothes."
I look down at her simple sweater, let my gaze speak volumes. "You have basic necessities. I want you in things that match your beauty."
"This is insane. I can't let you buy me clothes."
"You can. And you will."
I guide her forward, hand possessive on her lower back. She's tense under my touch but doesn't pull away.
The associate—she introduces herself as Lauren—leads us to a private shopping suite. Within minutes, racks of designer clothes are being wheeled in. Gucci. Prada. Versace. Saint Laurent. Labels that cost more than most people make in a month.
Millie's eyes widen as she takes in the sheer volume. "These are... these cost thousands of dollars."
"And?"
She looks at me like I'm insane. Maybe I am. But I'm insane about her, and this is how I show it.
Lauren begins pulling items from the racks. "Let's start with daywear. What's your style preference, Miss...?"
"Carter. Millie. And I don't... I don't have a style preference for clothes that cost more than my rent."
I intervene before Lauren can respond. "Classic, elegant, sophisticated. Nothing too trendy. She's in college, but she should look like she belongs at high-end events."
Lauren nods enthusiastically, her professional eye assessing Millie's frame as she pulls pieces. Silk blouses in ivory and blush. Cashmere sweaters in neutral tones. Tailored trousers. Designer jeans that actually fit properly.
I settle onto a leather sofa, watching as Lauren ushers Millie toward the fitting room.
Millie shoots me a look—half annoyed, half overwhelmed.
I simply smile. "Try them on. All of them."
When Millie emerges in the first outfit, something primal tightens in my chest.
The ivory silk blouse drapes perfectly over her curves. The tailored black trousers hug her hips, elongate her legs. Nude heels add height, make her posture shift into something more confident.
She looks transformed. Elegant. Sophisticated. Expensive.
Mine.
"Perfect," I say. "We'll take it."
"You haven't even asked the price."
"I don't need to."
Lauren glances at her tablet. "The blouse is $1,200, trousers $900, shoes $850."
Millie's face goes pale. "That's almost $3,000 for one outfit."
"We'll take five similar combinations. Next."
"Maxwell—"
But Lauren is already pulling the next pieces, and Millie is being ushered back into the fitting room.
Outfit after outfit. A burgundy cocktail dress that makes her look like she belongs at gallery openings—$4,500. Cashmere sweaters in jewel tones—$800 each. Designer jeans that cost $1,200 a pair but fit like they were made for her body.
Millie's protests become weaker as Lauren and I steamroll her objections. She tries on a cream wrap dress, and I can already picture her wearing it to dinner at Per Se. She models a black pantsuit, and I imagine her accompanying me to business events.
After two hours, we've accumulated fifteen complete outfits, ten pairs of shoes, and accessories including handbags and scarves.
Lauren tallies the total discreetly on her tablet, then leans close to show me the screen: $47,000.
I don't even blink. "Add evening wear. At least three formal gowns."
"Of course, Mr. Graves."
The formal gowns are brought out—floor-length designs in silk and satin, each one more stunning than the last.
Millie tries on a deep emerald gown with a plunging neckline. The color makes her blue eyes luminous, and the cut shows just enough skin to be devastating.
"Stunning," Lauren breathes.
I don't say anything. I'm too busy imagining peeling that dress off her later.
Two more gowns—a classic black number and a champagne-colored design with delicate beading. Each one costs between $6,000 and $8,000.
After the third gown, Millie pulls me aside into a corner of the private suite, away from Lauren's hearing.
"Stop." Her voice is firm despite the flush in her cheeks. "This is too much. I can't accept all of this."
"Why not?"
"Because—because it's too expensive. Because I didn't earn it. Because it feels like you're trying to buy me."
The words hit wrong. My jaw tightens. "Buy you? Millie, you're already mine. I'm not buying you—I'm giving you what you deserve."
"What I deserve is what I can afford for myself. I'm a college student. I wear jeans and sweaters because that's my life."
I step closer, voice lowering so only she can hear. "Your life changed when you became mine. You wear jeans and sweaters because you can't afford better. But I can afford the best, and I want you in it."
"Why? So I look like I belong to you?"
"Exactly." I don't soften the word. "So everyone who sees you knows you're with someone who values you enough to give you everything."
She stares at me, trying to understand. I can see her wrestling with it—her independence clashing with the reality of what being with me means.
"I show affection through actions," I continue. "Through providing. Through making sure you have everything you could possibly want. Let me spoil you, Millie. Let me buy you beautiful things. It makes me happy to see you in clothes worthy of you."
"I'm not a doll you can dress up."
"No. You're the woman I'm obsessed with. And part of that obsession is making sure you're taken care of."
I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. The sincerity in my words is absolute—this isn't just about control. This is genuinely how I express affection, how I show her she matters.
Millie sighs, her resistance cracking. "This feels wrong. Like I'm taking advantage of you."
I actually laugh at that. "Stepsister, I'm worth over four billion dollars. You couldn't take advantage of me if you tried."
I kiss her forehead, breathing in her scent—that mix of vanilla and something uniquely her that I'm already addicted to. "Accept the gifts. Wear them. And know that every single time you put on something I bought you, I'm going to be thinking about taking it off. Slowly."
Her breath catches audibly. Color floods her cheeks in a rush that spreads down her neck, and I watch it happen with deep satisfaction. She's so responsive to me, so easy to read.
"Okay," she whispers, her voice barely audible.