The first time Gisela saw Maxwell, he was standing in the doorway of a downtown Los Angeles restaurant, slightly out of breath, tie crooked, eyes searching every face in the room like he wasn’t used to not being in control.
To her, he looked like trouble.
“You must be Gisela,” he said, smile warm and boyish as he reached the table. “I’m Maxwell. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“You’re late,” she replied.
He blinked. “Oh. Well. Only by nine minutes. I’m sorry—I had an urgent meeting at work.”
“Let me guess,” she said, arching a brow. “You’re not some kind of CEO, are you? Please tell me you’re not.”
He laughed like he thought she was joking. Then he saw her face and realized she wasn’t.
“Wow,” he said. “I’d figure most women would like a guy that owns his own business.”
“I’m not most women,” she said, crossing her arms. “Rich guys are always like—”
Right on cue, the universe delivered a live demonstration.
At the next table, a man in a sharp suit sat alone with a half-eaten steak in front of him and a phone in his hand. A server approached, shoulders tense.
“Sir, how is everything?” she asked.
The man looked at his plate like it had insulted his ancestors. “Did I order it medium-well?” he said loudly. “No. I did not. I ordered it medium-rare.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I can have the chef cook you another one if you’d like—”
“Forget it. I have a meeting with a big client and you’ve already taken up enough of my time.” He shoved the plate away. “Take it back, put it in a box, and I’ll feed it to my dog. I don’t care. Just get out of here.”
The server’s mouth tightened, but she nodded, picked up the plate, and walked away.
“Rich guys,” Gisela murmured, eyes still on the scene. “They’re always like that. And that’s why I don’t date them.”
Maxwell followed her gaze, jaw clenching. He knew those men. Networked with them. Closed deals with them. Spent years making sure he didn’t turn into one.
“I see,” he said. “Well… you don’t have to worry about me. I just have a little old sales associate job at a finance company. It’s actually quite boring.”
He said it lightly, like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t lying through his teeth.
Gisela relaxed almost imperceptibly. “Good,” she said. “I’d rather be bored with the right person than miserable with another entitled guy who thinks his bank account makes him important.”
Maxwell nodded, smiling, even as something in his chest twisted. He’d never planned on lying about who he was. But the way she’d flinched at the word “CEO,” the way her face hardened when she watched the man abuse the waitress—it told him everything.
If he’d walked in and said, “Hi, I run a big company, I drive a Porsche, I invest in startups for fun,” the date would have been over before the appetizers.
He wanted her to know him first. Not his money. Not the version of him people saw on magazine covers during “Top 40 Under 40” lists. Just Maxwell. The kid from a working-class neighborhood who’d worked his way up and still carried that neighborhood inside of him.
The server came by to take their order. Maxwell glanced at the menu.
“I’ll do the ribeye,” he said. “And tell the chef he can cook it however he’d like. I’m not that picky.”
Gisela’s eyes sparkled, a quiet approval passing over her face. “I’ll have the salmon,” she told the server. “Thank you.”
The rest of the evening slipped by easier than either of them expected.
She was direct in a way that would have scared most people off. Asked him who he was, where he grew up, what he believed in. Told him about her mom, about her son Frankie back home in their old neighborhood, about the sociology degree she’d almost finished before life complicated things. She made sharp jokes about Los Angeles, about people who parked their luxury cars across two spaces like the sidewalk was their private showroom.
Her opinions were edged, but her heart was soft. Maxwell could see it in the way her face lit up when she talked about Frankie, the way she smiled at the busboy and thanked him like he was the most important person in the room.
When they stepped out onto the sidewalk afterward, the sky over the city was streaked with pink and gold, skyscrapers catching the last of the light. A gleaming silver Porsche 911 sat at the curb, angled just a bit over the painted line, as if it didn’t care about the rules.
“See?” Gisela said, pointing. “Rich people and their fancy cars. They can’t even park in one space like everyone else. So entitled.”
Maxwell’s keys were heavy in his pocket.
