Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Roxy Reid

  I go back to bed, still feeling restless, but more at ease now that I have a plan.

  This is something I can fight for. I can fight for Ella. For love.

  12

  Ella

  I wake up to the sound of my mother screaming.

  I sit bolt upright in bed, blinking while my brain processes the sounds from downstairs. Definitely screaming. Definitely my mother.

  I scramble out of my cocoon of blankets and thunder down the stairs, ignoring José’s frantic inquiries in Spanish from down the hall. I find my mother in the office, staring dumbfounded at her computer.

  “What is it, Mama?” I ask, frenzied.

  She stops screaming and looks up at me. Tears streak her face, and she is obviously too choked up to speak. She points to the screen.

  “Thank you for submitting payment to the Lifespan Cancer Institute,” I read from the email. “Your balance is zero dollars.” I blink, not believing what I’m seeing. We had years of debt ahead of us last time I checked the balance of my mother’s medical bills. “How is this possible?”

  “Do you think that boy did this?” Mama asks, her voice shaking.

  “Why would he?” I reply grimly. “I didn’t fulfill my end of the bargain.”

  My mother shrugs. “He wants you back, Mija,” she says quietly. “Maybe he did this to prove his devotion to you.”

  “Pfft,” I scoff. “The only thing he’s devoted to is inflating his own ego.”

  She reaches up and touches my cheek, gently. “I know you’re hurt, Mija. It’s horrible to see, as your Mama. But I saw that boy yesterday. I saw that he loves you. Look what he has done for us.” She looks back to the screen, fresh tears bubbling in her eyes.

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair, which is rocking some pretty crazy bed head. “He did a nice thing,” I say diplomatically. “I’m not even mad at him anymore, necessarily. I just don’t fit in in that world.”

  “You can fit in wherever you want to, Mija,” Mama says with a smile. “You need to figure out if he’s worth a little discomfort while you adjust. Think of all the good you could do with that power.”

  I smile and kiss her on the head. “I’ll think about it.”

  José corners me on my way back to my room, his wheelchair blocking the way. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Max paid off Mama’s medical bills.”

  His eyes widen and he folks his arms across his chest. “Really.”

  “I know.” I roll my eyes. “Want me to help you get downstairs?”

  “Nah, I’m going back to bed,” he says, turning himself around. “Too early for this shit.”

  I chuckle as I head back to my own room. Too early indeed.

  Still, I’m curious. Lying back down on my bed, I reach for my phone and open the app for my bank. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but given that Max is a big gesture kinda guy …

  Sure enough, my bank has processed a wire transfer for an amount of money that makes my jaw drop.

  The fucking nerve of this guy!

  This time it’s my turn to scream.

  Max, it seems, doesn’t give up easily.

  I’m busy doing a whole lot of nothing later that day, as I have been doing for the past few, when I get the call. “Hello?”

  “Good afternoon, I am looking for a Miss Ella Diaz?” says a smooth male voice I don’t recognize.

  “Speaking.”

  “Miss Diaz, my name is Luther Armstrong. I am the CEO of Freefly Architects Limited based in Brooklyn.”

  I nearly drop my phone. “Yes, Mr. Armstrong—sorry—hi. I’m very familiar with your company.” What the hell is Luther freaking Armstrong calling me for?!

  “That’s good to hear,” Mr. Armstrong says in a friendly tone. “Well, Miss Diaz, we were faxed your resume this morning from one of our competitors who also passed along his highest recommendation. We have an opening for a junior consultant position, and I was wondering if you’d like to come in for an interview later this week?”

  I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry—Max Banks sent you my resume?”

  He chuckles. “Our source would like to remain anonymous, as a matter of fact, but yes, your resume was sent from someone at Banks Industries.”

  Oh, he’s good. That fucker. “Well, I would love to come in for an interview, Mr. Armstrong. Thank you so much for contacting me.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have my assistant set up a time with you via email. Bye for now, Miss Diaz.”

