My Flash Husband Is My Boss

Chapter 9

The champagne bottle popped.

The sound was loud in our silent penthouse living room, fifty second floor, Billionaires Row, Manhattan lights glittering through the glass walls.

Mrs. Eleanor Vega stood in our living room in her silver gala gown, holding two crystal champagne flutes, smiling like she had just won the war of her life.

"Good evening, my children," she said again, her eyes dropping to Seth holding me bridal style in my black gown, my dark red lipstick smeared on his mouth, his hand possessive on my stomach.

I froze in his arms. My black gown with a long train was tangled around his tuxedo pants, my bare legs exposed through the slit, my diamond choker sparkling, my hair still in a sleek high ponytail from the gala.

Seth did not put me down. He held me tighter.

"Mother, what are you doing in our penthouse at ten PM? The gala just ended."

"The gala ended early for you two," Eleanor said, walking to the kitchen island, pouring champagne with elegant hands. "When my daughter in law faints in front of live stream with her hand on her stomach, holding her husband like a damsel, the gala ends for her. For you, Seth Alessandro, the real gala starts now."

She handed us two glasses. Seth finally set me down, but his arm stayed around my bare waist, his tuxedo jacket brushing my backless black gown.

"Elise, darling, sit. You are pale. You fainted."

"I am okay, Mrs. Vega," I whispered, my voice still weak, my six inch heels wobbling on the marble floor. "I just felt dizzy. Too many lights."

"Too many enemies," Eleanor corrected, her smile sharp. "Daniel Carter was there. Chloe Monroe in pink. Isabella Laurent in white. Three people staring at you, wanting you to fall. And you did fall. Beautifully. In black. Hand on stomach. Perfect."

She sipped her champagne.

"I already called Page Six, Daily Mail, and New York Times Style. My assistant sent the live stream clip. Tomorrow at nine AM, headline: MRS VEGA EXPECTING - BILLIONAIRE HEIR SETH VEGA AND ARCHITECT WIFE ELISE MONROE VEGA TO WELCOME FIRST CHILD. The board will be happy. The merger with Laurent Hotels will be canceled because my son is having a Vega heir, not a Laurent heir. Isabella Laurent will cry in her white Dior."

My blood ran cold.

"Mrs. Vega, I am not pregnant. I just fainted. I am not—"

"I know you are not pregnant, Elise. I am not stupid. I was young once. I know fake faint from real pregnant faint. But press does not know. Board does not know. And by tomorrow nine AM, whole New York will think you are pregnant. So tonight, you have to make it true."

She looked at Seth.

"Seth Alessandro, you have your father's eyes when he wanted something. Your father wanted me on our first night after we faked a pregnancy to trap his mother. And we made it true that night. One night. One real wedding night. That is Vega family tradition. When you fake it, you make it true the same night. So it is never a lie."

Seth's jaw tightened. His hand on my waist tightened.

"Mother, we have a contract. Elise and I agreed—"

"Contract?" Eleanor laughed, a cold, elegant laugh. "Contracts are for business, Seth. Babies are for family. You tore your grandfather's contract when you married Elise at City Hall without permission. You can tear this contract tonight."

She finished her champagne and set the glass down.

"I will leave the champagne. One bottle. Dom Perignon 2010. Very expensive. Very good for making babies. The master bedroom has been prepared. New sheets. White silk. Like your first night should have been, not City Hall at ten AM with a judge in a cheap suit."

She walked to the elevator, pressed the button.

"One rule, Elise. If you want to be Mrs. Vega forever, not just one year, you will go to that master bedroom tonight with my son and you will not come out until morning. And tomorrow, when press asks if you are pregnant, you will smile and touch your stomach like you did tonight at the gala. And Seth will touch your stomach like he did in the Rolls Royce. I saw the live stream, Seth. Your hand on her stomach in the car. Very possessive. Very husband."

The elevator dinged.

"Good night, my children. Make me a grandchild. Make it true."

The doors closed. She was gone.

Silence. Only the champagne bottle sweating on the kitchen island, and Manhattan lights blinking outside, fifty floors up.

I was still in my black gown, diamond choker, high ponytail, dark red lips smeared. Seth was still in his black tuxedo, bow tie slightly loose, hair messy from my hands in the car.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

"Eleanor is crazy," I whispered.

