Famously Wed: A Billionaire Boss Romance

by Roxy Reid

  “I’m gonna cum, Ella,” I choke out before attaching my lips to her neck.

  Her fingers tangle in my hair and pull gently. “Cum, baby,” she whispers, and I completely lose it, pouring myself into her with a strangled groan, shuddering in her arms as I surrender myself to my woman.

  My woman.

  The deed done, we remain panting in each-other’s arms for a moment as the last of the waves subside. I pull back and take her face between my hands, looking deep into her eyes. A range of emotions plays over her face, as I’m sure they’re doing on mine. Unable to put anything I’m feeling into words, I just kiss her—gently, tenderly. The most tender kiss I’ve ever given anyone.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Ella asks quietly after I’ve pulled out of her and disposed of the condom. She remains on the counter, swinging her legs shyly.

  I come back to stand between her legs, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her close. “Maybe,” I say with a wink. “I was thinking room service …”

  She smiles. “That is what I was thinking.”

  We each put on a fluffy white hotel robe and go back into the bedroom, where we curl up together in a sea of sheets and pillows and order a movie to watch on pay-per-view. We order ourselves some fabulous entrees—surf and turf—and I pour us some champagne. Holding our flutes up to each other in a toast, I say, “To our honeymoon.”

  She laughs. “I guess this is our honeymoon, isn’t it?”

  I take her hand and smile at her. “And to my beautiful wife,” I add. “And to the start of what I know will be a long and successful career for you.”

  She kisses me quickly, perhaps too choked up to say anything, and touches her flute gently against mine.

  After an amazing dinner, Ella falls asleep in my arms at the climax of the movie we ordered. I’m perfectly content to watch the lights come on at l’Arc de Triomphe from our spot on the bed, holding my wife and for once happy to just be, as I am. As we are.

  With my woman.

  Eventually my arm starts to fall asleep, though, so I lay her down carefully and head out onto the balcony to get some fresh night air. A few stars are visible in the sky above, though the light from the city drowns out most of them. Now that I’m alone, I can allow myself to process my feelings a little better.

  There’s no doubt that Ella has made a positive impact on me. She is someone who knows who she is and what path she wants to take, and she’ll fight tooth and nail to get where she wants to go. No doubt once this contract has expired she will have no trouble starting the next chapter herself, but the thought of the contract ending definitely sparks a sinking feeling in my chest. The sky will be the limit for her; she will be debt-free with contacts she will make during her time as my wife, and she will probably land a great job at a prestigious firm and become my competitor.

  And I?

  I will be the same.

  I will own Banks Industries until the day my eldest son turns thirty (or my daughter, because fuck antiquated inheritance rules). In fact, my first order of business will be to rip apart the ancient contract that’s been passed down and start over so that my kids won’t have to jump through these hoops to keep the company in the family. And then I’ll retire out to the Hamptons or something like my parents and play golf until I die. Up until now this was my life plan, and all I thought I ever wanted. But meeting Ella has thrown a bit of a wrench into that plan, for better or worse.

  I never thought about what I would do if Banks Industries wasn’t the path laid out for me since I was born. I used to play basketball in my years at Harvard but it was more a way of meeting girls and staying fit. Other than that, I never had any interests or hobbies that didn’t have something to do with furthering my career.

  I guess I didn’t really realize what I was missing until I met Ella, and that thought scares the absolute shit out of me.

  She finds me in the same spot about an hour later, her soft little yawn the only thing alerting me to her presence on the balcony. She leans against my shoulder and I tilt my head to kiss her forehead.

  “You all right?” she asks. An ambulance wails somewhere nearby.

  I grin down at her and kiss her again. “Yeah. Just thinking. What about you, sleepyhead?”

  She chuckles. “Sorry about that. It’s been a long day.”

  “You can go back to sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll be in in a little bit.”

  “It’s all right. I think I’m going to call my mom before it’s too late over there. I’ll see you inside in a little bit?”

  I nod. “Sure thing.”

  More sirens approach as Ella heads back inside, shutting the doors softly behind her. The emergency vehicles seem to be gathering a few streets over—I’ve counted three of them, so far. I’m just piecing together the location of the emergency vehicles when I hear the phone ring inside the room. A sense of panic seizes me as I burst back into the room, startling Ella, and dive for the phone. “Max Banks.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Banks,” says the concierge from downstairs. “I’m sorry to inform you I have just received word from ze hotel your father is staying at. It would seem he has had some troubles with his heart. Zey asked if you could please accompany him to l’hôpital.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I hang up and reach for my clothes, dimly aware of Ella asking me what’s going on. “My father’s going to the hospital.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” she asks, horrified.

  “Something with his heart. This happens every now and then,” I add, as if that makes things any better. I stoop to kiss her before heading out the door.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  I shake my head. “You stay, try to relax. I’ll call when I know what’s going on.”

  Her lovely face is pinched with concern. “Okay.”

  I storm down the hall to the elevator, my fists clenching of their own volition. Trust my father to fuck up what was quickly turning into one of the best nights of my life.

  Merde.

