Famously Wed: A Billionaire Boss Romance

by Roxy Reid

  “The second bedroom is smaller,” he points out. “And it doesn’t have an ensuite.”

  “Does it have a closet?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Walk-in.”

  I return the grin. “Perfect.”

  He sighs. “Fine. You can have your own room.”

  “I also have a cat,” I tell him. “He’ll have to move in with me.”

  “I’m allergic,” he protests.

  “Buy some Reactine, then. I have one last condition,” I add before he can protest again. Max waits, one eyebrow raised. I offer him a charming smile. “You can’t fall in love with me.” I hold out my right hand to him. “Do we have a deal?”

  He laughs, and then takes my hand and shakes it. “We have a deal.”

  “Good.” I pick up my pen and begin scrawling notes in my notebook. “I’ll make up a contract for us both to sign, and then we will need to contact a lawyer for a prenup. I’m assuming your family has one on speed dial?” I add with a wink.

  He grimaces. “I’ll take care of it.” He reaches his hand across the desk towards me. “Thank you, Ella. You’re literally saving my life.”

  I hold out my left hand to him and allow him to slide the tacky ring onto my finger. “Oh, and one more thing.”

  He sighs. “Yes?”

  “I’ll need a different ring,” I say. “This one’s hideous.”

  5

  Ella

  The good thing about not being unpacked yet is that it makes the move upstairs that much easier. I set down the last of my boxes—there are only seven of them containing everything I own—and I glance around, trying to figure out how I’m going to fit myself into this place. The penthouse is large and spacious, of course, and minimally decorated like Max’s office. Where does he keep his actual belongings? I wonder. There’s nothing on the coffee table or kitchen counter. No picture frames, no knick-knacks, no books or anything that could at all personalize the space, as if it had been staged for selling and then never changed when the owner moved in.

  The owner in question files in the door behind me, carrying the only piece of furniture I own: my round red tub chair, which I’ve had since college. My loaner apartment downstairs was furnished, thank god. There’s no way I could have furnished that place on my own.

  “Where do you want … this?” Max asks, face hidden behind plush red cushions.

  I shrug. “Where do you think it should go? I don’t want to disturb your fengshui here.”

  He grunts in response and sets the chair down. Hands on hips, he looks around the main living space, as I am. “Not in here,” he says disapprovingly. “It doesn’t go in here.”

  “Go with what, exactly?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “There’s nothing in here.”

  He shoots me a dark look and moves further into the living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows boast an almost one-eighty degree view of the city, complete with the Empire State Building a stone’s throw away. The sleek dark wood floors reflect the light pouring in, reducing Max to a silhouette the farther away from me he walks. “This place was professionally decorated to promote peace and well-being,” he says thoughtfully. “Clutter creates chaos. Statement pieces date quickly. My life is hectic enough as it is without feeling overwhelmed when I come home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I wasn’t judging you, honestly.”

  He doesn’t respond, but turns towards me with an expression I can’t read. “You can put your chair in the library,” he says, gesturing down the hall.

  This surprises me. “You have a library?”

  He leads the way, leaving me to carry the chair. It isn’t heavy, just awkward. I struggle to see where I’m going as I follow him down the hall for what feels like an impossible amount of time. Just how big is this place?

  Max stops next to a set of French doors, which open inwards. I set the chair down and peer into the room beyond. It, too, must have the same floor-to-ceiling windows, further adding to my theory that the penthouse has a one-eighty view of the city, but full-length blackout curtains cover them up. While still styled minimalistically, this room has a sense of warmth not present in the rest of the place. Several single bulbs hang from wrought-iron rods, basking the space in a warm glow. The walls that aren’t occupied by curtains are covered in bookshelves, which are occupied entirely by books. There isn’t a square inch of shelf that doesn’t have a book on it. In the centre of the room is a single, comfy-looking armchair, which actually looks well used.

  “Wow,” I say under my breath. “This is super nice. I had no idea you read. I mean, read this much,” I add quickly, realizing how insulting that sounded.

