5. Millie
MILLIE
I walk across the Ashford University campus toward my English Literature class, and I'm hyperaware of every step I take in these nude Louboutin heels.
The ivory silk blouse Maxwell selected moves like water against my skin.
The tailored navy trousers fit perfectly—professionally tailored, according to the receipt I glimpsed before Maxwell threw it away.
The diamond necklace rests against my collarbone, catching sunlight.
The Hermès handbag—eight thousand dollars, I learned when I googled it later—swings from my shoulder.
I feel different. Confident, yes, but also conspicuous. Like everyone can tell these clothes cost more than a semester's tuition.
Because they can probably tell. The difference between Target and designer is obvious when you're standing in a crowd of college students wearing hoodies and jeans.
My roommate Sophie cornered me this morning while I was getting dressed, eyes wide as she watched me clasp the diamond necklace. "Where did you get all this? Did you rob a bank? Are you secretly dating a drug dealer?"
I laughed it off, said a family member gave me money to update my wardrobe. Not technically a lie—Maxwell is my stepbrother, which makes Frank my stepfather. Family member covers it.
But I'm not ready to explain Maxwell. Not ready to admit I'm sleeping with my stepbrother, that he paid off my student loans, that he owns me in ways I'm still processing.
I enter the English Lit classroom—a seminar space with about twenty students arranged in a loose circle. Heads turn as I walk in. I hear whispers start immediately.
"Is that Millie?"
"Oh my god, look at her clothes."
"That's definitely designer."
Jessica waves me over, eyes wide. "Oh my god, Millie, you look amazing! New clothes?"
I sit next to her, trying to downplay the attention. "Just... updating my wardrobe."
Jessica reaches out, fingers the silk of my blouse. "This is designer. Seriously designer. What happened?"
"Family stuff. My stepdad's been generous."
It's the closest I can get to the truth without actually telling the truth.
Another classmate turns around in his seat—Ryan Bennett. Sandy brown hair, athletic build, easy smile. He's attractive in that boy-next-door way, and he's flirted with me before. Asked me out once. I said no.
"Wow, Millie. You look incredible. Special occasion?"
My cheeks heat. "No, just felt like dressing up."
"Well, it suits you. Very sophisticated."
Professor Hutchins arrives, starts lecture on Victorian literature. I try to focus, taking notes on Bront? and social class structures. But I'm aware of Ryan glancing at me periodically throughout the discussion.
During a break, he leans over. "Are you free after class? Maybe we could grab coffee, study for the midterm?"
I hesitate. It's an innocent suggestion—just studying. But I know Maxwell wouldn't see it that way.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
I pull it out, glance at the screen.
Maxwell: Where are you?
I text back: In class. English Lit. Done at 3:30.
Maxwell: I'll pick you up. Front of the humanities building.
I didn't ask him to pick me up. But I've learned not to argue when Maxwell makes decisions about my schedule.
Ryan is still waiting for my answer about coffee.
"Um, maybe? I have to check my schedule."
Ryan smiles. "No pressure. But I'd like to spend more time with you."
The flirtation is clear in his tone.
Class ends at three-thirty. Students pack up, file out into the autumn afternoon. Ryan walks beside me as we exit the building.
"So, seriously, you look amazing today. Different. Like you're glowing or something."
I laugh. "I'm not glowing. I'm just wearing nicer clothes."
"It's not just the clothes. You seem... I don't know, more confident? Happy?"
Because I'm having incredible sex with my insanely wealthy stepbrother who spoils me excessively. But I can't exactly tell you that.
"Just in a good mood, I guess."
We exit to the humanities building courtyard. Students mill around, heading to their next classes or the library.
Ryan stops, turns to face me. "Look, I know I asked you out before and you said no, but I was wondering if maybe you'd reconsider? Just dinner, something casual?"
I open my mouth to politely decline.
Then I see Maxwell.
He's standing next to a Bugatti Chiron in the parking area adjacent to the courtyard. The car alone is attracting attention—students are stopping, staring, taking pictures with their phones. The sleek blue-and-black body gleams in the sunlight.
But Maxwell's attention is laser-focused on me.
And specifically, on Ryan standing too close to me.
Even from this distance, I can see the dangerous intensity in his gray eyes. My stomach flips—part anxiety, part arousal. I recognize that look.
Possessive jealousy.
Ryan follows my gaze. "Holy shit, is that a Bugatti? There's a Bugatti on campus?"
Other students are gathering around the car now, admiring it from a respectful distance. Taking photos. Whispering.