  10

  Ella

  I’ve learned fairly quickly that the Bankses don’t slow down for anything. Between the rushed wedding, the last minute trip to Paris, and now, with Maximilian coming back into the office after only being out of the hospital for one day, I feel like I haven’t caught my breath for the past few weeks. Now we are apparently to prepare for a large benefit party that Barbara is organizing this weekend, complete with public appearance at the New York City Ballet’s production of Swan Lake.

  On the bright side, since getting back from Paris a week ago, Max and I have been good. Really good. So good, in fact, that we are secretly planning a getaway somewhere tropical for just the two of us after the benefit. “We need a real honeymoon,” Max insisted one evening after he made us a scrumptious dinner at the penthouse. “Just the two of us. Somewhere secluded and sexy.”

  I can’t help but smile at the memory as I go about the mundane task of data inputting at the office. Secluded and sexy sounds absolutely perfect right about now. Evidently being the boss’ wife doesn’t change the fact that I’m Max’s PA. The data needs inputting and meetings need scheduling. Apparently they’re going to try and hire someone to take over that job once they find something else for me to do, but I’m not holding my breath, especially after Maximilian’s scare in Paris.

  The “heart problems” Max told me about are in fact a series of mini cardiac events that his father has been experiencing over the course of the past few years. Apparently Maximilian has ignored multiple doctors’ advisories to have a pacemaker installed, which has understandably caused the family much stress, but Maximilian doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. For now, he’s all right and is storming about the office for his routine weeklong visit, but I know Max is worried about him. Whatever problems the father and son may have, they are still father and son, after all.

  “Ella,” Maximilian barks as he approaches my desk, “print out the minutes from the meeting in Paris, would you pleas
e? And bring them into the conference room. Right away,” he adds unnecessarily. I’m already doing it. Maximilian likes to forget that I get to be a part of the meetings now, and as such am very aware of the schedule and what needs to be done before each meeting.

  Tensions within the family seem to have eased a bit since Maximilian’s visit to l’hôpital in Paris, at least as far as I’m concerned. The few times I’ve seen Barbara since we’ve been back she’s been icy but polite, and Lucy has been as sugary sweet as ever. No one has seen Kevin since the wedding, but this seems to be a usual occurrence with him.

  I keep trying to leave myself reminders to see and call my family, but something always gets in the way, whether it’s a work thing or a dress fitting or a luncheon. I make a mental note to insist that Max and I have dinner with my mother after this stupid benefit is over with. If the Bankses think they’re the only family that matters, they’ll have another thing coming.

  Max finds me stacking and stapling the meeting minutes and hands me a cup of steaming coffee. “Thank you,” I breathe in relief, sipping the scalding liquid gratefully.

  “You know you don’t have to do that,” Max says, nodding to the growing stack of paper. “We email the minutes out now. It’s more green.”

  “Your father insists on having hard copies,” I explain, giving him a knowing look. “Believe me, I already tried.”

  He grins and takes a sip of his own coffee. “Doing all right?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, brushing a stray curl from my face. “Just eager for this benefit to be over. By the way, I want to arrange a day or two next week where we can go to Rhode Island and visit with my family. My mom really wants to make us her famous enchiladas. And I can show you a bit where I grew up.”

  “That sounds great,” he says, his eyes brightening. “I’ll make it happen. My mother won’t be able to say shit after all the work you’ve done to help her out for this weekend.”

  “I was also thinking,” I press on, glad for the two minutes of privacy between us, “if we do want to get away for a bit—why don’t we go on a proper adventure?”

  “You don’t want to go the all-inclusive route?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “We’re gold members at an Iberostar in Cancun.”

  “And that sounds lovely, don’t get me wrong,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “But I don’t want to … lose myself in the luxury life, you know? I was thinking we could stay somewhere a little less touristy. See the real Mexico. Meet locals, uncover history. Maybe help out some people in need.”

  Max places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying some luxury in your life, Ella. You don’t have to feel guilty.”

  I look down at my hands, clasped firmly around my coffee cup. “But I do.” After a brief pause I add, “You don’t think it would be fun? Step out of your comfort zone? Learn something new?”

  He takes the coffee cup from my hands and sets it down, and then wraps his arms around me. “How about we do a bit of both? A few nights in the wilderness, and a few nights sipping Pina Coladas in our private cabana on the beach?”

  Before I can respond, we are summoned into the boardroom to start the meeting. I gather up the stack of paper and my coffee and follow Max in, hoping my guilt doesn’t show on my face. He’ll get there, I assure myself as I take a seat next to my radiant husband. I just hope it happens before the year is up.

  I’ve walked by the Lincoln Center a dozen times before, and studied it in my time at RISD, but I have never actually set foot inside any of the buildings. As we step into the David H. Koch Theater, with its sleek floors and towering walls covered in images from previous New York City Ballet productions, I am overwhelmed with a sense of wonder. Philip Johnson was the architect, I remember. It’s strange to be so familiar with a building from images in textbooks and on Google, but to actually walk inside is an almost surreal experience.

