2. Maxwell
MAXWELL
The Bugatti Chiron purrs beneath me, eating up miles of Connecticut countryside. Trees blur past, their autumn colors bleeding together in the late afternoon light. I've been on the road for an hour, Manhattan's skyline long behind me, headed toward Frank's estate for this mandatory family dinner.
I could have sent my driver. Should have, probably. But I wanted the control of driving myself—wanted the time alone to think before facing what's waiting at the end of this road.
Millie.
Two days since I fucked my nineteen-year-old stepsister in my penthouse suite. Two days since I took her virginity and made her come screaming my name. Two days since she left before I woke, slipping out like a thief with only a brief note on the nightstand.
I need to go. See you soon. - M
That's it. No phone number, no explanation, nothing.
I had her investigated the next day. Discreet, thorough.
Millie Carter, nineteen, sophomore at Ashford University, literature major.
Middle-class background—her mother worked as an office manager before snagging Frank.
No significant relationships, no scandals, unremarkable social media presence. Clean.
And I was her first. That part I already knew—felt it in how tight her pussy was, how she tensed when I pushed inside her, how she looked at me with equal parts desire and uncertainty.
Mine.
The possessive thought grips me, irrational and absolute. I've built an empire through calculated decisions and strategic thinking. I don't do impulse. But Millie Carter has lodged herself in my brain, and I can't shake her loose.
Don't want to.
The GPS announces my turn. I slow, taking the private road that winds through manicured grounds toward the Graves family estate.
Frank bought this property fifteen years ago, after his second divorce.
Fifteen thousand square feet of old money architecture sitting on acres of land that would make most people weep.
I should be impressed. Once, maybe I was.
Now it just feels like an obligation.
Other luxury vehicles line the circular drive when I pull up—a Mercedes, a Bentley, a Tesla. Frank has more than just Nancy and Millie here, apparently. Perfect.
I park and kill the engine. A staff member I don't recognize approaches immediately, hand extended for my keys.
"Mr. Graves. Welcome home."
Home. Right.
I hand over the keys and walk toward the entrance. The double doors open before I reach them—more staff, more practiced smiles, more people paid to make everything seamless.
"Your father is in the formal dining room, sir. You're expected."
Of course I am. Last to arrive, as always.
Voices drift from deeper in the house—Frank's distinctive laugh, a woman's softer response. I follow the sound through the marble foyer, past the grand staircase, toward the formal dining room.
My pulse kicks up. Ridiculous. I've negotiated billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, but the thought of seeing Millie again makes my heart race like I'm some teenager with his first crush.
Except what I want to do to Millie is anything but teenage fantasy.
I reach the dining room entrance and pause. The table is set with Frank's best china—crystal glasses, silver place settings, centerpiece that probably cost thousands. Frank sits at the head, Nancy to his right. And across from where my place setting waits?—
Millie.
She sees me the instant I enter. Her blue eyes go wide, lips parting slightly. I watch the flush creep up her neck, watch her breathing change, watch every micro-expression cross her face.
She's wearing a simple navy dress that hints at her curves without being provocative. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders—natural, not the over-styled look I usually see on women in my circles. Pearl earrings, probably borrowed from her mother. No other jewelry.
She's petite, smaller than I remembered. Five-five at most, delicate bone structure, slim build with soft feminine curves. Everything about her screams middle-class girl trying to fit into a wealthy setting, and fuck if that doesn't make me want to strip that dress off her right here at the table.
Her face is so expressive—I can read everything. The nervousness. The attraction. The uncertainty. She shifts in her seat, thighs pressing together, and I know she's remembering how I felt inside her.
Good.
"Maxwell." Frank stands, extending his hand. "Good of you to finally join us."
The subtle reproach isn't lost on me. I missed his wedding to Nancy—flew to Tokyo for a merger deal instead. The business was real, but I could have rearranged it. I just didn't want to witness my father's fourth attempt at marital bliss.
I shake his hand, accept the one-armed hug. "Business waits for no one, Father. But I'm here now."
Nancy stands, and I get my first proper look at Frank's new wife. She's warm, genuine, clearly uncomfortable with the extreme wealth surrounding her. Her dress is nice but off-the-rack. Her jewelry is modest. She's trying, but everything about her screams that this world is foreign.
I can work with that.
"Mrs. Graves." I extend my hand. "Welcome to the family."