  I hang up the phone, unable to believe what just happened. If I get this job … Max Banks may have completely changed my life within the span of a single day, without even the commitment of me being his wife. “Message received, Banks,” I mutter under my breath.

  I decide to call Candice, knowing that her blunt matter-of-factness may offer me some perspective on the situation. “Hey Candy,” I say when she answers the phone. “I’ve got a situation for ya.”

  “Shoot,” she says brightly. “Actually, but first … how are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, getting up from my bed to pace around the room. “Just feeling kinda weird about stuff.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Max paid off my mom’s medical bills,” I explain with a sigh. “And wired me all the money he promised me, and then some. And set up an interview for me with a great agency in Brooklyn.”

  Candice whistles. “Sounds like he’s trying to win you back.”

  “Thank you,” I exclaim, throwing my hands up. “That’s what it feels like to me, too. He’s not just doing it out of the goodness of his heart.”

  “I mean … he also didn’t have to do it,” Candice points out. “Has he tried to contact you?”

  “Not since he showed up here yesterday,” I say.

  “He showed up at your mom’s house?” she cries. “You mean he drove, what is it, five hours? Just to see you?”

  “Almost five hours,” I correct her. “And yes. To apologize. He also asked me to come home.” I pick at a loose thread at the hem of my sweater. “He, uh. Told me he loves me.”

  There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line. “Do you love him back?”

  “I don’t know,” I cry, flopping back down on my bed. “I maybe thought I did? Everything happened so fast. I feel so conflicted. He’s so much different than the rest of those upper echelon types, at least he was before all this crap happened. But I don’t know if I want to go back to that life. The benefits, the dress fittings, the bullshit. It’s just not me.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “Yes. I told him I don’t fit in in his world and I don’t want to.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He said … he would get me a new position in the company, one with more clout. And that I deserve everything.”

  “That’s not what you were looking for, though.”

  I can’t help but smile. Candice knows me well. “Right.”

  “Well,” Candice says breathily. “Looks like you have a decision to make, girl. He seemed like a nice dude at your wedding. I could tell he was falling in love with you.”

  This surprises me. “Really?”

  “Yeah. The way he looked at you. The way he touched you. I don’t know. I could just tell.” She sighs, and I can practically hear her shrugging. “I can’t tell you what to do, Ella. But … really think about your feelings. What you want. If he’s worth all the bullshit.”

  I laugh. “You sound like my mother.”

  “We do both give excellent advice,” Candice replies with a laugh of her own. “But seriously. Think about it.”

  I bite my lip. “I will.”

  I’m on the bus home from the grocery store when the next sign happens. I find my usual seat towards the back, prop the paper grocery bags on my knees, and put my headphones on immediately to avoid unwanted conversation and drown out the mundane sounds around me. An older man sits opposite me, reading a copy of toda
y’s newspaper. He’s evidently only interested in the sports section, because he sets the rest aside.

  “Excuse me,” I ask him, removing my headphones. “Do you mind if I read that?”

  The man shrugs and hands me the rest of the paper. The headline that caught my eye on the front page jumps out at me and sends a shiver down my spine. YOUNG ENTREPRENEUR TO BUILD NEW COMMUNITY SPACE IN WASHINGTON HEIGHTS.

  I flip frantically to read the rest of the article on page six. There it is, a picture of Max standing in front of the CHAH building in Washington Heights next to a few women I recognize as board members of the society.

  Max Banks, 29, the billionaire heir to Banks Industries, a leading force in architecture and development based in New York City, announced Wednesday that he will be leading the development, design and construction of a brand new community space on an empty lot in Washington Heights. The space, he says, is intended for the use of multiple non-profit humanitarian organizations and will feature six floors of affordable rental space.

  I can’t fucking believe it. I read on, though my hands are shaking so badly I struggle to keep my eyes focused on the page.

