Bought by the Ruthless CEO

Chapter 8: The Mother

My mother never knocks either. It's a Reyes family curse. We open doors like we own the place.

The elevator doors opened and she came out like a storm in human form.

Small, 5'2", brown long skirt, white blouse, big black handbag that has everything inside — bible, wipes, food, cash, rosary. Her hair flowing down freely on her shoulders.

"LISA! LISA REYES! Where are you! They said you moved out of Queens! Your father said you—"

She stopped dead in the middle of the hallway.

Because Aaron Cross was standing in the middle of his $20 million penthouse, in a crisp white shirt, black trousers, hair perfect again, looking like a CEO ad from Forbes.

And I was standing next to him in my tiny desk corner, in my thrifted blouse and old jeans, eyes red from yelling at Victoria 10 minutes ago, looking like his maid.

My mother's eyes went from Aaron, to me, to the floor-to-ceiling windows showing all of Central Park, to the black marble floor.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Like a fish.

"Lisa... who is this man? Why does the driver downstairs say you live here now? And why does he have security? Are you in trouble?"

"Mommy," I said, my voice small and guilty. I ran to her and hugged her tight. She smelled like home. Like our small kitchen in Queens. Like coconut oil and cheap perfume.

"Mommy, I can explain, just—"

"I am Aaron Cross," Aaron said smoothly, stepping forward with his hand out, his business voice on. Cold, perfect mask back on. CEO Aaron. The mask he wears for the world.

"Your daughter's employer. She got a promotion. She is now my executive assistant. It comes with housing, so she can be closer to work and to Mount Sinai."

My mother looked at his big hand. Did not shake it. She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. Mom radar on 100%.

"Promotion? Lisa, you work at the thrift boutique selling $20 jackets! What promotion gives you penthouse on Fifth Avenue with private elevator? Is this— are you—"

She lowered her voice to a harsh, loud whisper that the whole penthouse could hear, including Aaron.

"Are you now giving your body to men? Do you now sleep with men for money? Is that what NYU taught you?"

"MOM!" I choked, my face burning red. "No! No! It's not like that!"

Aaron's eyebrow lifted slightly. He heard exactly what she said. Of course he did. He hears everything.

"Mrs. Reyes," he said calmly, hands in pockets now, respectful. "I assure you, your daughter is not... what you think. She works for me. I pay her well because she is brilliant. 4.3 GPA. Top of her class. Best intern I've ever had."

My mother wasn't listening to him. She grabbed my arm — strong grip for a small woman — and pulled me toward the bedroom hallway.

"Come. Take me to your room. Now. I want to see this room where you live with a man."

I rolled my eyes and led her to my bedroom, Aaron following slowly behind us, keeping distance.

She opened my bedroom door. Saw the huge king-sized bed, the white sheets untouched, the $2,800 black dress still hanging perfectly on the hanger, the closet full of designer bags, heels, dresses — all in my size, all with tags. She saw my $29 duffel bag in the corner, open, pathetic.

She turned around slowly, her face changing.

"Lisa. Tell me the truth. Now. Before I call your father and we both come and carry you out of here tonight."

My eyes filled with tears. I couldn't lie to my mother. Not while my father was in a hospital bed because of us. Not after she carried our family.

So I told her. Everything. Fast, whispering, crying. The $400k debt, the hospital calling Aaron, the $670k, the contract I signed yesterday, the 365 days, the rules, the black Escalade. Everything except the part about his hand on my thigh and his burnt eggs and his sticky note and Victoria calling me a pet.

When I finished, my mother's face was stone. Hard stone. The kind of stone before a volcano.

She walked past me, out of the bedroom, straight to where Aaron was standing by the window, pretending to be on his phone, pretending not to be listening to every word.

She stopped directly in front of him. She had to crane her neck way up to look at him. He is 6'3. She is 5'2.

"You," she said, pointing a finger straight at his chest, poking his expensive white shirt. "You bought my daughter? Like goat? Like market goat? You go to hospital and buy girl?"

"Mrs. Reyes—" Aaron started, his hands up slightly.

"Shut up! I am talking! You keep quiet when a mother is talking!" My mother was small but right then she was 10 feet tall and the whole penthouse was scared of her.

"My daughter is not for sale! My husband borrowed money, yes! We are poor, yes! But we are not slaves! We are Reyes! We are proud people!"

"You think because you have big money and big house and big glass building, you can do whatever you want? Were you raised properly? Where is your mother? Does your mother know you go around buying small girls to fill your empty house?"

At the mention of his mother, Aaron flinched. Just for one second. A tiny flinch. But I saw it. My mother saw it too, but she was too angry to stop.

"Mom, please—" I tried to pull her arm. "He saved Dad! Dad would have died yesterday!"

"No! Let me talk to him! You — what do you call yourself again? Aaron? How old are you? 31? 32? You have no wife? No child? No girlfriend? So you buy small girl to fill your empty 8,000 square feet house? What kind of life is that?"