"Please, call me Nancy." Her handshake is firm but brief. "Frank's told me so much about you."
I doubt that. Frank and I aren't close—haven't been since I surpassed him professionally and made it clear I didn't need his approval or his connections.
My eyes slide to Millie. She's standing now, looking anywhere but at me. The pulse point in her neck is racing.
"And of course," Frank says, "you've met Millie at the gala."
"Yes." I let my gaze linger on her, let the weight of it make her squirm. "We found each other. Eventually."
The loaded statement hangs in the air. Millie's cheeks flush pink, and I watch her struggle not to react.
"Shall we sit?" Nancy gestures to the table, clearly trying to ease the tension she can sense but doesn't understand.
I take my seat directly across from Millie. Close enough to watch every reaction, every breath, every tell.
Staff materialize with the first course—French onion soup in expensive china bowls, wine poured into crystal glasses that probably cost more than Nancy's monthly salary.
Frank dominates the conversation initially, asking about my Tokyo deal. I keep my responses brief. Closed a merger worth eight hundred million. Acquired two tech startups in the process. Standard.
Nancy's eyes widen at the casual mention of such sums. She recovers quickly, but I see it.
"Millie's doing wonderfully at Ashford," Nancy redirects, maternal pride evident. "Dean's List again this semester."
"Ashford's a fine school." Frank nods. "Maxwell donated to their new library wing last year."
The casual mention of what was probably a seven-figure donation makes Nancy shift uncomfortably. I watch Millie push soup around her bowl, not eating, not looking up.
Frank asks her about her classes. She answers briefly—something about American literature and a philosophy course. Her voice is quiet, controlled. Still not looking at me.
The tension between us is palpable. I wonder if our parents notice, or if they're too absorbed in their own new marriage to see what's burning across the table.
The main course arrives—Wagyu beef, roasted vegetables, wine pairing. The staff moves with practiced efficiency, replacing dishes, refilling glasses.
"Nancy, I don't think you fully understand what Maxwell's accomplished." Frank cuts into his beef, pride evident in his tone. "He's not just successful—he's built an empire."
Nancy smiles politely. "Frank's told me you own several companies."
Frank laughs. "Several is an understatement. Maxwell, what is it now? Twelve corporations under the Graves Industries umbrella?"
"Fifteen, actually." I set down my wine glass, eyes on Millie. "Sixteen after the Tokyo acquisition closes."
She's finally looking at me now. Confusion clouds her blue eyes.
Frank continues, oblivious to the bomb he's about to drop. "Real estate, technology, manufacturing, finance. My son's diversified brilliantly. Forbes ranked him among the youngest self-made billionaires in the country."
Nancy chokes slightly on her wine. "I'm sorry—did you say billionaire?"
"Currently estimated at four point two billion," Frank says, "though Maxwell's private about exact figures."
The silence that follows is deafening.
I watch the exact moment the information hits Millie. Her eyes go wide, face paling slightly. Her hand trembles as she sets down her fork. She's staring at me with something like disbelief, and satisfaction curls through my chest.
She really didn't know.
At the gala, she saw wealth but didn't understand the extent. She fucked me not knowing I could buy and sell everyone in that ballroom ten times over.
Perfect.
"I... I had no idea." Nancy's voice is faint. "Frank, you said Maxwell was successful in business, but I didn't realize..."
Frank seems oblivious to the shock he's caused. "Maxwell's remarkably humble about it. Doesn't flaunt his wealth. Hell, he drove himself here instead of using his driver."
My eyes are locked on Millie. She's staring at me with something between shock and accusation, and I want to reach across the table and pull her into my lap.
"Excuse me." Millie stands abruptly, chair scraping against hardwood. "I'm sorry, I need some air."
She leaves the dining room quickly, Nancy half-rising in concern.
"I'll check on her." I stand before anyone can object. "New family dynamics can be overwhelming."
I follow before Frank can argue, catching his call of "Library's down the hall if she went that direction" as I exit.
The library is easy to find—I grew up in this house, back when it belonged to my grandparents and actually felt like home. Two stories of books, leather furniture, fireplace that's probably never been lit. Frank bought it for the image, not because he reads.
Millie stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, arms wrapped around herself. The dying sunlight catches her hair, turns it golden.
I close the door behind me. Lock it quietly.
"So now you know."