My Flash Husband Is My Boss

Chapter 8

I was falling.

Not the graceful faint of a queen in a movie. I was falling hard, my six inch heels giving way, the black gown tangling around my legs, my hand clutching my stomach.

The last thing I saw before the blackness took me was the red light of the live stream camera blinking directly at my face.

And Seth's voice, low, urgent, possessive.

"Elise!"

Strong arms caught me before I hit the white marble floor of The Pierre Hotel.

Seth's arms. Hard, warm, smelling like his cologne, Tom Ford, expensive and familiar now.

He lifted me like I weighed nothing, one arm under my knees, one arm around my bare back. The black gown slipped a little, exposing more of my thigh through the slit. The diamond choker pressed against my throat.

Five hundred people gasped.

I could hear whispers. I could hear cameras clicking.

"Is she pregnant?"

"She is holding her stomach."

"Mrs. Vega is pregnant."

My eyes fluttered open. I was against his chest, his black tuxedo jacket open, white shirt underneath. His heart beating fast against my cheek.

"Seth," I whispered, my voice weak.

"Do not talk, wife," he whispered back, his lips brushing my forehead, right there in front of five hundred people and live stream. "You are safe. I have you."

Mrs. Eleanor Vega was suddenly there, silver gown shimmering, her face calm but her eyes sharp.

"Everyone, please, my daughter in law is tired. It has been a long week. She needs air."

She looked at the live stream camera and smiled, queen mother smile.

"And no, she is not pregnant. Not yet. My son and his wife have only been married for one week. Give them time."

Not yet. She said not yet.

Isabella Laurent stood up from Table Twelve, white Dior dress perfect, holding champagne, fake concern on her face.

"Oh my god, Elise, are you okay? Do you need a doctor? You look pale."

She walked toward us, her heels clicking, her eyes flicking to Daniel Carter who was still staring at me in Seth's arms, mouth open, like he had never seen me look like this before.

Daniel Carter in his cheap suit. My ex fiance Daniel Carter who cheated on me with my cousin. Looking at me now in a black gown, diamond choker, in the arms of a billionaire.

Chloe grabbed his arm, her pink gown too tight, whispering something angrily in his ear.

Seth did not even look at them. His eyes were only on me.

"My wife needs to rest," he said, his voice cold, carrying across the silent ballroom. "We are leaving."

He carried me out of the ballroom, through the crowd that parted like the Red Sea, through the press pit where cameras flashed like lightning, through the lobby of The Pierre Hotel.

He did not put me down. He carried me all the way to the private elevator, to the black Rolls Royce waiting outside.

The driver opened the door. Seth slid inside with me still in his arms, my black gown spilling over his lap, my bare legs against his tuxedo pants, my head on his shoulder.

"Drive. Home. Now," he commanded.

The car started moving. Manhattan lights blurred outside.

I was still shaking. My hand was still on my stomach, even though I was not pregnant.

"Elise, look at me," Seth said quietly, his hand covering mine on my stomach. His hand was big, warm, possessive.

I looked up at him. His face inches from mine. His dark eyes worried, but also something else. Something hot, dark, dangerous.

"You scared me in there, wife. You scared me when you held your stomach like that."

"I felt dizzy," I whispered. "The lights, the people, Daniel Carter and Chloe and Isabella at Table Twelve, all staring. And the camera. The red light."

"I know," he said, his thumb stroking my stomach over the silk of my black gown. Slow circles. "My mother planned this. She wanted press to think you are pregnant. So we would have to make it true."

My breath caught.

"What do you mean make it true?"

He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear, his breath warm.

"My mother told you. If you faint at the gala, you will have to be pregnant. For real. To make the fake marriage look real to the board. To shut up Isabella Laurent and her father."

The car was dark. Only Manhattan lights flashing across his face. His hand still on my stomach, stroking slow circles that made my skin burn under the silk.

"Seth, we have a contract. No touching without permission. No s*x unless both agree. One year, then divorce."