  Luckily, Max catches my meaning and chuckles. “Who would have thought, right? If I make time for anything, it’s being in this room.” He steps in and glances around. “You can put your chair wherever you want.”

  I opt for the corner of the room next to the window and directly under one of the hanging bulbs. My red chair offers a bright pop of color in an otherwise muted palette. “I like it,” I say appreciatively.

  Max is already making his way down the hall. “Want a cocktail?” he calls over his shoulder.

  I breathe out heavily, relieved. “Boy, do I.”

  As Max pours two perfect Manhattans into two perfect crystal martini glasses, I can’t help but notice how delicious his forearms look with the sleeves of his grey shirt rolled up. The lean muscle is visible underneath taut, sun-kissed skin, and his hands, I notice, are quite lovely, like model’s hands. I grimace. My weakness is nice hands on a guy. Go figure.

  He passes me my cocktail and holds his up to toast. Clinking my glass against his, he meets my eyes evenly. “To the bride,” he says, a sly smile curling his lip.

  I roll my eyes. “And the groom.”

  We each take grateful swigs of our drinks. It is very likely the best Manhattan I’ve ever had; I cough in surprise as the warm liquid pools in my stomach.

  Outside, the sun is starting to set. My stomach, though warm with alcohol, begins to churn nervously. Max may have let me have my own room as long as I’m living here, but after our conversation at the office I can’t help but worry there will be some sort of expectation once we’re actually married to … well … consummate the marriage. I honestly wouldn’t put it past his family. Blue Bloods like that tend to be pretty old fashioned, from what I’ve heard. The Old New York Families still make local tabloids, which of course you can’t always believe, but husband and wife relations haven’t seemed to change much in recent years. I always used to ask my mom to bring me some of those magazines whenever she came to Manhattan in her days as a psychiatry professor, and I drank the gossip in like it was water. Nowadays I don’t preoccupy myself with stuff like that, but I expect I’ll get a little taste of it myself once I’m Mrs. Max Banks.

  At that thought, I grimace and take another sip of my drink.

  Max has been watching me. “I’ve been told I make a mean Manhattan,” he says.

  I swallow and hold my glass up to him. “They weren’t kidding.”

  “So why do you look like you’ve just drank sour grapes?” he asks. He leans across the island counter towards me, elbows on black quartz. “Having second thoughts?”

  “I expect I’ll be having second thoughts throughout this whole process,” I admit. “And third thoughts and fourth thoughts, too.”

  He nods, taking a sip of his own drink. “I know it’s a lot,” he says. “I really do appreciate you doing this for me, Ella. You’re a saint.”

  I shrug. “I’m just a girl who’s going to be debt-free for the first time in almost ten years.”

  “You’re a hot young woman who’s going to be debt-free for the first time in ten years,” he corrects me. “And high-rolling for the next twelve months.”

  I hold up a finger in warning. “Remember my conditions,” I say. “No hitting on me.”

  “I’m complimenting you,” he replies with a grin. “There’s a difference.”

  I roll my eyes a
nd finish my drink, setting my glass down with a satisfying clink. “Right,” I say, standing up from the comfortable bar stool. “Thank you for the drink. I’m off to bed. Good night.” It’s only eight o’clock, but I’m craving some alone time. I start off down the hall, but Max calls after me.

  “Hey, Ella?”

  “Mm?” I keep walking.

  “Did you wanna maybe watch a movie or something?”

  I stop and turn lazily on my heel towards him. “And why would I want to do that?” I ask innocently.

  He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Just thought we could get to know each-other a little better. We are getting married, after all.”

  I place a hand on one hip, breathing a deep sigh. “This marriage doesn’t change anything, Max,” I tell him calmly. “Becoming friends isn’t in the contract. Good night.” With that, I continue on to my room without looking back.

  The next day, I am catapulted into a whirlwind of last-minute wedding planning. Max said he wanted to get married as soon as possible, but I didn’t realize he meant within a matter of days. Today is Saturday, and we are getting married on Friday. Less than a week. I know with everything that needs to be done on top of my regular work week, I won’t even have time to think about it much until the big day is here.