“Yeah,” he said carefully. “That looks annoying.”
“Anyway,” she said, turning back to him. “So, how are you getting home?”
“Oh, uh…” He swallowed. “Same way I always do. I’m parked… around the corner.”
“Do you want a ride?” he offered quickly. “I promise I’m not a serial killer. It takes, what, more than three hits before you qualify?”
She laughed. “Definitely more than three.”
“I’m at zero,” he said. “So I’m safe.”
She smiled at him. For a moment, Maxwell imagined walking her to the Porsche, opening the door, watching the look of surprise on her face. It would feel good. It would also blow everything up.
He hesitated a second too long.
“You know what,” he said, faking a startled look at his watch. “I just realized—I have to be somewhere. I’m not going to have enough time to drop you off. I’m so sorry.”
Her smile faltered. “Oh. Okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“Can I at least walk you to the bus stop?” he asked, guilt prickling.
“Sure,” she said. “I guess buses still run in this part of town.”
He watched her go, hair catching the evening breeze, backpack slung over one shoulder like a college student. When she turned the corner, he exhaled, pulled out his key fob, and unlocked the Porsche with a quiet beep.
He hated this already.
But he texted her that night anyway.
Had a great time, he wrote. Can I see you again?
She wrote back with a smiley face and a simple yes.
He was done for.
By their third date, he knew she was going to matter.
By their sixth, he realized he was in trouble.
He moved through his days like a man with a double life. In the mornings, he stepped into the marble lobby of his office building in Century City, executives nodding at him, assistants rushing to keep up. He sat in his corner office, overlooking the smog-hazed city, and reviewed numbers—forecasts, valuations, board decks.
He was the CEO of a sizable finance company, the kind that made headlines when it announced a new fund. His name showed up in business magazines, on CNBC, on LinkedIn posts about “self-made success stories in America.”
In the evenings, he became Maxwell the Sales Associate.
He took off his expensive tie, swapped it for something simple, drove a few blocks away from his office before parking the Porsche and calling a rideshare to pick him up. He met Gisela in Little Tokyo, in Koreatown, in neighborhoods she felt comfortable in and he wanted to know better. He let her pay for coffee sometimes, even though it made his insides twist. He listened to her talk about finishing her degree, about the nonprofit she wanted to start for single mothers someday.
He didn’t tell her about the Porsche. Or about the private driver he sometimes used. Or about the second phone on his desk that only board members used.
There were other things she didn’t tell him.
One night, they were walking through a street fair downtown when her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and answered, face lighting up.
“Hi, Frankie,” she said softly. “How’s my favorite boy in the whole world?”
Maxwell watched her entire body change. Her posture softened, her voice dropped an octave, her eyes went brighter and wet at the same time.
“Look, Mom, I won a soccer trophy at school today!” a little boy’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Coach says I’m getting really good.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you,” she said, tears already threatening. “I wish I could be there.”
“I wish you could be here too,” he said.
A cough sounded faintly in the background. An older woman’s voice murmured something.
“Okay, mijo. Grandma wants to talk to me, okay?” Gisela said. “I’ll call you later tonight and you can tell me everything. I love you, okay?”
“I love you too,” he said, and the line clicked.
She held the phone to her chest for a moment like it was the last warm thing on earth, then slipped it into her bag.
“So that was your son,” Maxwell said gently, because pretending he hadn’t heard would have felt more intrusive.
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s my whole world.”
“He lives with you?” he asked. “Or…?”
Her jaw tightened, just enough for him to notice. “It’s… complicated,” she said. “He lives with my mom.”
“Who’s sick,” Maxwell said slowly, remembering the little things she’d let slip. “You told me she wasn’t doing well.”
“Yeah.” Gisela swallowed. “She’s… she’s been sick. And we don’t get to see each other as much as I want. I’m trying to fix that.”
He saw the way her eyes shone in the streetlights, the way her fingers had curled into fists at her sides. He recognized that raw, exposed feeling. He carried his own complicated family history like a bruise half the time.
