The Billionaire Takes a Bride

Sebastian had dressed up for the occasion, too. He wore a dark burgundy sport shirt and a white sports jacket over it, along with a pair of dark pants. His normally curly hair had been brushed into a semblance of neatness that made her want to run her fingers through it and muss his curls back into shape. She liked his wild, untamed artist’s hair.

They wore their matching plain wedding bands and Sebastian’s fingers were linked tightly through hers as they headed in for the elevator.

“So which floor does your family live on?” Chelsea asked.

“Seven,” he said, and then pushed the button for six.

“Then why . . .”

He grinned mischievously at her. “Because we’re going to give my mother a taste of her own medicine. If she’s going to drop in unannounced and force people to do what she wants, she can damn well experience it herself. The camera crews stay on six, and so do the makeup people. We’re going to insist that we have a few cameras with us when we go in. You know how my mother loves to get her every moment on film. Well, this is her chance to get some footage with me since she’s dying to have some.”

“This is going to be incredibly awkward, isn’t it?” Chelsea worried.

“Nah. You watch. My mother will sail through. She always does. But for a moment, we’ll be able to turn the tables on her at least.” The door dinged at six and Sebastian got out, tugging Chelsea behind him. Ten minutes later, they had two sleepy cameramen and a sound guy with them in the elevator as they headed up to the seventh floor.

As the elevator dinged, Chelsea had weird butterflies in her stomach. Why was she nervous? Other than the fact that “Mama Precious” Cabral had been utterly horrible to her, her opinion didn’t really matter. Only Sebastian’s did. Maybe it was the TV crew that was even now filming her reaction that was setting her nerves to jangling. Or maybe it was that she was going to meet the rest of Sebastian’s family, and if they all acted like his mother . . . well, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about that.

The Cabral penthouse opened up to a pair of white double doors, and Sebastian knocked on it before turning to Chelsea and giving her an impromptu kiss on the mouth.

She knew it was for the cameras . . . but she was still touched. That kiss of support and affection made her a little weak in the knees, as did the accompanying hand squeeze.

Someone shuffled to the door, and it opened a moment later. An elderly woman in a gray maid’s uniform gave Sebastian a wide-eyed stare. “Oh, Sebastian. Hello.”

“Morning, Eula,” he said, pushing his way inside and dragging Chelsea along with him. The cameramen followed close behind. “This is my wife, Chelsea. Have you met her yet? Chelsea, this is Mother’s housekeeper.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Eula,” Chelsea said sincerely, and pulled her hand from Sebastian’s. She offered it to Eula.

The elderly woman gave her a quick smile and hugged her. “You’re so pretty! Oh, Mrs. Cabral’s not going to like you.” She chuckled. “Or Lisa. Come on in, then. Do you want coffee? I just made a pot. Your mother’s in the kitchen, Sebastian.”

“Then that’s where we’ll head. Thank you, Eula.” He patted the woman on the back and then offered his hand to Chelsea again. “Come on, love.”

Love? The endearment surprised her, as did the feeling of warmth that flooded through her as a result. Maybe it was just for the cameras. She shouldn’t have gotten so excited about it.

Keeping her feelings in check, Chelsea eyed the lavish penthouse as they headed in deeper. It didn’t look very lived in. Pop art in a Warhol-esque style covered the walls, and each painting seemed to be one of Sebastian’s mother. The walls were bleach-white, with bleach-white carpets. The living room was a step-down, the sunken floor decorated with an artsy glass-top table that looked as if it was made entirely from broken shards. The sofa was bleach-white as well, with a few bright red pillows tossed on it, and curved around the edges of the room. There was no television, and she guessed the living room was mostly for filming. Actually, she wondered if most of the house was for filming instead of living in.

As they entered the kitchen, the bleach-white motif continued, this time for the cabinets, countertops, appliances, and flooring. Sebastian’s mother sat on a barstool at the kitchen island, a coffee cup raised halfway to her lips, a curler in her pink bangs. She narrowed her eyes at Sebastian and Chelsea. “What are you doing here, Nugget?”

“Family meeting,” he said, releasing Chelsea’s hand. He moved in and pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheek, then gestured at Chelsea. “It’s time for the rest of the family to meet my wife, don’t you think?”