"The contract says we share a penthouse," he whispered, his other hand sliding to my bare back, where the black gown was backless, his fingers tracing my spine. "The contract says we practice being married. And tonight, wife, you practiced fainting in my arms in front of five hundred people. Tomorrow, practice will be different."

His fingers traced lower, to the small of my back, where the gown dipped dangerously low.

I shivered, even though the car was warm.

"Seth, the driver is here."

"The driver cannot see. The partition is up."

He pressed a button and a black glass partition slid up between us and the driver. Now we were alone in the back seat. Just me in my black gown on his lap, and him in his tuxedo, his hands on my bare back and my stomach.

"Elise," he said, his voice rough now, low. "At the gala, when Daniel Carter stared at you in that black gown, what did you feel?"

"I felt nothing," I lied.

"You felt powerful," he corrected, his hand sliding from my stomach to my waist, pulling me closer, so my chest pressed against his. The sweetheart neckline of my black gown dipped low, and his eyes dropped for a second before coming back to my face. "You felt powerful because you knew you are no longer the girl Daniel Carter cheated on. You are Mrs. Vega. My wife. In black. And Daniel Carter will never have you again."

He leaned down and kissed me. Not soft like at City Hall. Not gentle like in the penthouse kitchen. This was possessive, deep, hungry, like he had been holding it since I walked down the stairs in black at six thirty.

His tongue brushed my lips and I opened for him, my hands fisting his tuxedo jacket. He tasted like whiskey and mint. He kissed me like he owned me. And in that moment, in the back seat of his Rolls Royce, in my black gown with a long train tangled around his legs, I let him.

His hand slid to my thigh through the slit of my gown, warm, big, not going further, just resting there, possessive.

When we broke apart, breathing hard, my dark red lipstick was smeared on his mouth again, like at La Grenouille.

"My mother will be happy tomorrow," he whispered against my lips. "Press will say Mrs. Vega fainted at her first gala because she is pregnant. She will call us at six AM and tell us we have to make it true. Tonight."

Tonight.

My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it.

"Seth, are you saying..."

"I am saying my penthouse has two bedrooms, wife, as per contract. But tonight, after you fainted in my arms in front of New York, I do not want to sleep in my bedroom. I want to sleep in yours. Or you in mine. Contract or no contract."

The car stopped. We were at Vega Tower Residence. Billionaires Row. Home.

The driver opened the door. Seth got out first, then lifted me out again, bridal style, my black gown flowing, my diamond choker sparkling under the tower lights, my arms around his neck.

Security stared. The doorman stared.

"Mrs. Vega is tired," Seth said coldly, carrying me to the private elevator.

The elevator doors closed. Private. Just us. Fingerprint scan. Fifty second floor.

He still did not put me down. He held me against the glass wall of the elevator, my back against the glass, my legs dangling, his body pressing me, his tuxedo against my black gown.

"Elise," he whispered, his forehead against mine, the city lights of Manhattan behind us through the glass elevator, fifty floors up. "If my mother forces us to have a baby to make our marriage real, would that be so terrible, wife? Would it be so terrible to have my baby?"

His hand was back on my stomach, over the silk, pressing gently, possessive, like he was already claiming something that was not there yet.

I could not answer. My voice was gone. My body was burning under his hands, under his tuxedo, under his possessive eyes.

And at that exact moment, the elevator dinged. Fifty second floor. Penthouse.

The doors opened directly into our living room.

And standing in our living room, in her silver gown from the gala, holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses, smiling like a queen who had won a war, was Mrs. Eleanor Vega.

"Good evening, my children," she said, her eyes dropping to Seth holding me bridal style in my black gown, my lipstick smeared on his mouth, his hand on my stomach. "I see you are already practicing making my grandchild. Good. Because I already told the press you are pregnant. The announcement is tomorrow at nine AM on Page Six. Mrs. Vega is expecting. So you have tonight, Seth Alessandro, to make it true. One night. One real wedding night. As per Vega family tradition."

She popped the champagne.