  The wedding planner, Sophie, takes me to Kleinfeld’s to pick out a dress. How Max managed to find a wedding planner on such short notice, and how I’m going to find a dress that fits in less than a week, is beyond me. I asked if I could just pick out my own dress at a second hand store or something, but of course that’s not good enough for the Banks family. I need a new dress from a reputable designer.

  The invitations have already gone out, for Chrissakes. Printed invitations on heavy paper, adorned with real gold flakes and swooping calligraphy, hand-delivered to every socialite and business tycoon in Manhattan, every major newspaper, every distant Banks relative. My stomach clenches as I wonder how on earth I’m going to go about telling my own family about this. Sophie had invitations made for them but I insisted on delivering them myself. God forbid my poor mother receive the fucking invitation before I’ve even had a chance to speak to her about this ridiculous charade.

  “Some day, mija,” my mother said to me once when I was about twelve, “you will find a person who brings out the best in you, and you the best in them. And I know you will choose them absolutely. You have such a big heart, mi amor, and the capacity for great love. Never forget that.”

  A giant pit of shame opens up in my stomach, even as I try to tell myself I’m doing this for my mother. After my parents split up not long after that conversation, I debated whether I wanted to get married at all. I never saw my mother cry until the night Daddy left, and I haven’t seen her cry since, even when she was diagnosed with lung cancer two years later. I always wondered whether seeing me get married to the man of my dreams would be enough to bring her to tears. Now that it’s happening, I’m wondering if she will cry for all the wrong reasons. Her daughter, a gold-digger. It’s humiliating.

  I shake my head. I can’t think about this now.

  My stylist at Kleinfeld’s is an older woman who closely resembles a vulture, with no meat on her bones, a slightly stooped posture and beaky nose. I think her name is Margaret, but I honestly wasn’t paying attention when Sophie introduced us. Whatever her name is, she is evidently stronger than she appears. She’s lacing me into a white ball gown so tightly that I’m jerked back with every vicious tug.

  I emerge from the dressing room, cursing Kleinfeld’s for not having private mirrors, which forces brides to go out into the showroom to see themselves. Sophie is waiting for me out there, along with another woman I don’t recognize. She has sleek platinum hair styled into a flawless bob, and is wearing the pointiest pumps I have ever seen. Unlike Sophie, who squeals when she sees me in the dress, this woman regards me with barely veiled contempt.

  I step up onto the dais, ignoring the fact that my cheeks are burning hot. “It’s perfect,” Sophie cries, clapping her hands. “What do you think, Barbara?”

  Barbara Banks. Of course. Max’s mother.

  Mrs. Banks eyes me up and down, and then circles the dais. When she comes back to the front, she looks at Margaret coldly. “It’s too low-cut,” she mutters sharply. “Do you have anything more modest?”

  Awkwardly, I shift my feet on the dais until I can finally see myself in the three-way mirror. The dress is indeed low-cut, but I can’t help but admit it makes my breasts look fantastic. The poofy skirt, however, I could do without. I look as though I have been swallowed by tulle. “Maybe with a less … voluminous skirt?” I add, glancing at Margaret. “Please?”

  “The skirt is fine,” Mrs. Banks snaps. “If you please, Madeline.”

  The stylist, evidently named Madeline, disappears.

  I turn back on the dais to face Max’s mother. “You must be Mrs. Banks,” I say politely, holding my hand out to her. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Mrs. Banks does not shake my hand. Instead, she turns to Sophie. “I’ve sent Lloyd to begin making preparations at the Hampton house,” she says. “Max has an interview at one o’clock that Maximilian and I must be present for. Can you please ensure she is ready for the public by then?”

  I assume the she that Mrs. Banks mentioned so icily is me. She shoots me one last contemptuous look before exiting the boutique.

