Famously Wed: A Billionaire Boss Romance

by Roxy Reid

  When the lights finally come up for the interval, I make a beeline for the ladies’ room, forgetting to put my shoes back on in my haste to escape. I no longer care, though, if some rich society woman scoffs at my stockinged feet as I make my way through the lobby. These are not my people. How could I have been so stupid?

  Locking myself into a stall in the massive washroom, I take several deep breaths. Maybe I should give Max the benefit of the doubt, let him explain himself properly.

  Or maybe he hasn’t changed a bit, a harsh voice somewhere within me hisses. Maybe he’s still just a rich white guy who only thinks of himself and his business.

  I shake my head furiously, feeling some of the hundreds of bobby pins in my hair start to come loose. I take care of my business and then go out to wash my hands, hoping the warm water will stop them shaking. I’m shivering all over and feel somewhat sick. Benefit of the doubt, Diaz. Benefit of the doubt.

  I’m suddenly very glad I insisted on keeping my last name on all my legal documents. No point in changing them all when I’m only going to be a Banks for less than a year.

  Somewhat more composed, I wait until I hear the bell signifying the end of the intermission before I head back to the box. This conversation will have to wait until this stupid night is over. I can’t deal with it in front of all these people. I already feel like I’m suffocating.

  Max shoots me a questioning look as I take my seat next to him, but I quickly engage Lucy in a conversation about her dress before he can say anything to me. I avoid looking at him during the entirety of the second act, though I still can’t say what’s happening on the stage, I have no idea.

  When the thing is finally, finally over, I put my shoes back on and follow the stream of people exiting the boxes, with Max on my heels. He catches me by the arm once we’ve reached the lobby and pulls me aside, away from prying eyes and ears. “What’s wrong?” he asks bluntly. “You’ve barely looked at me since the show started.”

  “What exactly are you planning to do with that block in Washington Heights?” I demand in a harsh whisper. “Build more condos? Clean up the streets? Hero Max Banks is going to swoop in and, and—restore the neighborhood?”

  He holds up his hands, a confused frown creasing his brow. “Where is this coming from? You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

  “What are you going to do, Max?” I ask.

  “Construct a new building for the Community League of the Heights, first of all,” he says, crossing his arms. “A bigger, better one, with commercial and residential space which will contribute to the neighborhood’s economy.”

  “They were just built a new building,” I protest. “It’s only six years old.”

  “Why are you yelling at me?” he asks, even though I am doing my very best not to yell. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

  “Washington Heights doesn’t need luxury condos, Max,” I snap. “Obviously that’s not what I want. Were you even listening when I took you there?”

  “Of course I was,” he retorts, looking outraged. “They wouldn’t be luxury, they’d have to be affordable for the residents. It could even be a retirement community, I don’t care.”

  “That’s the problem,” I cry, not caring that my voice is rising. “You don’t care. You don’t know anything about the neighborhood or what they need.”

  “And you do?” he counters. “It’s not like you grew up there, Ella.”

  “That’s not the point,” I hiss.

  “My sister told me what you told her,” Max says. “Don’t act all high and mighty about a neighborhood you’ve never even lived in and pretend you’re some saint by marrying me, literally for money, despite what you’re trying to tell my family.”

  “Says the man who bribed me to marry him so he can keep his elitist company,” I spit back, too angry to care who hears us. “What is the society supposed to do when you put them out for three years while this thing gets built?”

  He drains his champagne and sets his glass down with such force I’m surprised it doesn’t break. “You need to get over yourself, Ella,” he says. “The poor girl act is really unattractive when you’re not poor anymore. Excuse me.” He goes to walk away, but I catch him by the arm and pull him back round to face me.

  “I want to go home,” I say, as calmly as I can.

  He gestures to the door. “Be my guest. I’d love to explain to my mother why my ungrateful wife stormed out of the benefit she’s been preparing for weeks. It’s a fucking fundraiser for charity, Ella. You clearly have an opinion of my family that differs greatly from reality, but that’s your problem.”

