by Roxy Reid
“I didn’t use company funds,” I reply easily. “I used my own money.” There’s a series of gasps at this, but I press on. “I also used my own money to pay all of Ella’s mother’s medical bills and Ella’s student loans. Like I promised I would do if she married me to save the company.”
Father stands up, his face going purple with rage. Mother tries to pull him back down but he shakes her off. “You lying snake,” he spits. “I knew the second you told me about her that it was all a charade. To think I let you get away with this—paid for a fake wedding out of my own pocket—I swear to god, boy, were you not my son I’d—”
“You’d what?”
We’re all stunned into silence. I think we all forgot Kevin was even there.
He steps forward from the shadows, glaring down at our father. “What would you do? Huh? What would you do to your son, Dad? You, a fat old man with heart disease. What are you gonna do?”
No one says a word. Lucy has started weeping silently into her handkerchief.
Father’s entire body is vibrating, and his face is so dark in color I’m expecting to see steam pour out of his ears. He points a sausage finger at Kevin. “Get out.”
“Fuck you.” The words come out like a gunshot.
“GET OUT!”
Kevin walks over to me and grabs my arm. “Come on Max,” he says, pulling me out of the room. “Let’s get the hell away from these nutcases.”
“If you boys walk out that door, so help me you will never return,” Father barks. “Mark my words! You’ll never be Bankses again.”
I turn on my heel to face my father. “Need I remind you, father, that the conditions of my inheritance are absolute once signed?”
“Unless terminated by the current owner of the company,” Father retorts.
“Only if I don’t fulfill my end of the bargain,” I explain. “I’m still married,” I say, holding up my ring finger, “and I’m not thirty yet.”
“You got married under false pretenses! That’s grounds for fraud, boy!”
“There’s nothing fraudulent about my feelings for Ella,” I snap. “Maybe when we first got together, but things are different now. It’s real.”
Father’s eyes narrow to glittering slits. “I don’t believe you,” he hisses. “I can never trust you again.”
Mother has now joined Lucy in the crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother cry. It’s not a pretty sight.
Kevin laughs, quietly, to himself. “I’ve been wanting to get out of his madness for so long,” he says with a smile. “Now I finally have my out.” He looks to me, his dark eyes showing hints of the Kevin I knew for the first time in years. “You coming?”
I look back at my steaming Father, my crying mother and sister. Can I leave them like this? Is this madness or manipulation? Or both? If I walk away now, what are the consequences, and how will they affect Ella? I don’t belong in that world, and I never will. Her words hit me like a truck. What if I’m no longer in that world?
For a moment I have an image of what our life can look like. I’ve been saving money since I was a teenager, putting money into a trust account without my parents’ knowledge. I have enough to last us for several years while we make a life together. The lot I bought with my own money? We could develop it under our own name, under our own terms. We could start anew.
My brother is waiting. The brother who has been a stranger for so long, who is coming back to me now that I’m making my way out from under the rug of this family.
I drain my whiskey and set the glass down, and turn to face them for the last time. “Good luck to you all,” I say calmly. “I’m going to go fight for my wife.” And then I follow Kevin out the door, letting it slam shut behind us.
14
Max
An actual crowd has gathered at the ribbon-cutting site, complete with news cameras and reporters. I’m not sure how many people I was expecting to actually show up at midnight on a Friday in Washington Heights, but I estimate there’s about a hundred people here. I shake my head, grinning. New York City, man.
There’s only five minutes until the clock strikes twelve, and there’s no sign of Ella yet. Kevin and I stand side by side, huddled in our jackets and with hands stuffed in pockets against the sudden chill that arrived when the sun set. I’m shivering, but I’m not sure if that has anything to do with the cold. It could be anticipation, nerves, or leftover adrenaline from walking out on my family earlier tonight. I think that was one of the greatest feelings I’ve ever experienced in my life, aside from falling in love with Ella, of course.
A petite blond reporter approaches me with a white-toothed smile. “Mr. Banks,” she says, holding a microphone to her mouth. A cameraman follows her close behind. “Can you fill us in a little on what’s going on here, tonight?”
I smile kindly at her. “In a few minutes we’ll be cutting the ribbon on this lot behind me,” I tell her. “This will mark the beginning of a new chapter for this neighborhood.”
“Why the sudden interest in Washington Heights?” the reporter asks. “Banks Industries has never developed here before.”
I nod. “I am no longer operating under Banks Industries,” I tell her confidently. “That’s part of what makes this so special. I promise you’ll get the whole story in … three minutes time,” I say, checking my watch. Eleven fifty-seven. Where is Ella?
Satisfied for now, the reporter and her cameraman walk away to interview some of the people who are milling around. A couple of young girls approach me and ask for a selfie, which I oblige graciously. This encourages a few others to approach me, and I grant their request as well. If anything it’s a distraction, but I also want to be able to talk to them later about their opinions on the new building.