Maxwell starts walking toward us. Confident, controlled, predatory. He's wearing a three-piece charcoal suit that probably costs ten thousand dollars, looking completely out of place among college students in jeans and hoodies.
"Do you know that guy?" Ryan asks. "He's looking right at us."
"That's my stepbrother."
"Your stepbrother drives a Bugatti to pick you up from class?"
Maxwell reaches us. His gray eyes never leave my face.
"Stepsister," he says, voice smooth but edged with steel. "Ready to go?"
The possessive emphasis on "stepsister" is deliberate.
Ryan's eyes widen. "Wait, this is your stepbrother?"
"Yes. Maxwell, this is Ryan. We have English Lit together."
Maxwell extends his hand to Ryan. The handshake looks polite but I see Maxwell squeeze hard—establishing dominance through physical force.
Ryan winces slightly. "Nice to meet you, sir."
The "sir" is instinctive. Ryan recognizes authority and age when he sees it.
"Ryan," Maxwell says. "I hope you're not keeping my stepsister from her obligations."
"No, we just finished class. I was actually asking Millie if she wanted to study together sometime."
Maxwell's eyes flash dangerously. "How considerate. But Millie's schedule is quite full. Between her classes and family commitments, she has little free time."
The statement is a clear territorial marking.
Maxwell's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. The gesture is possessive, intimate—beyond what stepbrother and stepsister would normally be.
I tense but don't pull away. I know better.
"That's a beautiful necklace you're wearing, stepsister," Maxwell says, fingers brushing the diamond pendant at my collarbone. "The diamond suits you."
Ryan's eyes track the movement, then widen as he registers the size of the diamond. "That's... that's a really nice necklace."
"I have good taste in gifts. Don't I, Millie?"
The loaded question forces me to acknowledge him. "Yes. Very generous."
Maxwell's hand tightens on my waist. "I believe in taking care of what's mine."
The statement hangs in the air. It could mean family, but the undertone suggests something else entirely.
Ryan shifts uncomfortably. "Well, I should let you guys go. Millie, maybe we can study another time?"
Before I can answer, Maxwell says, "Perhaps. Though as I mentioned, her schedule is quite demanding. Isn't it, stepsister?"
I recognize the warning in his tone. "Yes. Very demanding."
Ryan nods, clearly uncomfortable now. "Right. Well, see you in class, Millie."
He walks away quickly.
As soon as Ryan is out of earshot, I pull away from Maxwell. "What the hell was that?" I hiss, aware students are still watching from near the Bugatti.
Maxwell's eyes are cold. "Who is he?"
"A classmate. We have English Lit together."
"He wants to fuck you."
My face flushes. "He was asking about studying, not?—"
"He wants to fuck you," Maxwell repeats, voice flat. "I could see it in how he looked at you. How he stood too close."
"Even if that's true, so what? I'm not interested in Ryan."
Maxwell steps closer, crowding my space. "You're mine, Millie. I don't share."
"You can't just show up on my campus and?—"
"Get in the car."
His tone brooks no argument.
Maxwell guides me to the Bugatti. Students are still staring, whispering. I catch snippets as we pass.
"Is that her boyfriend?"
"That's her stepbrother..."
"Did you see that car? That's like three million dollars."
Maxwell opens the passenger door, waits for me to get in. The interior is luxurious—cream leather seats, high-tech displays, everything custom.
He slides into the driver's seat, starts the engine. It purrs to life, a deep, powerful sound.
Instead of driving toward the campus exit, he navigates through the parking areas to the far corner of the multi-level parking structure. Empty level. No cars. No people.
"What are you doing?"
Maxwell parks, turns off the engine, turns to face me. His gray eyes are blazing. "You're wearing clothes I bought you, jewelry I bought you, and letting some college boy flirt with you?"
"He was being friendly?—"
"He wants you. And you were considering it."
"I was not?—"
"Don't lie to me."
Maxwell reaches over, unbuckles my seatbelt, then his own. "Back seat. Now."
"Here? We're on campus?—"
"No one's around. And I need to remind you who you belong to."
The dominant command in his voice sends heat straight through me. My pussy clenches.
I climb between the seats to the back. Maxwell follows, crowding me against the door. He captures my mouth in a bruising kiss—not gentle, claiming, possessive, rough.
His hand fists in my hair, angling my head for deeper access. His tongue dominates mine.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"You're mine," he growls. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"My what?"
"Your... I'm your stepsister."
His eyes flash. "More. What are you to me?"
I understand what he wants. "I'm yours. Your possession. Yours to fuck whenever you want."
The crude admission makes my pussy clench again.