  I force myself to keep my eyes trained firmly forward, however, given the fact that I’m bound to either run into somebody or trip on my dress, or both, if I don’t. The lobby is absolutely packed, and Barbara insisted that I wear this custom, floor-length rust-colored gown with a literal train. If I don’t trip over it, someone else is bound to, and with one hand carrying a champagne flute and the other holding up a fistful of hazardous skirt, I will have nothing to break my fall when it inevitably happens. Studying the architecture will have to wait until after the performance, once the lobby has cleared out a bit.

  “You look incredible,” Max whispers in my ear as we make our way through the throng of people, not for the first time tonight.

  “Thanks,” I reply, smiling at him. “I didn’t realize people still got so dressed up to go to the ballet.”

  He chuckles, snaking an arm around my waist. “These dinosaurs will cling to any notion of the ‘good old days’ for as long as they possibly can. You should see the opera,” he adds apprehensively. “White tie. The dress you’re wearing now would not cut it. Too scandalous.”

  The dress in question features a modest neckline and sleeves, so I’m not sure how on earth it could be considered scandalous other than the fact that it clings to my body until it reaches my mid-thigh. I don’t have time to ask him, though, because a bell signifies five minutes to curtain.

  “I’ll get us some drinks,” Max tells me. “You go find our seats. Box eight, upstairs. You’ll be all right?”

  I hold up my still half-full flute of champagne and gesture to his own. “We already have drinks.”

  He shoots me a lopsided grin and a wink. “We’re going to need a lot more to get through tonight, trust me.” With that, he disappears into a sea of other men wearing black tuxedos.

  I make my way upstairs, still holding my skirt up to avoid tripping, and let the kind ushers guide me to the Bankses’ box. I’m the first one here, and relish in the brief solitude by taking a seat at the front and removing my shoes for a moment, allowing my already aching feet to breathe outside the confines of unbroken-in Italian leather. The theatre is, of course, massive, and I enjoy a bit of people watching while sipping my champagne. The Bankses’ box offers an impressive view of the stage and of everyone in the surrounding boxes.

  “Don’t you look right at home.”

  I jump, startled by the sudden appearance of Lucy, who floats into the box wearing a billowy lilac gown, her copper hair spilling in ringlets across her slender shoulders.

  I hastily cram my shoes back onto my feet. “Sorry,” I murmur, feeling my cheeks burning. “My feet were killing me.”

  Lucy sits next to me and kicks off her own shoes. “Tell me about it,” she says, stretching her feet out before her. “Don’t worry. No one can see our feet from here.”

  Relieved, I remove my shoes again and sit back in my seat, and offer my glass up to toast with her. “Cheers.”

  “To antiquated traditions,” she replies with a smile, clinking her glass against mine. “God. I absolutely despise ballet.”

  “Really?” I’m surprised, given her ballerina-like physique and tendency to surround herself with all things lovely and sublime. “I love it. I haven’t seen a ballet since I was a kid, though. This is kind of a treat, uncomfortable shoes aside.”

  She shrugs and sips her champagne. “I guess I should say I despise coming to the ballet,” she corrects herself. “The ballet itself is all right.”

  “That’s fair,” I reply, hiding a smile.

  She glances at me sidelong, her pale eyes unwavering. “I meant to apologize, by the way, for what I said at the rehearsal dinner. I feel very protective of my big brother. Counterintuitive, I know,” she adds with a smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time a girl went after him for his money, let’s put it that way.”

  This surprises me, but I try not to let it show on my face. “Well, you don’t need to worry about that with me,” I say, even though that’s literally the reason I married him, but not in the way she thinks. “I’m trying to convince him to spend our honeymoon in the Mexican jungle rathe
r than at the Iberostar.”

  Lucy laughs her bell-like laugh, delighted. “Good luck with that,” she says, cheersing me again.

  Slowly the rest of the Banks clan trickles in, including Barbara, Maximilian and a couple of other folks I don’t recognize and whom they don’t introduce me to. My husband joins us finally, carrying another two champagne flutes, and sits on my other side. “Long line at the bar?” I ask, accepting the extra flute. “The show is going to start any second.”

  “Got to talking with a city councilman,” he replies. “I have news.”

  “Oh?”

  “The councilman, Councilman Abraham, is in charge of a district in Washington Heights,” Max explains. His eyes are bright with excitement. “I’ve approached him a couple times over the past week or so, but I think I may have finally convinced him.”

  “Convinced him of what?” I ask, as the house lights start to dim around us. The theater fills with applause, and we join in politely.

  Max leans over the whisper in my ear. “I think I convinced him to let Banks Industries buy the block that the community center you showed me is on,” he explains. “We can build them something bigger and better and also bring some revenue to the neighborhood.”

  “What?” I cry, earning a few harsh shushes from surrounding boxes.

  He takes my hand and kisses it. “We’ll talk after,” he says, and turns his attention to the stage, where a few ballerinas have emerged to begin the show.

  I sit in that seat, next to that man, watching the ballet but not really seeing it, for a whole two hours. I feel numb. There’s no way Max could mean what I think he means. There’s no way he could have interpreted my showing him that building as encouragement to gentrify the area. There’s absolutely no way.