One minute left. The crowd is getting restless with anticipation. Kevin is rolling up onto the balls of his feet and back down again, a tight grin turning the corner of his mouth. “This is nuts,” he says to me when I join him again. “You’re nuts.”
“Yep,” I agree, shooting him a matching grin. “Crazy in love.”
He laughs. Genuinely laughs. It’s been a long time since I heard that sound. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were in love, bro. I’m happy for you,” he adds sincerely.
I clap a hand down on his shoulder and squeeze affectionately. “Thanks, Kev. And thanks for having my back at the Hampton house.”
“Of course,” he replies. “Like I said. I’ve had enough for a while. That was just the last straw.”
The large clock attached to the building across the street chimes suddenly, loudly. It’s officially midnight. As the first of twelve strikes begin, I glance around, standing on my toes, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar head of wild, curly dark hair.
I’m blinded by a bunch of lights, and realize it’s all the TV cameras getting prepared to shoot the ribbon-cutting. Kevin hands me the heavy scissors and we both make our way to the other side of the ribbon as the crowd gathers in closer. I can hear various reporters talking to their cameras, filling the unseen audience in on what’s happening. Six of twelve strikes have gone by. No sign of Ella. I’m running out of time.
I never really considered what would happen if she doesn’t show up tonight. I never let myself consider it. Am I really that cocky, or am I practicing self-preservation?
Ten strikes. Eleven.
Twelve.
The clock goes silent, and so does the crowd. There’s an uncomfortable silence as all those faces, all the cameras look to me, waiting for me to do something.
“What do we do?” Kevin whispers to me.
I don’t know. I have no fucking idea what to do. Now I’m really shaking.
Kevin takes the scissors from me and addresses our audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out tonight to this special event. My brother Max has worked very hard throughout the course of his life to find his calling. Until recently we thought he would eventually inherit the family business, Banks Industries, and continu
e his reign as one of the most celebrated architects in the city. But things have changed. As you know, my brother got married a few weeks ago to the love of his life, Ella, who unfortunately is running a little behind this evening.”
“I’m here,” says a quiet voice from somewhere behind the crowd.
Everyone turns and shuffles to look, including the cameras. I blink. With the lights off of me I can see the scene before me a little better. The lights find her, in the crowd. There she is, a look of apprehensive wonder on her face.
Kevin smiles. “It would seem she’s right on time,” he says with a wink.
Ella approaches me cautiously. I stretch my hand out to her, and she takes it. My heart feels like it’s about to burst. “You came,” I whisper to her as she comes to stand next to me.
She smiles up at me. “Sorry I’m late.”
Kevin graciously handles the media for a few moments while I pull Ella aside. “You came,” I say again. “You actually came. I’m so happy,” I add, as I surprisingly feel tears prickle the backs of my eyes.
She takes my hands in her own. “I had to see it for myself,” she says. “What did you do?”
“Ella,” I say, looking down at our clasped hands. “I love you. And I hear you. You don’t have to be a part of the Banks world anymore. But I want you to be a part of my world. If you want. I mean … I’d love to have you.”
Her eyes scan the lot behind us, and then find my face again. “You bought this?”
“With my own money,” I tell her. “Banks Industries won’t have anything to do with this project. And it won’t have anything to do with our marriage anymore. We can start our own company. We can do whatever we want.”
Suddenly, she throws her arms around my neck. I accept her into my arms, holding her as tight as I can, a single tear finally escaping my eye.
When she pulls back, she is beaming. “I love you, too,” she says, her own eyes pooling with tears. “Max. I love you.”
I kiss her, and the crowd erupts in applause. We pull back, laughing, and look out at our audience, hands clasped together.
I look down at my beautiful wife, who looks so happy, and something inside me snaps into place, as though something were missing and has now been found.
Kevin hands Ella the scissors. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asks.
She looks a bit taken aback by Kevin’s turn in personality, but she accepts the scissors nonetheless. She looks to me, holding them out in front of her. “Together?” she asks.
I nod, and place my hands over hers. They’re warm, compared to mine.
“Together.”
Read the next book in the series…
Famously Fake: A Billionaire Boss Romance
Famously Fake: A Billionaire Boss Romance
I’m fake engaged to my movie star boss.
He’s a billionaire single dad with a secret.
Now we’re play acting the Perfect Hollywood Couple.
He can’t know I’m falling for him.
I know it’s just pretend.
But all those delicious kisses feel soooo real.
His divine body sets my panties on fire.
Is he the perfect man to take my v-card?
Everywhere we turn there’s damn paparazzi.
If the truth comes out we’re both ruined.
But what happens once the faking stops?
Am I gonna regret letting the hottest guy in Hollywood be my first?
1
Sienna
“And Sienna will get the Joshua King account,” my boss Carlotta says. Around the conference table heads whip toward me. I wonder if there is another Joshua King. Because the only Joshua King I know is a movie star. Not an actor. Not famous. A genuine movie star. He wins Oscars every few years just to remind people he can, but he’s just as likely to show up in a summer blockbuster that all the critics fall for despite themselves. His taste in scripts is impeccable. His taste in women? Less so. Or at least less specific, since he’s dated half of Hollywood. The most gorgeous half, that is.