  Sophie offers me a sympathetic look, but just then Madeline returns to help me back to the dressing room, claiming she has a few other options to try on. I follow her, holding up a handful of gigantic skirt so as not to trip, and blink back some furious tears. I’m beginning to see just where Max gets his piss-poor attitude from.

  By ready for the public, Barbara Banks meant presentable for a public appearance. As in me, walking the streets of Manhattan, arm-in-arm with Max and flanked by the entire Banks clan, surrounded by flashing cameras, yelling reporters and endless bodyguards. I wonder vaguely if this is how Meghan Markle felt the first day she appeared in public as Prince Harry’s girlfriend.

  Swallowed by activity, I completely miss the next few days. I’m only at the office for an hour or two before I’m whisked away to this appointment or that interview. Yes, interviews. That’s part of this whole spiel. Apparently it’s important for the people of New York to get to know the new “it” girl. I’ve never lied so much in my life.

  I’m running out of time to break the news to my family. They don’t preoccupy themselves with New York gossip, but it’s bound to reach them eventually with all the coverage we’ve been getting. I already have about two dozen text messages from Candice asking what the hell is going on, and I haven’t had the energy to reply to any of them.

  So, here I am. It’s Thursday. The wedding is tomorrow. I managed to escape the chaos for fifteen minutes to take a shower at the penthouse before I have to get ready for tonight’s rehearsal dinner. I stall for as long as I can, standing in the shower until the hot water starts to run out and my skin is all pruny. My manicure from yesterday will be ruined, but I don’t care.

  I hear my phone ring as I finally step out of the shower, and hurry to wrap towels around myself as I answer it. “Hello?”

  “Buenos días, mija.” Shit.

  I quickly pad down the hall to my room, shutting the door behind me. Max is out, but I’m not taking any chances. “Hi, Mom,” I reply with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “How are you?”

  “Well, I am curious,” she says. “I don’t hear from you in days and then I see something very interesting on the news.”

  “The news, huh?” Why the fuck is the local Rhode Island news reporting this crap? Is there nothing else going on over there?

  “I see a rich white man and his family walking down the street, the street all crazy with people, and then I see—why, it’s my mija, dressed all fancy, wearing sunglasses like a famous person!”

  “I was going to call you,” I say quickly, cradling my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I
reach for my clothes. “It’s just been so hectic.”

  “Too hectic to tell your own mother you’re getting married?” Her voice is steadily increasing in volume. “What is going on, Consuella? This isn’t like you.”

  “I’m sorry.” I want to kick myself. I want to cry. I want to be anywhere other than this room, on this phone call, in this life. “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

  She must have heard the pain in my voice, because she stops screeching. “Tell me what is going on, mija,” she pleads in a motherly tone that instantly brings tears to my eyes. “Are you all right? Has this man taken you in against your will?”

  “No,” I gasp out, blinking furiously. “Not really. It’s very complicated.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  I nearly drop my phone. “No!”

  “It’s a legitimate question, Consuella.”

  I hear the front door open and an annoyed meow from Mr. Frodo. “Ella?” It’s Max, home to whisk me away.

  “Mama, I have to go,” I say, pulling on the dress I’ve been assigned to wear tonight. “I’m sorry, I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  “Well am I at least invited to the wedding?” she demands before I can hang up. “And José?”

  “Of course, Mama,” I tell her quickly. “I’ll text you the details.” I hang up before she can say any more. Dealing with Jose is going to be a whole other thing. My brother never liked any of my boyfriends growing up, and I doubt Max will be an exception.

  Max appears in the doorway just as I’m pulling my thigh-high stockings over my knees. “Hey there, wifey,” he says, eyes creased with mirth as he takes in my legs appreciatively.

  “Do you mind?” I shriek, gesturing madly for him to get the fuck out.

  He moves back into the hallway, speaking from around the door frame. “Ready to go?” he asks.

  “Just about.” Stockings done, I glance at myself in the mirror for final inspection. A few pieces of my hair are wet from escaping the shower cap, but other than that I look somewhat presentable. “Can you zip me up?”