  Hearing blood rush in my eyes, I storm by him and head for the door, not looking forward to the long process of searching for the Bankses’ town car in the sea of other, identical cars. “Fuck it,” I whisper to myself once I’m standing in the courtyard of the Lincoln Center, and pull my phone out to call a cab.

  The cab arrives a grueling ten minutes later. I’m about to give the driver directions to the Waterford building, but instead ask him to take me to the nearest train station. I don’t fit in in this world, and I never will. I’d rather be paying off loans for the rest of my life than cater to Max’s enormous ego for one minute longer.

  Once I’ve boarded the train, ignoring the strange looks I’m getting for how I’m dressed, I pull out my phone and dial the familiar number. “Hola mamá,” I say as the tears finally begin to fall. “You were right. I’m coming home.”

  11

  Max

  The resignation letter arrives on Tuesday, nestled among the other daily mail as though it isn’t the physical representation of the end of my marriage.

  I suppose I should have seen it coming, given that Ella didn’t show up for work yesterday and hasn’t answered any of my calls or messages since the benefit on Saturday night. At first I was mildly annoyed by her pettiness, but now my body is slowly feeling her resolve. The finality of her resignation is the nail in the coffin. She isn’t coming back. To the company, or to me.

  I’m still not sure what the hell I did wrong. I thought Ella would be ecstatic about my plans in Washington Heights, I really did. Since that night I’ve been turning that conversation over and over in my head, and trying to understand what my true intentions were. Yes, I probably did it primarily to impress her. To make her happy. And to bring Banks Industries to a new neighborhood we haven’t touched yet. Those are definitely the selfish reasons why I did it. But part of me genuinely wanted to help that neighborhood out …

  Ah, and there it is.

  I wanted to help the neighborhood for Ella’s sake. Because it means a lot to her, not because I necessarily care about the neighborhood itself. She was right.

  I should have known that kind of gesture wouldn’t sit right with Ella. How could I have been so stupid?

  I have my epiphany in the middle of a meeting I have been paying zero attention to for the past half hour. Luckily my father isn’t around this week, so I excuse myself and simply exit the office, shoving Ella’s resignation letter into my back pocket. I take the elevator down to the parking garage and get into the company car, then type Ella’s mother’s address into my GPS. If she didn’t want me to find her, she wouldn’t have put the address on her letter. Right?

  It takes me an hour just to get out of the city, and then another four hours on the highway. I’m so focused on my task and figuring out what I’m going to say that the drive seems to pass in the blink of an eye, and then I’m there, outside a gated residential complex in Central Falls.

  The small townhomes, likely built in the late sixties or early seventies, are looking worse for wear. I park my car on the street and walk in, grateful that the pedestrian gate is unlocked even at seven in the evening.

  I find her house and hesitate outside the door, wiping my sweating palms on my slacks. Now or never. I raise my fist and knock, loudly, on the door. A few moments go by before I hear a stirring inside, and the soft sound of approaching footsteps. Finally, the l
ock turns and the door opens, and Ms. Diaz blinks up at me, a foreboding look of disapproval on her slightly wizened face.

  “Good evening, Ms. Diaz,” I say politely. “I’m looking for my wife.”

  “You’ve got the wrong house,” she says coldly. “You have no wife here.”

  Deep breath. “May I please speak with Ella?”

  “She doesn’t want to speak to you,” Ms. Diaz snaps, moving to shut the door. “Go away.”

  I put a hand out to stop the door from closing, trying my best not to appear threatening. Ms. Diaz looks even more frail than she did at the wedding, and I don’t want to frighten her. “Please, Ms. Diaz,” I plead. “I drove all the way here. I just need to talk to her for five minutes.”

  A male voice barks something in Spanish from within the house. Ms. Diaz calls back, “Es el esposo!” I recognize the word esposo as husband; Ella called me that a couple times.

  I hear a rustling from within the house, and José comes around the corner, wheeling himself towards the front door, a less than friendly look on his face. “You’re not welcome here,” he growls, rolling himself in front of his mother and glowering up at me. “Leave.”

  “Nice to see you again, José,” I say diplomatically. “I need to speak to my wife. Can you call her for me, please?”

  “She’s not here,” Jose replies, but just then a small voice calls from the top of the stairs.