Martha had disappeared completely into the kitchen. Smartest woman in New York.

Aaron looked at my mother, and for the first time since I met him two days ago in that hospital, he looked... ashamed. Not angry. Not cold. Not scary.

Ashamed. Like a boy being scolded by his mother.

"Mrs. Reyes," he said quietly, his voice low and respectful. "You are right. What I did... the way I did it was wrong. Your husband needed help. He needed $400,000 no bank would give him. I offered help in a way that benefited me. That is my business, that is how I was raised. But I have not touched your daughter. I have not hurt her. I swear on my mother's grave, Melissa Cross, 1978 to 2009. She has her own room. She has a lock on her door. She is safe here. And her father... his bills are paid. He will get his transplant. He is stable today because of the contract."

My mother stared at him, breathing hard, chest heaving.

Then she did something I did NOT expect in a billion years.

She slapped his arm. Not hard. Like a mother slapping a stubborn son who came home late.

"If you touch my daughter without her permission, I will do something you will regret and I don't care whether you own this building or own Manhattan!" she shouted, finger still poking. "I don't joke with my daughter! She is my only child! I will call the police! I will gather everybody!"

"Mom!"

"I mean it!" she said to Aaron, eyes blazing. "And if you hurt her, I will hurt you, yes I'm grateful for your help for my husband, thank you, but I am watching you, Mr. Aaron!"

Aaron... actually smiled. A small, respectful, almost amused smile. He looked down at her.

"Yes ma'am," he said. "I understand, ma'am. I promise."

My mother turned to me, still angry. "And you! You signed contract without telling your mother? You think you are adult now? You think you can sell yourself to save us? Who told you to do that? Who gave you permission to be hero?"

"There was no time, Mom," I cried, tears falling. "He said they would stop Dad's medicine in 20 minutes—"

She pulled me into a tight, hard hug, her small body shaking, and she started crying too. "My daughter... my small daughter... carrying this family on your small back..."

We stood there hugging in the middle of his cold, perfect, expensive penthouse, two broke Queens women crying on his black marble floor that cost more than our rent for 10 years.

Aaron watched us. He didn't interrupt. He just stood there, hands in pockets, looking at us like he had never seen a mother hug a daughter like that before in his life. Like he was watching a movie from another planet.

After a long time, my mother wiped her face with her hand and looked at Aaron again, sniffing.

"You will feed her well?" she asked, interrogation round two.

"Yes ma'am. Martha cooks. Three meals a day."

"You will let her go to school? NYU? She graduates in May! She must graduate!"

"She will graduate. I will drive her to class myself if needed. Or driver will."

"You will let her go to church on Sunday? She must go to church!"

My mom loves everything about church and she was embarrassing me so much I wanted to die.

"Mom!" I groaned.

Aaron's lips twitched, trying not to smile.

"If she wants to go to church, she can go, ma'am," he said.

My mother nodded, satisfied. Then she picked up her huge black handbag and brought out two plastic plates.

"I brought you jollof ," she announced. "And chicken. I cooked this morning when your father told me you moved to Manhattan with rich man. I said my daughter must not starve working for some rich guy."

It was not a request. It was an order. From my mother to a billionaire.

Aaron looked at the plastics like he had never seen one before in his life.

"I... I have a meeting at—" he started.

"And how is that my business?" my mother said, already walking to the dining table. "You have meeting, but you must eat. You need real food. Show me to the dining table, Mr. Aaron."

I looked at Aaron, begging him with my eyes to say yes, to not embarrass my mother.

He nodded once. "Dining room is this way, Mrs. Reyes."

We sat. Me, my mother, and Aaron Cross, billionaire CEO of Cross Holdings, eating jollof and fried chicken that my mother carried from Queens on the subway, on his $500 per plate expensive white plates, with his $200 wine glasses.

He took a bite. Chewed. Stopped. His eyes widened slightly.

"This is... good," he said, genuinely surprised. "Really good."

"Of course it's good! I cook with love! Lisa can testify, she grew up eating this!" my mother said proudly, piling more jellof on his plate whether he wanted it or not.

I looked at Aaron in his crisp white shirt, eating my mom's jollof with a fork, trying very hard not to spill on himself, and I laughed. I actually laughed for the first time in a whole week since Dad got sick. A real laugh.

He looked up at me, mouth full of jollof, and his eyes softened. Crinkled at corners.

And under the table, his foot accidentally — or not accidentally — touched mine.

I didn't move my foot away. I let it stay there.

My mother didn't see. She was busy telling Aaron how she made the dishes and some embarrassing stuffs and apologizing for shouting earlier but also not apologizing.

"Rule Nine, Lisa," Aaron whispered to me while my mother was talking loudly, his foot still touching mine under the table.

"Another rule? Do we really need rules for everything now?" I whispered back.

"Rule Nine: Your mother can visit anytime she wants. And she must bring jollof every time."

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling so big my cheeks hurt.