8. Maxwell
MAXWELL
I sit in my corner office at Graves Industries, pen poised over the final signature line. The purchase agreement for the new penthouse spreads across my desk—forty-five million dollars for eight thousand square feet of prime Manhattan real estate.
I sign.
The building is exclusive. Six units total, private elevator access, twenty-four-hour security. The previous owner was a Saudi prince who never actually lived there. I've had interior designers working around the clock for two weeks, transforming it from a showpiece into a home.
Our home.
I pull out my phone, text my father.
Family meeting. Important announcement. Tomorrow at 5 PM. Address attached.
His response comes within minutes. What's this about?
You'll see tomorrow. Bring Nancy. Dress formally.
I send a similar text to Nancy, then switch to Millie's contact.
Tomorrow at 5. The new penthouse. Wear the Valentino dress I bought you. Our parents are coming.
Her response is immediate. Why are our parents coming to a penthouse?
Because I'm telling them about us. Everything.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally: We need to talk about this first.
Come to my office. Now.
I lean back in my chair, gaze out at the Manhattan skyline. Four months of hiding. Four months of sneaking around, pretending we're just stepsiblings who happen to live in the same city.
I'm done with that.
Millie is mine. Completely, irrevocably mine. And tomorrow, everyone is going to know it.
Twenty minutes later, Karen escorts Millie into my office. She closes the door, turns to face me with her arms crossed.
"You can't just decide to tell our parents without discussing it with me."
I stand from my desk, button my suit jacket. "I'm not discussing it. I'm informing you."
"Maxwell, this will destroy our family. My mom just married your dad like a month ago."
"Two months now. And I don't care." I cross to her, cup her face in my hands. "I'm not hiding anymore."
"But—"
"Listen to me." My thumbs stroke her cheeks. "I've purchased a new penthouse. Larger, more private. I've had your things moved in alongside mine. We're living there together, officially."
Her eyes widen, blue and shocked. "You bought a new penthouse?"
"Forty-five million dollars. Eight thousand square feet. Three bedrooms, office, private elevator, rooftop terrace."
"That's... that's insane."
"That's our home." I pull her closer, watch her pupils dilate. "And tomorrow, our parents are going to see it. They're going to see that we're together, that this isn't casual, that I've made permanent decisions about us."
"They'll flip out. They'll try to stop us."
"They can't." My voice drops, authoritative. "You're nineteen, legally an adult. I'm forty-one. We're not blood related. There's no legal barrier."
"There's a moral barrier. We're stepsiblings."
"On paper. For four months. It doesn't make us actual family."
I pull her flush against me, feel her heart racing through the thin fabric of her blouse. "I love you, Millie. And I'm done pretending I don't."
She stares up at me, lips parted. "You've never said that before."
"I'm saying it now." I kiss her forehead, gentle despite the steel in my voice. "And tomorrow, I'm going to say it in front of our parents. Then they'll understand this isn't some phase. This is permanent."
"What if they try to separate us?"
"They won't succeed." I release her, walk to the window. "I've made you financially independent. I've secured your future. They have no leverage."
"Maxwell—"
"Trust me." I turn back to her. "I've handled hostile takeovers worth billions. I can handle our parents."
The next morning, I arrive at the new penthouse at eight. The interior designers finished last night, and the space is perfect.
Modern luxury, but warm. Livable. The kind of home where Millie can curl up with a book or I can work from the study without feeling like we're living in a museum.
Photos are strategically placed throughout. Millie and me at Le Bernardin. On the yacht. Candid shots from the penthouse I took without her noticing—her reading in my bed, laughing at something on her phone.
It's clear two people live here. Equally clear they're in love.
In the master bedroom, her clothes hang beside mine in the walk-in closet. Designer dresses, shoes, the lingerie I bought her at Bergdorf's. Her toiletries fill half the bathroom counter—expensive skincare products I've had delivered, the perfume she wears that drives me insane.
Books line the shelves in the study. Hers mixed with mine. Literature anthologies beside my business volumes.
Everything screams couple. Serious, committed, living together.
I move to my home office, lay out documents on the desk. Tuition payment receipts. Credit card statements showing hundreds of thousands in purchases. Jewelry appraisals.
And the trust fund paperwork I finalized this morning.
Fifty million dollars with Millie as primary beneficiary.
My lawyer questioned the amount. "Mr. Graves, are you certain? This is... substantial."
"I'm certain."