  When asked for his inspiration for this unexpected move, Banks credits his “beautiful wife, Ella” for opening his eyes to a world of new possibilities for the future of Banks Industries. Banks invites his wife and anyone else who’d like to come to the ribbon-cutting ceremony this Friday at midnight. Banks will inherit Banks Industries from his father on his thirtieth birthday in February of next year.

  I give the newspaper back to the old man and sit back in my seat, blinking back tears. How could he do this? His efforts are going public now, and in Rhode Island to boot. If I weren’t so fucking touched, I would be humiliated, and furious. But I’m not those things. I’m about to full-on ugly cry on the bus in front of all these strangers.

  My phone dings in my pocket. I pull it out and open the new text from Candice. It’s a photo of a billboard on the side of the highway featuring the same photo of Max from the newspaper, with the same quote about the ribbon-cutting ceremony this Friday at midnight. Candice’s caption says, Still thinking about it?!

  I get off the bus at the next stop even though I still have a ways to go before I get home. I’m hyperventilating again, and set my groceries down, trying to get my bearings. What the hell is he doing, plastering this all over the place? It’s embarrassing, and borderline creepy.

  It’s also romantic as hell, says the annoying little voice inside me. I brush that voice aside. Romantic, maybe, but also insane. That being said, I can’t deny that my heart feels like it’s going to burst at the idea that Max may actually have changed for the better. The new building in Washington Heights, sending the money even though he was under no obligation to, publicly reaching out to me to declare his love. It’s all too much.

  After I’ve calmed down a bit I sit on the bench to wait for the next bus.

  Is he worth all the bullshit?

  If he is willing to change and sacrifice for me, can I do the same for him? Sacrifice my comfort sometimes in the name of love? Give up my privacy, but do some real good with my place in the spotlight, like I’ve always wanted?

  My heart sinks. I’ve always thought Max was the selfish one between us, but maybe I’ve been a hypocrite. All I want to do with my career, with my life, is to help people. Even Barbara fucking Banks organized an entire benefit to raise money so that young girls in Africa could have access to education. If she can do that, I can help Max with his plans for this new community centre. I can support him and influence him. I can love him without fear, without judgment.

  When I finally arrive home, I put the groceries away and head straight to my room.

  Time to think about it.

  13

  Max

  It would seem my actions lately have been so bad, they warrant a family meeting at the Hampton house. Father practically kidnapped me after work, barking for me to get in his car without any explanation as to why or where we were going. I was silent and clueless for most of the drive, pretty sure he wasn’t about to drag me out into the woods and murder me, but by the time we arrived at the Hampton house I figured out what’s going on.

  A classic Banks family intervention. Reserved only for when a member of the family is embarrassing said family—not for, oh, when someone is drinking too much, or any of the other vices families usually hold interventions for. You can bet I’m usually the one in the hot seat, and tonight is no exception.

  Father leads me to the sitting room, his shoulders up by his ears with tension. I swear, if the man doesn’t learn to relax he’s going to have another heart attack very soon. It’s a grim thought, but a very real possibility. Maybe he’s the one who needs an intervention.

  I pause in the doorway to the sitting room, taking it all in. They’re all here. Even Kevin.

  But I don’t care. I’m not going to let them bully me anymore.

  “Sit down, son,” Father says, sitting his own ass down on the couch next to Mother. I grimace as I find a seat in a lone armchair. He only calls me son when he’s really pissed off.

  “All right,” I say, slapping my hands down on my knees. “What’d I do this time?” Nobody even bats an eye. Typical.

  My mother starts. “Do you know where your wife is at the moment, Max?”

  Your wife. Like she’s a chore I forgot to do. I sit back in my chair and shrug. “She’s visiting her mom in Rhode Island. Why?”

  Mother and Father shoot each other a knowing look. “Are things … all right between the two of you?” Mother asks.

