6. Maxwell
MAXWELL
I sit in my corner office at Graves Industries headquarters, Manhattan's skyline spreading before me through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The acquisition documents from the Tokyo deal sit on my desk, awaiting signature, but I can't focus on them.
My mind keeps drifting back to three days ago—the parking structure, Millie's flushed face, and that boy Ryan Bennett with his easy smile and casual conversation.
The irritation hasn't faded. If anything, it's intensified.
My door opens. Karen steps inside, tablet in hand. "Mr. Graves, the contracts from Tokyo are ready for your signature."
"Leave them." I lean back in my chair, a plan forming. "I need you to arrange something else."
Karen's expression doesn't change. She's worked for me for eight years—nothing surprises her anymore. She pulls up a new screen on her tablet. "Of course. What do you need?"
"Contact Daniel Boulud's restaurant. I want a full catered lunch for two, their finest menu, delivered to Ashford University campus tomorrow at noon."
She types rapidly. "Where on campus?"
"The main courtyard. Set up a private table, full service, champagne. Make it conspicuous."
"Understood. Budget parameters?"
"Whatever it costs. I want it perfect."
Karen makes notes without blinking. "And the purpose?"
"Personal."
She knows better than to ask further questions. "I'll coordinate everything. Anything else?"
"Have Richard bring the Phantom tomorrow morning. I'll be driving to Ashford myself."
"Noted." Karen exits smoothly, already making calls before the door closes.
I turn back to the window, satisfaction settling in my chest. Tomorrow, every student at Ashford University will understand exactly who Millie Carter belongs to. Ryan Bennett included.
The next morning, I dress deliberately. Tom Ford suit—navy, custom tailored, $12,000. Hermès tie. Rolex Daytona on my wrist. I want to look exactly like what I am: a billionaire who can buy anything he desires.
Richard brings the Rolls-Royce Phantom around at eleven.
The drive to Connecticut takes forty minutes.
As we approach Ashford's campus, I notice students walking between buildings, sitting on benches, the casual atmosphere of collegiate life that I never experienced myself.
I went straight into business at nineteen, built my first company by twenty-three.
No dorm rooms or cafeteria meals for me.
The Phantom draws immediate attention as Richard navigates through campus. Students stop mid-conversation to stare. Some pull out phones. We pull into the main courtyard, and I can see Karen's work immediately.
In the center of the open space sits a table draped in white linen. Fine china. Crystal glasses catching the morning sun. A champagne bucket on a stand. Two staff members in formal attire stand at attention, waiting.
The setup is absurdly lavish for a college campus. Exactly as I intended.
I exit the car. Richard closes the door behind me with a soft thunk. Students are already gathering at the edges of the courtyard, whispering, pointing, taking photos. I survey the scene with satisfaction. Perfect.
I check my watch: 11:55 AM. Millie's English Literature class lets out at noon. She'll walk right past this.
I wait, standing beside the table with my hands in my pockets. More students emerge from various buildings. The crowd grows. Whispers circulate—I catch fragments.
"That's a Rolls-Royce Phantom..."
"Who is that?"
"Oh my god, look at that setup..."
At precisely noon, students stream out of the humanities building across the courtyard. I spot Millie immediately. She's wearing one of the outfits I bought her—the cream silk blouse, tailored trousers, the diamond necklace visible at her throat. Her blonde hair catches the sunlight.
She's walking with Jessica and another girl, talking and laughing about something. Then she sees the setup.
Her steps falter. Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene—the table, the staff, the Phantom, me standing there waiting. I watch her connect the dots, see the exact moment she realizes what this is.
She walks toward me slowly. Her friends follow, mouths open.
"Maxwell?" Her voice carries across the quiet courtyard. Everyone's watching now. "What is this?"
I take her hand, bring it to my lips, and kiss her knuckles. "Lunch, stepsister. I thought you might like a proper meal instead of campus cafeteria food."
Jessica whispers loudly beside her: "Oh my god."
Other students have formed a loose circle around us, at least thirty people watching. I guide Millie to the table, pull out her chair personally. She sits, clearly overwhelmed, her face flushed.
I take the seat across from her. One of the servers immediately pours champagne—Dom Pérignon, $400 per bottle. I raise my glass.
"To new experiences."
Millie's hand shakes slightly as she lifts her glass. "This is insane. Everyone's watching."
"Let them watch. Let them see how you should be treated."