If something happens to me, Millie is set for life. If we end this relationship—which we won't—she keeps everything. The clothes, the jewelry, the money I've already given her, plus the trust fund.
She'll never want for anything. Never be dependent on anyone else.
She's mine to take care of. Mine to provide for. Mine.
At four-thirty, my driver brings Millie up. She steps out of the private elevator, and I pause mid-adjustment of a photo frame to take her in.
The Valentino dress. Red, form-fitting, elegant. Eight thousand dollars of Italian craftsmanship that hugs every curve. The diamond necklace at her throat catches the afternoon light—twenty-five thousand dollars. Matching earrings, another fifteen thousand. Designer heels.
She looks like she was born into this world of extreme wealth.
"Perfect." I cross to her, take her hands. "You look perfect."
"I'm terrified."
"Don't be." I kiss her knuckles. "I've handled hostile takeovers worth billions. I can handle our parents."
"What if they make me choose?"
"Then you choose me." My voice is firm. "And I'll make sure you never regret it."
At precisely five o'clock, the doorman calls up. "Mr. Graves, your guests are in the lobby."
"Send them up."
Millie moves to stand beside me near the windows. Her hand finds mine, squeezes tight.
The private elevator opens directly into the penthouse foyer.
Frank and Nancy step out, and I watch their eyes widen as they take in the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan. Modern art on the walls—including a Rothko I purchased last year for twelve million. Marble floors, designer furniture, the kind of luxury that screams serious money.
Frank, who's wealthy himself from his hedge fund career, is still impressed. "Maxwell, this is... when did you buy this place?"
"Recently." I gesture toward the living area. "Please, come in."
Nancy looks around with visible confusion. "This is beautiful, but why did you invite us here? You said important family announcement?"
"Yes. Let me get you drinks first."
I pour wine at the bar—Chateau Margaux 2000, three thousand dollars a bottle—while Millie stands near the windows. The afternoon light silhouettes her figure in that dress, and I watch Nancy notice.
"Millie, honey, you look beautiful. That dress is stunning."
"Thank you."
Nancy's eyes catch on the jewelry at Millie's throat. "And those diamonds... are those real?"
I answer as I hand Nancy her glass. "Yes. I gave them to her."
Frank's brow furrows. "You gave your stepsister diamonds?"
"Among other things." I gesture to the seating area. "Please, sit. We have a lot to discuss."
They move to the sofa facing the windows. I sit opposite with Millie beside me, my hand resting possessively on her thigh.
"Thank you both for coming." I keep my voice calm, controlled. "I wanted to show you this penthouse because Millie and I are living here together."
Silence.
Frank sets his wine glass down carefully. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Millie has moved in with me. Permanently. This penthouse is our home."
Nancy looks between us, her face confused. "I don't understand. You're stepsiblings. You're living together as... what, roommates?"
"No." I meet her eyes directly. "We're living together as partners. We're in a relationship."
The silence is deafening.
Frank stands abruptly. "That's not funny, Maxwell."
I remain seated, my hand still on Millie's thigh. "I'm not joking."
Nancy's face pales, wine glass trembling slightly in her hand. "But you're... you're her stepbrother. We've been married two months. You two barely know each other."
"We know each other very well, actually." I stroke Millie's thigh through the dress, feeling her tense beside me. "We've been together since we met at the charity gala."
Frank's face reddens. "The gala we've sent her to find you? You've been... you've been seeing each other behind our backs since then?"
Millie speaks quietly. "Yes."
Nancy sets her wine glass down before she drops it. "Honey, what is he talking about? You live in a dorm at Ashford."
"Not anymore." Millie's voice is steadier now. "I moved in with Maxwell."
Frank takes a step forward, hands clenched. "This is insane. Maxwell, she's nineteen years old. You're forty-one?—"
"I'm aware of our ages." I stand now, buttoning my suit jacket. "I'm also aware she's legally an adult and capable of making her own decisions."
Nancy stands too, her voice rising. "You're taking advantage of her?—"
My voice hardens. "I've never taken advantage of Millie. Everything between us has been consensual."
I walk to my study, return with the folder of documents I prepared. "Since you seem to think I'm manipulating her, let me show you exactly what I've done."
I spread papers across the coffee table. "I've paid her tuition in full through graduation. Eighty-seven thousand dollars." I tap another document. "Paid off her student loans. Sixty-three thousand." Another. "Given her an unlimited credit card linked to my accounts."