“Would it—would it be okay if we didn’t talk about this right now?” she asked. “I just… I don’t want to cry in front of the guy I like while he’s trying to buy me a churro.”
He smiled gently. “Of course. I totally understand. I’m sorry for prying.”
“You weren’t prying,” she said. “I just… it’s a really long story. And I’m not ready yet.”
He nodded.
Later that night, as they walked back to the train, they passed a woman sitting on the sidewalk, back against a closed storefront. A little girl with tangled hair sat beside her, curled into her side like a kitten.
“Excuse me,” the woman said quietly. “Do you have any cash? I don’t want anything for me, just something so my daughter can eat.”
“Get a job,” a man in a suit walking behind them muttered as he passed. “Stop begging. You people make me sick.”
Gisela froze. Maxwell felt her whole body go stiff.
He watched the man march off, anger like smoke trailing after him. Then he turned back to the woman. Her hands shook as she wiped at her eyes.
“My daughter hasn’t eaten all day,” she said. “You have no idea how much this means to us.”
Maxwell didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his wallet and slid a hundred-dollar bill into her hand.
“Here,” he said. “Please get her something hot. And something for you too.”
The little girl’s face lit up. “Mom, look,” she whispered. “We can get real food.”
“Thank you,” the woman said again, voice breaking.
Gisela watched him, something shifting in her eyes.
“That was a lot of money,” she murmured when they’d walked on. “You must be a really great salesperson.”
“The best,” he said, forcing a grin.
Inside, guilt gnawed at him. This version of himself—this generous, anonymous man quietly handing out help where he could—that was the real Maxwell. The one he wished she could see without the words “CEO” or “wealthy” getting in the way.
But he’d started the story with a lie. And the longer he let it go, the harder it became to tell her the truth.
If there was one person who never let him forget who he really was, it was Christina.
Christina was his housekeeper, his self-appointed conscience, and the only person in Los Angeles who would call him out to his face and then make him dinner afterward.
“You’ve got a big problem,” she said one afternoon, folding one of his shirts with a snap. “Because that girl? She’s going to be good for you. And you’re starting things off on the wrong foot.”
They were in his actual living room this time—two stories of glass and stone on a hill above the city, with a view of the palm trees and the downtown skyline. The kind of place people posted on Pinterest.
Maxwell sat on the couch, head in his hands.
“I know,” he said. “But I panicked, Christina. You should have heard the way she talked about rich guys. And the CEO thing. If I told her the truth, she would’ve walked out of the restaurant.”
“Maybe,” Christina said. “Or maybe she would have looked closer. You don’t know. You told her you were a sales associate. At a boring little finance job.”
“I am technically in finance,” he muttered.
“Don’t start.” She shook her head. “And now you’re in deeper, and it’s going to hurt her more when she finds out. Because she will find out. The truth always comes out in the end, Maxwell.”
“I’m going to tell her,” he said quickly. “I promise. Like… before our three-month anniversary. If we make it that far.”
“Three months?” Christina stared at him. “You think lying is like a subscription service that you can cancel later?”
He groaned. “Look, I just want her to know me first. Then when I tell her I’m a CEO, it won’t freak her out.”
Christina sighed, moved by something soft and maternal behind all the exasperation. “Fine. But you better be ready to back it up with real honesty when the time comes. No more games.”
He nodded.
“Also,” he said, “I was thinking of taking her to Craig’s in Beverly Hills next week. For our anniversary. Maybe that will help her see rich people aren’t all bad?”
Christina stared at him like he’d grown another head. “Have you bumped your head? You cannot take a girl who hates rich people to a celebrity restaurant in Beverly Hills. And you can’t show up in a three-thousand-dollar suit and expect her to believe you’re broke.”
He looked down at himself. “This suit was only… okay, yeah, you’re right.”
“You want her to think you’re a regular guy? Take her to a normal place. Wear a normal shirt. Stop flashing the black card.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” he said. “What would I do without you?”
“Fall on your face,” she replied. “And probably lose that girl. Again: tell her the truth. Sooner, not later.”