  All three of us look up as Ella descends the stairs. Her hair is wet from a recent shower and she’s wearing sweatpants, but she looks beautiful as ever. “Está bien, José,” she says quietly. “Gracias.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Jose and Ms. Diaz retreat into the house, each giving me the stink eye before they vanish from sight.

  Ella steps in front of me, arms crossed over her chest. “What do you want?” she asks, not altogether harshly, but definitely not in a friendly tone.

  “To apologize,” I say sincerely. “You were right. I didn’t want to buy that block for the right reasons. I was trying to impress you.”

  “You thought that would impress me?”

  “It was stupid, I know. I realize that now. But I hope you know it was just ignorance on my part, not some blatant disregard for the people in that neighborhood.”

  She sighs. “Okay.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Okay?”

  “Apology accepted. Anything else?” She puts a hand on the door, poised to close it.

  I pause, startled by her abruptness. “Uh.”

  “Bye, Max.” She starts to shut the door.

  Once again, I put a hand out to stop it. “Ella.”

  “What?” Now her tone is snappier.

  “Will you come home? Please?” I ask, staring intently into her eyes.

  Her jaw clenches as she swallows. “I am home,” she says quietly. “I assume you got my letter.”

  “No one else saw it,” I reply, taking it from my pocket and holding it up. “You can come to the office tomorrow and no one will be the wiser. We can … we can discuss a new position for you, something with more responsibility, more clout. Not because I was a jerk, but because you deserve it. You deserve everything,” I add, but I already know by her expression that I’m not winning this.

  She shuts her eyes for a moment. When they open again they are hard, uncompromising. “I’m not coming back, Max,” she says. “I don’t belong there. It was stupid of me to get involved in this. I mean we’ve only known each—other for, what, now? A month? It’s ridiculous. I’m putting this all behind me. I don’t care if I have to live in debt, it’s better than living a lie.”

  “Ella,” I call out before she can shut the door. “I love you.”

  She freezes, but her eyes betray her. They fill with tears, but she blinks them away furiously. “Good bye, Max,” she says again, and closes the door.

  The sheets still smell like her. How is that even possible? She was here for such a short amount of time. And yet, she made an enormous impression on me and my home. I was just getting used to it being “our” home. Her red chair is still here, and most of her belongings. She’ll have to come get those at some point, right?

  I roll over again, frustrated that sleep is still evading me after hours of lying in bed.

  I’ve never told anyone that I love them. Not even my family, that I can recall. Definitely not a partner. I didn’t even realize it’s true until I said it, catching both of us by surprise. But it’s true. I love Ella. Whatever higher power brought us together, it did so for a reason, no matter how far fetched the initial cause was. She annoyed the hell out of me when we first met because she challenged me. Once we were married, though, I enjoyed the challenge.

  But of course, in typical Max Banks fashion, I fucked up what was likely the best thing that ever happened to me.

  Embittered, I climb out of bed, padding down the hall to the kitchen, where I pour myself a generous finger of whiskey. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the kitchen window, and no longer recognize myself. I thought I was so sure of who I was, what I wanted. Ella threw a wrench in all that, and now I have no idea who the man staring back at me is.

  Who do I want to be? I have a choice now, at this crossroad.

  I need to get her back. This much is clear. But how?

  I go back down the hall and into my office, flipping up my laptop. I take a good sip of whiskey and then arrange a wire transfer to Ella for all the money I promised her, from my personal account. It’s a start, and I try and convince myself it’s a gesture rather than an amount. Hopefully she sees it that way, too.

  Clearly money is not the way to win Ella over, though. I need to do something bigger. Not just to get her back, but to get back in touch with myself, too. I liked who I was when I was with her.

  I open my email and start a new draft addressed to Mr. Abraham, asking for a meeting sometime this week. Damage control.

  Then I email Julia and set up a meeting with her and Carrie, our PR lead, for tomorrow. Going big is something I’m good at.

  I’ve never really had to fight for anything in my life. My sister has had to fight a patriarchal world for her voice to be heard. My brother fought for his country. But me? My father bought me in to the best schools, my mother bought me good grades I didn’t deserve so I could move ahead in the world.

  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?!