The first course arrives on silver trays. Oysters on the half shell, garnished with caviar and mignonette sauce. The presentation is flawless—exactly what I'd expect from Daniel Boulud's team.
Millie stares at her plate. "This is... this came from Daniel Boulud, didn't it? I recognize the presentation from pictures."
"I wanted the best."
She picks up her fork with trembling fingers. Around us, the crowd has grown to at least fifty students. They're not even pretending not to stare anymore. Phones are out, recording, photographing.
Jessica approaches hesitantly. "Um, Millie? Is this... is this really happening?"
Millie glances at her friend. "Apparently."
Jessica looks at me with something like awe in her eyes. "You're her stepbrother, right? The billionaire?"
"Correct on both counts."
"This is the most romantic thing I've ever seen."
If she only knew the full extent of my relationship with Millie. This isn't romance—this is staking my claim publicly. Making sure every man on this campus understands she's untouchable.
The main course arrives: filet mignon cooked to perfection, truffle risotto, seasonal vegetables arranged artfully. Everything is Michelin-star quality, absurdly out of place on a college campus. That's the point.
"Everyone's taking pictures," Millie says quietly, cutting into her steak. "This is going to be all over social media."
"Does that bother you?"
"I don't know. It's so... public. So over-the-top."
"You deserve over-the-top. You deserve everything."
I reach across the table, take her hand. Her fingers are delicate in mine. "I want people to see how I value you."
A male voice calls out from the crowd: "Are you guys dating or something?"
Millie's face flushes deep red. I respond calmly, not looking away from her.
"We're family. I'm simply ensuring my stepsister is properly cared for."
The non-answer answers everything. I see comprehension dawn on faces around us—the understanding that whatever this is, it's more than familial affection. Exactly what I wanted them to see.
I scan the crowd and find what I'm looking for. Ryan Bennett stands near the back, watching with clear jealousy and resignation on his face. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his casual confidence from a few days ago completely deflated.
Good. The boy needed to understand.
Dessert arrives: chocolate soufflé, still steaming, with raspberry coulis. By now, at least seventy students have gathered. I can see the envy on their faces—women wishing they were Millie, men wishing they had my resources.
When we finish, I stand, helping Millie from her chair. I turn to address the servers.
"Excellent service. Add fifty percent gratuity."
Then to the crowd: "Enjoy your afternoon, everyone."
I guide Millie to the Phantom. Richard opens the door. As soon as it closes and we have privacy behind tinted windows, Millie turns to me.
"What the hell was that about?"
I signal Richard to drive us to Manhattan. "Making a point."
"By humiliating me in front of the entire campus?"
"I didn't humiliate you. I showcased you. There's a difference."
"Everyone thinks we're together. Like, together together."
"We are."
"We're stepsiblings?—"
"On paper. In reality, you're mine. And after today, every man on that campus knows it."
She stares at me, and I watch understanding dawn. "This was about Ryan."
"This was about making clear that you're not available. To Ryan or anyone else."
"By throwing money around? By creating a spectacle?"
"By showing them what they're competing against. None of those boys can give you what I can."
"I don't want things?—"
"Don't you? You're wearing a $25,000 necklace. Sitting in a car worth $500,000. You enjoyed that lunch."
She opens her mouth to protest, then closes it. "That's not... I mean, yes, but?—"
"I'm not saying you're with me for money. But money is part of what I offer. Security. Luxury. Experiences. Can Ryan Bennett give you that?"
She's quiet, processing. I let the silence sit between us.
"I'm forty-one years old," I continue. "I've built an empire. I can give you anything you want. That's not something to be ashamed of."
"But doing it so publicly..."
"Was necessary. Now there's no ambiguity. You're mine."
The Phantom glides onto the highway. Manhattan's skyline appears in the distance. Millie leans back against the leather seat, exhaling slowly.
"Where are we going?"
"Le Bernardin."
"We just ate."
"That was lunch. This is for later. I want to show you something."
We arrive at Le Bernardin forty minutes later. The restaurant occupies a prime location in Midtown—understated elegance, the kind of place where reservations are made months in advance. I own a twenty percent stake in it, acquired three years ago as part of a larger hospitality investment.
The ma?tre d' recognizes me immediately as we enter. "Mr. Graves, what a pleasure. Your usual table?"
"Yes. And bring the wine list. The private reserve section."
"Of course, sir. Right this way."