He nodded, then hesitated. “Can I… borrow your car?”
Christina blinked. “My car? Then how am I supposed to get home?”
“I’ll send you one of my drivers,” he said quickly. “Or pay for a rideshare. Come on, please. I owe you at least one or two favors.”
“You owe me nothing,” she said. “Except maybe a break from cleaning up after your messes.”
He widened his eyes, shameless. “Please?”
She rolled her eyes, muttered something in Spanish he pretended not to understand, and tossed him the keys to her ten-year-old sedan. “Fine. But you make sure you tell that sweet girl the truth. And soon.”
“I got it,” he said. “Tonight’s the night.”
Christina snorted. “You’ve been saying that for weeks.”
Their three-month anniversary crept up faster than either of them realized.
Maxwell showed up at Christina’s modest apartment building in East L.A. with flowers in one hand and a bag of ingredients in the other. The place smelled like lemon cleaner and fried onions, an open window letting in the sounds of kids playing in the courtyard below.
“This is going to be special,” he told himself. “Home-cooked dinner. Quiet. Honest.”
Gisela buzzed up a few minutes later, cheeks flushed from climbing the stairs, a small carton of ice cream in hand.
“Happy three months,” she said, smiling. “I brought dessert.”
“Perfect,” he said, taking it from her. “Come in.”
She stepped into Christina’s living room and looked around. The place was small but spotless—secondhand furniture polished, family photos on the wall, a little shrine with candles in one corner.
“Wow,” she said. “This is… cozy. I like it.”
He swallowed, guilt heavy in his throat. He’d told her his own place was a mess, that the kitchen sink was broken, that there was a leak, anything to avoid letting her see his real house on the hill. So he’d borrowed Christina’s.
They cooked together, chopping onions and peppers, laughing when he fumbled with the garlic press.
“You’re really not bad,” she teased, tasting the sauce. “Are you sure you don’t moonlight as a chef?”
“Only for special occasions,” he said.
By the time they were done eating, the sky outside had gone dark. Streetlights flickered on, casting yellow pools on the cracked sidewalks.
“Thank you for making dinner,” she said, leaning back. “This was… really special.”
“It’s not over yet,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Her breath caught.
“Maxwell…”
“It’s not what you think,” he said quickly. “I’m not that crazy. It’s just… an anniversary gift.”
She opened it. Inside, a delicate necklace glinted under the overhead light—simple, elegant, understated.
“Oh,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
“I saw it and thought of you,” he said. “I know you don’t like big flashy things, so…”
She touched it gently. “You didn’t have to spend so much,” she said. “You should be saving your money, not spending it all on me.”
He smiled tightly. “Yeah. About that…”
His heart hammered. This was it. No more delays.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said.
“Okay,” she said, lowering the box. “What is it?”
He opened his mouth.
Her phone rang.
“Sorry,” she said, glancing at the screen. “It’s my mom. I have to take this.”
She answered, put it on speaker. “Hi, Mama.”
“My Frankie wants to talk to you,” her mother said, voice scratchy but warm. “He’s right here.”
A boy’s voice burst through. “Mom! Is that your boyfriend?”
Gisela flushed. “Frankie, say hi nicely.”
“Hi,” he said. “I got another A on my math test.”
“That’s amazing, baby,” she said. “I’m so proud of you. I wish I could be there.”
Her mother’s breath crackled on the line. “Your mom’s boyfriend sounds very polite,” she said. “Is that you, Maxwell?”
He leaned closer. “Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard great things about you.”
“Oh,” her mother said, chuckling. “Gisela’s told me you treat her well. That’s all I need to know.”
They talked for a few minutes. When the call ended, Gisela stared at the dark screen for a long moment, eyes bright and sad.
“It’s really not the same, talking over the phone,” she said. “I miss them so much.”
“I’m sorry,” Maxwell said quietly. “I don’t mean to pry again. But… why aren’t you with them? Why are you here alone?”
