6. Maxwell #2
We're escorted to a corner table with panoramic views of the city. The restaurant is full—every table occupied by Manhattan's elite—but ours is positioned perfectly, offering both privacy and visibility.
Millie settles into her chair, looking around. "Do you own this place too?"
"Partially. I invest in businesses I enjoy."
A leather-bound wine list is presented. I flip to the reserve section, scan the offerings. "The 2005 Chateau Margaux."
The sommelier's eyes widen fractionally. "$3,000 per bottle. Excellent choice, Mr. Graves."
Millie's eyes go wide, but she doesn't comment. Not yet.
Small plates arrive—amuse-bouche, tasting portions of the chef's current favorites. Everything is exquisitely prepared, artfully presented. Millie tastes each one carefully, and I watch her reactions.
"I've never been somewhere like this before," she says quietly. "Before I met you, I thought Olive Garden was fancy."
I find her honesty endearing. "And now?"
She looks around the restaurant—the white tablecloths, the modern art on the walls, the hushed conversations of people who treat money as casually as breathing. "Now I'm sitting in a restaurant where a single bottle of wine costs as much as a semester of textbooks."
She shakes her head, blonde hair catching the light. "The difference between our worlds... it's staggering."
"It doesn't have to be. You're in my world now."
"As your stepsister."
My eyes darken. "As mine. The stepsister label is just what we tell people."
A waiter approaches discreetly. "Mr. Graves, your yacht captain called. The Sea Phantom is ready whenever you'd like to board."
"We'll head over after we finish here."
The waiter nods and withdraws. Millie stares at me.
"You have a yacht?"
"Of course. How else would I spend time on the water?"
She laughs—half-hysterical, half-amazed. "Of course you have a yacht. Why wouldn't you have a yacht?"
We finish the tasting menu—seven courses, each more elaborate than the last. By the time we're done, it's early evening. Richard drives us to Chelsea Piers, where private vessels dock.
We walk down a private dock. The Sea Phantom sits at the end—sleek, modern, easily 150 feet long. Her hull is midnight blue, the name written in elegant silver script.
Millie stops walking, staring. "This is yours?"
"Yes. I bought her two years ago. She's registered in the Caymans for tax purposes."
Captain Davies greets us as we board. "Mr. Graves, Ms. Carter. Welcome aboard."
A crew of five moves efficiently around the deck—all in crisp white uniforms. The level of professionalism is exactly what I pay for.
I guide Millie inside. The interior is stunning—white leather seating, teak wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of the Hudson. Multiple levels: main deck with living areas, upper deck with an observation platform, master suite below.
Millie walks through slowly, touching surfaces like she's afraid they might disappear. "This is like something from a movie."
"It's useful for entertaining clients. But mostly I use it for privacy."
I guide her down a spiral staircase to the master suite. The bedroom is enormous—king-size bed with silk sheets, en-suite bathroom with marble fixtures, windows offering ocean views.
"This is bigger than my dorm room," Millie breathes.
"Your dorm room is an insult to you. You should be living somewhere worthy of you."
The yacht begins moving—a gentle vibration through the deck as Captain Davies takes us out into the harbor. I pour us both cognac from the suite's private bar. Rémy Martin Louis XIII, $3,500 per bottle.
"To new experiences." I hand her a glass.
She sips, the expensive liquor warming her throat. I watch her swallow, her neck moving gracefully. The diamond necklace glints against her skin.
I set down my glass, approach her. "Do you understand yet? This is what being with me means."
I gesture to the yacht around us. "Luxury. Privacy. Anything you want, whenever you want it."
"I don't need a yacht to want you."
"But you deserve it. You deserve all of this."
I kiss her—deep, possessive, my tongue sliding against hers. My hands find the zipper of her blouse, slide it down. The silk falls away. The designer trousers follow. She's wearing the black lace lingerie I bought her at Bergdorf Goodman.
"Perfect," I murmur, drinking in the sight of her.
I strip off my suit jacket, unbutton my shirt. Her hands trace my tattoos—the sleeve on my left arm, the designs wrapping around my right bicep.
"I never asked what they mean," she says softly.
"Reminders. Of what I've built. What I've conquered."
I push her back onto the bed. The sheets are Egyptian cotton, thread count in the thousands. She sinks into them, blonde hair spreading across the pillows.
I position myself over her, braced on my forearms. "Tonight, I'm going to fuck you on a yacht worth twenty million dollars. And you're going to realize you've left your old life behind completely."
I remove her lace bra slowly, reverently. My mouth descends to her breasts—licking, sucking, worshipping. Her nipples harden under my attention.
"Mmm—" she moans, arching into me.