4. Maxwell #2
I press another kiss to her temple, letting my lips linger there while my hand slides down to the small of her back. The victory settles warm in my chest—another small surrender, another step closer to her accepting what we are.
Lauren clears her throat delicately and suggests one more stop before we finish—the lingerie department on the third floor.
Millie's face flushes an even deeper shade of pink immediately, her eyes going wide. "I don't need?—"
"Yes, you do." I keep my voice low enough that only she can hear, my hand tightening possessively on her back. "Those cotton bras and panties you wear, while adorable, need to be supplemented with something more appropriate."
We're led to a private lingerie fitting area—all cream silk walls and flattering lighting. Sets are displayed like art: black lace, red silk, ivory satin, blush pink.
A fitting specialist approaches. "Let me take your measurements, Miss Carter."
Millie glances at me. I settle into a chair, making it clear I'm staying.
The specialist works quickly and professionally, measuring Millie's bust, waist, and hips. I watch every movement, possessive satisfaction curling through me.
Sets are brought out for inspection. Each one is delicate, expensive, designed to drive a man insane.
The black lace set—bra that's more suggestion than support, panties that are sheer enough to see through. $650.
Red silk with matching garter belt. $720.
Ivory satin with hand-embroidered details. $800.
Blush pink with ribbon details. $580.
I point to each one. "All of them. And add matching garters and stockings."
Millie is beyond protesting now. She's overwhelmed, eyes glazed with the sheer excess of it all.
The lingerie total comes to $8,000.
We return to Lauren at the main checkout. She shows me her tablet discreetly—the final tally: $78,340.
I hand over my black American Express Centurion card. The exclusive "Black Card" that requires invitation and has no spending limit.
Millie catches sight of the total on the screen. Her eyes widen. "Seventy-eight thousand dollars?"
"And worth every penny."
The transaction processes instantly. Lauren arranges for everything to be delivered to my penthouse address.
We leave with just one shopping bag—the lingerie, which I insist Millie will need tonight.
As we exit to the waiting Rolls-Royce, Millie is quiet. Processing.
I slide in beside her. The door closes, cocooning us in leather and luxury.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
She's silent for a moment, then: "That amount of money... my mom doesn't make that in two years of working full-time."
The wealth disparity hits her fully. I can see it in her expression—the realization of just how different our worlds are.
I take her hand, threading my fingers through hers until they're locked together. The contrast strikes me—her small hand in mine, soft against my palm. "Your world is my world now, Millie. You need to get used to it. This is what life looks like with me."
She doesn't respond, but I feel the slight tremor in her fingers. Still processing. Still adjusting to the reality of what being with me actually means.
I lean forward toward the privacy partition. "One more stop," I tell the driver. "Tiffany & Co. on Fifth Avenue."
"No." Millie's voice is immediate. "Absolutely not. No more shopping."
"This is different. This is important."
"Maxwell—"
But the car is already moving, and I'm not negotiating.
Inside Tiffany's, we're escorted to a private viewing room—all white and pristine, designed to make the jewelry the only thing that matters.
A specialist brings out trays. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings. All featuring diamonds, sapphires, emeralds. Investment pieces that cost more than cars.
I scan the options, then point to a delicate diamond necklace with a solitaire pendant. "This one."
The specialist lifts it carefully. "Excellent choice, Mr. Graves. One carat center diamond, platinum setting. $25,000."
"Twenty-five thousand dollars for a necklace?" Millie's voice is faint.
"It's investment jewelry. Quality pieces hold value."
I gesture to the specialist. "Put it on her."
Millie stands frozen as the specialist fastens the necklace. The diamond rests at her collarbone, catching the light with every breath she takes.
I stare at her, possession and satisfaction flooding through me. The diamond marks her as mine more effectively than words ever could.
"Perfect. We'll take it. And diamond stud earrings. Two carats total weight."
Another $15,000.
The specialist processes the purchase—total $40,000—while Millie touches the necklace at her throat with trembling fingers.
Back in the Rolls-Royce, heading toward my penthouse, I decide to handle the last piece of business.
"Tell me about your student loans."
Millie tenses immediately. "What about them?"
"How much do you owe?"
"That's personal."
I keep my voice patient but firm. "How much, Millie?"
She sighs, recognizing my tone. "About $63,000. I'm on financial aid, but it doesn't cover everything. I'll be paying it off for years after graduation."
I pull out my phone, open my banking app.
"What are you doing?"
"What's your loan account number?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm paying them off. Now. Account number."
"What? No. Absolutely not."
I lift my eyes from the phone, pin her with my gaze. "Account number, Millie."
She shakes her head, panic in her expression. "I can't let you pay my student loans. That's... that's too much."
"Everything today has been 'too much.' Yet you're wearing a $25,000 necklace. What's another $63,000?"
"That's different?—"
"It's not. Account number. Or I'll have my people track it down, which will take longer but achieve the same result."
She stares at me, realizing I'm serious. That I will do this with or without her cooperation.
Finally, reluctantly, she pulls up her loan account on her phone. Shows me the screen with the account number.
I enter the information into my banking app. The transfer takes seconds—$63,000 moved from my account to her loan servicer. Paid in full.
I show her the confirmation screen.
Millie stares at it. Tears prick her eyes. "I can't... Maxwell, I can't accept this."
"Already done. Non-refundable."
"This is too much. You're giving me too much. I feel like I'm taking advantage?—"
I pull her into my lap, cutting off her protests with a kiss. She tastes like shock and gratitude and something that might be tears.
When I pull back, I keep her close. "You're not taking advantage. I'm choosing to do this. Because you're mine, and I take care of what's mine."
"By throwing money at me?"
"By removing obstacles. By making sure you can focus on school without financial stress. By proving that being with me means you'll never want for anything."
We arrive at the penthouse. The shopping bags and boxes are already being delivered—my staff works efficiently.
The living room is filled with Bergdorf Goodman bags, each one a small fortune.
Millie walks among them, touching the designer labels with something like disbelief. "This is surreal."
I pour us both wine—a 2015 Chateau Margaux that costs $800 a bottle. She doesn't need to know that.
I hand her a glass. "Get used to it. This is your life now."
She takes the wine, sits on my designer sofa. "You're talking like... like this is permanent. Like we're in a real relationship."
I sit beside her, close enough that our thighs touch. "We are in a real relationship. An unconventional one, yes. Taboo, certainly. But real."
"Our parents think we're just getting to know each other as stepsiblings."
"Our parents are naive. Eventually, they'll figure it out. But that doesn't change what we are."
I lean closer, voice dropping. "You're mine, Millie. In every way that matters."
I set down my wine glass, let the intensity of my gaze speak before my words do. "I want to see you in the lingerie I bought."