She drew in a breath. “It’s a really long story,” she said. “And I wasn’t ready to tell you. But at least I wasn’t lying about who I am.”
The words landed heavier than she meant them to.
He flinched.
“I was about to tell you about my job,” he said. “And then the phone rang.”
“Yes, your job,” she said. “You told me you’re a sales associate in some boring finance role. Which is funny, because…”
She opened a kitchen cabinet to grab bowls for the ice cream. He watched her freeze.
“Maxwell,” she said slowly. “Why don’t you know where your own bowls are?”
He forced a laugh. “I move stuff around a lot. I’m disorganized.”
She opened a drawer. Then another. Finally she found the cutlery—in a place that made no sense based on the way the rest of the kitchen was organized.
She glanced at him. “And who is… Christina Jackson?”
He felt a chill.
Gisela stood in the doorway, holding a piece of mail. His eyes followed the envelope: CHRISTINA JACKSON, typed neatly, Christina’s address printed underneath.
“The building manager always gets the addresses mixed up,” he said too quickly. “They send mail here instead of… the other unit. It happens a lot.”
“Really,” she said. Her voice was flat. “So your name just happens to be nowhere on any of these bills. Just hers.”
“Okay,” he said, lifting his hands. “This isn’t what you think.”
“Oh? Because I think you have a wife and a kid and this is their apartment, and you brought me here so I wouldn’t find out. That’s what it looks like.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “I swear, it’s not. I’m not married. I don’t have a kid. Christina is my housekeeper. This is her apartment. I borrowed it. Because I didn’t want you to see where I really live.”
Her eyes flashed. “And where is that? Beverly Hills? Hollywood Hills? One of those gated communities up there?” She jerked her chin toward the window, where the faint glow of the city shimmered in the distance.
He swallowed.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Up there.”
She shook her head. “So you’ve been lying to me since the moment we met.”
“No,” he said. “Not about everything. My name is really Maxwell. I really like you. I really meant everything I’ve said to you. I just… I lied about my job.”
“And your money,” she said. “And your car. And your whole life.”
He grimaced. “When we first met, I said I was a sales associate. But in reality… I’m a CEO. I run a finance company. I do have money. I just didn’t want that to be the first thing you saw.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, the necklace box still clutched in her hand. “You know how I feel about secrets,” she whispered. “How could you do this?”
“Come on,” he said, frustration bleeding through. “You’ve been keeping secrets too. What about your son? Your mom? Why they’re not here with you? You never told me that either.”
Her head snapped up. “You want to know why my family is separated from me?” she said, voice suddenly sharp. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”
She took a step back, away from him, and let the words pour out.
“I came to this country on a student visa,” she said. “I wasn’t allowed to work more than a few hours a week. My mom had a work visa. She supported me and Frankie while I went to school. She worked harder than anyone I have ever known.
“The company she worked for was getting ready to go public. They were here in the US, one of those big corporations. Before their IPO, they gave all their top executives huge bonuses. New cars, stock options, everything. And to make their books look better for Wall Street, they fired a bunch of the lower-level employees. People like my mom.”
Maxwell felt his stomach twist.
“She’d been there for years,” Gisela continued. “Never missed a day. Did everything they asked. And they let her go like she was nothing. Because to them, she was. Just a number on a spreadsheet.
“Her work visa was tied to that job. Once they let her go, she couldn’t get another job easily. Not in time. We used up our savings. We fell behind on rent. A lot of days we didn’t even have food in the fridge. We lived in one of the richest countries in the world and my son went to bed hungry.”
She wiped at her eyes, angry at herself for crying.
“Things got so bad that the best option was for my mom to move back to our old family home. In our home country. She took Frankie with her. Because she couldn’t take care of us all here anymore, and she thought he’d have better chances there for a while.
“I wanted to go with them,” she said. “I still want to half the time. But my mom told me to stay. She wanted me to finish my degree. To get a job. To try to build a future here so I could bring them back one day legally, without fear. I remember crying so hard the day they left. I promised them that no matter what, I’d find a way to get them back. That I’d never forget what those executives did. How they played with people’s lives like they were moving money from right pocket to left.”