Carlotta slides a file down the long conference table toward me. I open it. There’s a photo on top of a beautiful man with dark eyes, a wicked smile, and a glass of very expensive looking champagne.
Yup, it’s that Joshua King.
Someone has scribbled “Concept: California Glamour” across the top of the photo. I flip through the rest of the file. It’s all about a new line of sparkling wine from Joshua’s winery. Because, of course, he has a winery.
Carlotta is speaking again, “As you all know, King hardly ever works with outside marketing firms. Everything is done in house. But he’s reached out to us for help with the launch party for his vineyard’s new line. I don’t need to tell you, that this could be very, very big for us. If we can impress him, and win him as a regular client…”
She doesn’t have to say the rest. Joshua King’s business ventures are as successful as his movies.
I straighten my spine, beginning to get excited. “Well,” I say. “We’ll impress him then.”
Jenny from finance gives a supportive cheer, but most of my fellow account executives are looking at me with varying degrees of envy and concern. Envy that the youngest woman on the team got this account. Concern that I won’t be able to pull it off, and I’ll cost the firm - not just a big client - but the possibility to attract future big clients.
The meeting wraps up, and I start to follow everyone out, but Carlotta stops me. Through the glass walls, I can see the rest of my colleagues returning to their desks. There’s a reason we call this room the fishbowl.
Carlotta steeples her fingers in that way that means she’s going to give me a pep-talk,“Sienna, I gave this to you because you did so well with the Miller’s vodka launch party, and all of your clients rave about you. You’ve built up an admirable portfolio of just this type of event. I can’t think of a better person for the job.”
I blink. Carlotta doesn’t do compliments. I start to reply, “Thank you. I appreciate-”
“But there is no room for error on this,” she interrupts me. “I can not stress this enough. King is a famously demanding man. It’s what makes his projects so successful. I need you to do anything and everything you can to get this account permanently.”
“Anything?” I say. Visions of eccentric movie star demands dance in my head. I love L.A. — the sun, the beach, the tacos, the fashion — but I don’t work in the movie industry precisely because of this. I’ve never been willing to go through some diva’s snack dish and pick out all the blue M&Ms, or pick up their designer dry cleaning at 3 a.m., or walk their stupid tiny dogs. I even heard one horror story of an entitled star who showed up at his assistant’s house in the wee hours of the morning just because he couldn’t sleep.
Carlotta spears me with a fierce look, as if she suspects me of mutiny. “Anything,” she says. “Or else.” Then she turns on her heel and marches out. Heads duck in the cubicles as everyone suddenly tries to look busy.
I look down at the file in my hands. My eyes snag on Joshua’s famous grin, and my pulse quickens. This could make my career. Or it could destroy it, undoing years of work and sacrifice. Years of late nights, and 6 a.m. email chains, and cancelled dates. So many cancelled dates.
I mean, it hadn’t been particularly hard to cancel any of them. When I first started dating in the city, I was worried about The Talk. The one where I explain to some perfectly nice man that no, I haven’t had sex yet, and yes, I want to, but probably not as quickly as he’ll want to, so if he can just be patient … But it turned out to be a moot point. Between my job, and trusting my gut when it says No, not him, I haven’t actually made it to a third date in years.
My best friend, Jax, says I make my mind up too quickly, that people can surprise you. Sometimes they even change. But she’s wrong – people don’t change. That’s why I always listen to that little voice inside of me. The one that says no, not him, never him.
But I’m getting off-topic. The poi
nt is, I’ve made sacrifices for this job. And I’m not going to lose everything just because some rich guy thinks he always knows better than everyone else.
“Bring it on,” I say to Joshua King’s (hopefully airbrushed, because no one really looks that good) face. “I can handle anything you throw at me.”
2
Joshua
I’m aching by the time I drag myself back to my trailer. As my older brother gleefully likes to remind me, 36 is when your body starts falling apart. That is blatantly untrue, but I am considering the offer of a stunt double a lot more seriously than I used to. Especially on this movie. I briefly dated one of the writers, who now seems to be taking it out on me via baseball bats to the shins, supersonic punches, falls from high places, and — in one of her more whimsical moods — blow darts.
I’m ditching the costume department’s ripped camo and wiping the fake blood off my face, when my phone starts blowing up. It’s my assistant-turned-business-partner Darian, and when I see I have 17 missed calls from him, I fumble to answer it.
He could only be calling about one thing.
“Did we…?” I ask, a little bit breathless.
“We did,” Darian answers, smug. “We fucking did. Everyone in Hollywood wanted this baby and we got it.”
I sink down on the dressing room counter, my back to the mirror. The Ouranos script went up for auction this morning. The true story of a group of cold war fighter pilots, it would have been a hot script no matter what. But it’s also the last script written by Hollywood legend Abe Cohen before he died.