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Not that you actually care,” I say through my teeth, “but we’re separated at the moment.” At the disparaging looks on their faces, I add, “Don’t worry, the press hasn’t gotten wind yet.”

  “It would seem they have,” Father snaps. He throws a newspaper onto the coffee table between us, the pages slapping teak with a surprising amount of force. “And it would seem you gave it to them.” He’s referring to the articles about the new community centre in Washington Heights, which I’m sure is going to be another pinch point they’re going to want to “discuss” this evening.

  “Nowhere in that article did I say we’re separated,” I retort.

  “But you implied it,” Father replies quickly. He picks up the paper and reads: “‘When asked for his inspiration for this unexpected move, Banks credits his “beautiful wife, Ella” for opening his eyes to a world of new possibilities for the future of Banks Industries. Banks invites his wife and anyone else who’d like to come to the ribbon-cutting ceremony this Friday at midnight. Banks will inherit Banks Industries from his father on his thirtieth birthday in February of next year.’” He tosses the paper down again. “I’ll tell you something right now, boy,” he spits. “You’ll not be inheriting Banks Industries in February, or at all. You’ve embarrassed us for the final time.”

  “How the hell does that imply we’re separated?” I cry indignantly. “I’m inviting her to the ribbon-cutting ceremony.”

  “Why would you need a newspaper to do that?” Mother quips. “If she’s your wife she should already be by your side at all times.”

  “As it is,” Father interjects, “it would seem you are no longer married to her, or won’t be much longer. Meaning that when you turn thirty, unmarried, the company will remain in my hands.”

  I stand and go to the bar, pouring myself a generous glass of whiskey. I don’t offer anyone else a drink. Instead I turn and lean on the bar, draining half the glass before I respond. “We are still married, Father,” I say evenly. “And that’s not going to change, despite your strongest hopes.

  “We’ll see about that,” Mother mutters into her teacup.

  “What did you say?” I ask, a hint of ferocity entering my voice. I clutch the whiskey glass harder to prevent my hands from shaking.

  My sister decides that now is a brilliant time to speak up. “Max, darling, you’ve never been able to keep a wo
man in your life. I’m sorry but it’s just the truth.”

  I clench my jaw, debating throwing my glass at her. “This is different,” I hiss.

  “Explain to us how it’s different,” Father bellows. “It seems exactly the same to me. You court a girl and then you toss her aside, no matter at what cost to the family.”

  “Why don’t you stop intertwining the family with my relationships, then?” I snap, my voice rising in pitch. “Maybe that will reduce some embarrassment for you. It’s none of your fucking business who I date and when it ends!”

  “Don’t you dare swear at your father,” Mother says, horrified.

  I turn my icy gaze on her. “Don’t you dare stick your nose in my business. I’m serious. I’m so fucking sick of this.” I drain my glass and pour myself another.

  There’s a long, uncomfortable silence in which everyone stews in their fury. Taking another couple sips of whiskey for courage, I turn back to face them. “I love her,” I tell them evenly. “I’m in love with Ella. I’m going to make things right with her, I promise. But I can guaran-fucking-tee that if any of you meddle in my plans, or with anything that has to do with our relationship, she will walk away and never come back. And that will be on you.”

  I think I’m starting to have an out of body experience. I can see myself, facing my entire family, saying things I would normally never dare say to them for fear of powerful rebuke. But at this point I am so beyond caring what any of them think of me. If they can’t accept me or my wife for who we are, then screw them. Ella is my family now. She’s all I need. If I can get her back, all she’ll have to do is say the word and I’ll cut my toxic family off for good. I mean it.

  Deciding to save that threat for a more intense moment, I remain silent, staring down at them, waiting for the next onslaught.

  Father points lazily to the newspaper once again. “And this … community center you’re building,” he starts. “I don’t recall being consulted on this. Nor do I recall giving you permission to spend company funds on a lot in Washington Heights, of all the godforsaken places.”