Her voice was low and steady now, the heat replaced by something colder.
“So you see,” she said, “I didn’t keep it from you because I wanted to keep secrets. I kept it from you because it hurts. Because it still feels like a failure. Because saying it out loud makes it real in a way that kills me every day. You knew that. I told you I wasn’t ready and you respected it.”
She looked at him, eyes rimmed red.
“And this,” she said, gesturing around the apartment, the mail, the necklace, him. “This is exactly why I don’t trust rich people. You think you’re different, but you’re not. You play with truths, with power, with people’s lives, and then you say it’s for their own good.”
Maxwell’s powerlessness hit him like a wave. He wanted to defend himself, to explain, to list every good thing he’d ever done. Every scholarship he’d funded, every employee he’d helped, every anonymous donation he’d made.
He thought of Christina. Of the story she’d told him about the custody case. The medical bills. The college tuition for her son.
He also thought of the executives at Gisela’s mother’s old company. People who probably sat on panels he’d been invited to. People who talked about “maximizing shareholder value.”
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “What happened to you and your family… it’s horrible. And you have every right to be angry. But that was them, not me. I would never treat my employees like that.”
“Why should I believe that?” she said. “Our entire relationship has been based on a lie. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. Why should I trust you now?”
He stepped forward, then stopped himself. “Because I want to show you,” he said. “Because there are people who know who I really am, and they could tell you. People like Christina.”
“Christina?” she scoffed. “Your housekeeper? The woman whose apartment you just used to trick me?”
“She’s more than my housekeeper,” he said. “Come on. I’ll prove it.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said. “I’m going home.”
She turned toward the door.
He watched her walk away and felt something inside him crack.
It was almost midnight when someone knocked on Christina’s door.
She opened it in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, hair pulled into a messy bun.
“Gisela,” she said, surprised. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
Gisela swallowed. “You shouldn’t work for that man,” she blurted. “He’s a liar. He tricked me. He told me this was his place. He’s just like the rest of them.”
Christina’s eyes softened. “Come in,” she said. “Sit down.”
Gisela hesitated, then stepped in. The apartment was different now—less like the stage set it had become for her anniversary dinner, more like a home. A photo of Christina with a young man in a graduation cap sat on the coffee table.
“I know you’re upset,” Christina said gently. “And you have every right to be. Maxwell should have told you the truth from the start. I told him that. But he’s not like the rest of them.”
“That’s what they all say,” Gisela muttered. “Until someone gets hurt.”
Christina sat across from her. “Do you know I have a son?” she asked.
Gisela nodded. “You mentioned him once. He’s in college?”
“He just graduated,” Christina said proudly. “First one in our family. Do you know why that was even possible? Because Maxwell helped us.”
She leaned back, remembering.
“His father and I… we didn’t work out,” she said. “He didn’t treat me well. When our son was eight, his father tried to get full custody. He hired a high-priced attorney. I had nothing. No lawyer, no savings, just this job and a little boy who was terrified he’d be taken away.”
Gisela listened despite herself.
“I didn’t tell Maxwell,” Christina said. “I’m proud. I didn’t want to bring my problems to his doorstep. But he noticed something was wrong. I was crying in the kitchen. He asked, and I told him. The next day, without me asking, he had arranged for a good lawyer to represent me in court. He paid for everything. Sat in the back row during the hearing in a plain suit so no one would know he was there. Because of him, I kept custody of my son.”
She pointed to the graduation photo. “He paid for my son’s college too,” she said. “Full tuition. My boy wanted to say no, but Maxwell insisted. ‘Pay it forward when you can,’ he told him. ‘That’s all I ask.’”
Gisela blinked.
“Last year,” Christina continued, “I needed surgery. I didn’t have the money. I tried to hide it, but he found out. He paid for the operation. Quietly. No speeches, no receipts. Just did it. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”
She leaned forward.