"Eleanor is my mother," he said, his voice low, rough. "And she just trapped us in our own penthouse with a bottle of champagne and a bed with white silk sheets."

He walked to the kitchen island, poured the champagne into two flutes, handed one to me.

"Elise, we do not have to do what she says. We can tell press it was a faint, not pregnancy. We can deny tomorrow."

"And the board? And Isabella Laurent? And Daniel Carter who will laugh at me when he reads I faked a pregnancy?"

He was quiet. He knew. If we denied tomorrow, I would be the bakery girl from Queens who faked a pregnancy to keep a billionaire. If we said yes, we had to make it true tonight.

I took a sip of champagne. Bubbles burned my throat.

Seth took a sip too, his eyes never leaving my face, dropping for a second to my black gown, to the sweetheart neckline that dipped low, to the slit that exposed my thigh when I moved.

"You looked beautiful tonight when you fell, wife," he whispered, setting his glass down, stepping closer. "In that black gown, hand on stomach, falling into my arms in front of five hundred people. You looked like you belonged to me."

"I did not plan to fall," I said, my voice shaking, my champagne glass shaking in my hand.

"I know. That is why it was perfect. Real."

His hand reached out, took my champagne glass, set it down next to his. Now both my hands were free. And his hands were free.

He slid one hand to my bare back, where my black gown was backless, his warm palm against my skin. The other hand slid to my waist, pulling me against his tuxedo, against his chest.

"Elise, the contract says no touching without permission."

"I give you permission," I whispered before I could think.

His eyes darkened.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For making it true. For—"

He did not let me finish. He kissed me. Deep, slow, tasting of champagne and whiskey and dark red lipstick. His hands on my bare back, tracing my spine down to where the black gown dipped dangerously low, almost to the curve of my back.

I gasped against his mouth, my hands fisting his tuxedo jacket, pulling him closer.

The kiss turned hungry. He walked me backward, step by step, my six inch heels clicking, my black train dragging, until my back hit the floor to ceiling glass wall that overlooked Manhattan. Fifty second floor. Anyone with a telescope could see us, but the glass was tinted, private.

He pressed me against the glass, his body against mine, his tuxedo pants against my silk black gown, his knee sliding between my legs through the slit, making the silk ride up.

"Elise, tell me to stop and I will stop," he whispered against my lips, his forehead against mine, his breathing hard, his hands now on my thighs through the slit, warm, big, possessive. "Contract says you can stop anytime."

"Do not stop," I whispered, my voice barely there, my hands sliding into his hair, messing up his perfect gala hair.

He groaned, low, and kissed my neck, where the diamond choker sat, his lips brushing the diamond, then my skin, then lower, to my collarbone, to the edge of my sweetheart neckline.

The black gown was strapless. One tug and it would fall.

"Seth," I breathed, my head falling back against the glass, Manhattan lights blurring behind me.

"My wife," he whispered, his lips on my shoulder, his hands sliding up my bare back to the zipper of my black gown, hidden at the side, small, delicate.

He found the zipper.

"One zipper, wife, and the black queen becomes mine. Really mine. Not contract. Real."

His fingers tugged the zipper down, slow, inch by inch, the sound loud in the silent penthouse.

The black gown loosened.

And at that exact second, my phone, which Seth had turned off at six AM, which I had turned on at the gala to call my mother, which was on the kitchen island next to the champagne, rang loud, shrill, echoing through the penthouse.

We both froze. His hand on my zipper. My black gown half unzipped, about to fall.

The phone screen lit up in the dark kitchen.

Caller ID: DANIEL CARTER

Daniel Carter was calling me at ten thirty PM, on the night I fainted at the gala as Mrs. Vega, on the night Seth was about to make our fake pregnancy true, on the night my black gown was about to fall in front of the glass wall fifty floors up.

Seth's eyes went black with jealousy and rage.

He looked at the phone, then at me, his hand still on my zipper, his body still pressing me against the glass.

"Answer it, wife," he whispered, his voice dangerous, possessive, low. "Put it on speaker. Let Daniel Carter hear what his ex fiance sounds like when she is about to become a real Vega wife."