“I am not saying what he did to you was right,” she said. “He lied. He knows he was wrong. I told him myself: the truth will always come out in the end. And it did. And it hurt you. He deserves to feel bad about that.”
Gisela stared at her hands.
“But I also know this,” Christina said. “He has a big heart. He loves deeply. When he cares about someone, he will do anything to help them. That’s rare. Especially in this city. Especially for someone with his kind of money.”
She tilted her head. “You said you don’t trust rich people,” she said. “I understand. You’ve been hurt. So have I. But sometimes, someone comes along who breaks the pattern. Don’t punish him for what those executives did to your mom. Punish him for his own mistakes, sure. Make him work to regain your trust. But don’t throw everything away without looking at the whole picture.”
Gisela’s throat tightened. “He hurt me,” she whispered. “A lot.”
“I know,” Christina said. “So make him earn a second chance. Or don’t. But make the decision with all the facts. Not just the ones that confirm what you already believe.”
Maxwell was sitting on the front steps of his real house when Gisela came by the next day.
The sun was setting over Los Angeles, turning the palm trees into dark silhouettes against a flaming sky. The city stretched out below, freeway lights winking on one by one.
He stood when he saw her, heart hammering.
“Gisela,” he said. “Please don’t go. If you just give me one more chance—just one more—I swear I will never lie to you again.”
She looked tired. But she didn’t turn away.
“Christina told me everything,” she said.
He closed his eyes for a second. “I figured she would,” he said. “She’s more loyal to what’s right than to me. Which is why I trust her with everything.”
“You should listen to her more,” Gisela said quietly. “She told you to tell me the truth. You didn’t.”
“I was scared,” he admitted. “I liked you so much. And I thought if you knew I was a CEO from day one, you’d leave. So I made up this sales associate job. And every time I tried to fix it, it got harder. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to use Christina. But I did. And I’m sorry. For all of it.”
He took a deep breath. “If you want to walk away,” he said, voice thick, “I’ll understand. I won’t chase you. I won’t try to buy you back. I’ll just… go back to my life. And wish I’d been braver when I met you.”
Silence stretched between them.
“What you did was wrong,” she said finally. “And I am still angry. But… I think I understand why you did it. It doesn’t make it okay. But it makes it… human.”
He swallowed. “Does that mean…?”
“It means I’m willing to give us one more chance,” she said. “One. If you lie to me again, we’re done. And I don’t mean little things like forgetting where the bowls go. I mean anything big. No more secrets about who you are.”
He nodded so quickly his hair flopped. “Deal. I promise. No more lies.”
“You better listen to Christina from now on,” she added. “She’s smarter than you.”
“That’s true,” he said without hesitation.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then smiled faintly. “My mom wants to meet you,” she said. “For real. On video. Not just hearing your voice in the background.”
“I’d like that,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Because if you hurt me again, you’re going to have two angry women and one very protective ten-year-old boy to deal with.”
He laughed, relief breaking through the tension. “Honestly, that’s more terrifying than any board meeting I’ve ever been in.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curved.
A black car pulled up to the curb. The driver stepped out and opened the back door.
“Who was that?” Gisela asked.
“That,” Maxwell said, “is the last anniversary surprise I had planned. Before everything went sideways.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Come on,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, they were standing at a park in the valley, watching as Frankie sprinted across a field, soccer ball at his feet, his curly hair bouncing. Gisela’s mother sat on a bench, bundled in a sweater, eyes misty as she watched her grandson.
Gisela turned to Maxwell, eyes wet. “You flew them here?”
“I figured,” he said, “instead of you talking to them on a screen, maybe we could bring them to you. Just for a week. Let you hug your son and your mom. Let your mom see that you’re okay.”
She stared at him. “Do you know how much plane tickets cost?”
“I have a general idea,” he said. “But sometimes money is just… paper between people who belong together. And I hate paper more than I hate lying. Which is saying something.”
She laughed, tears spilling over. “You really are something, you know that?”
“I’m working on being something better,” he said. “For you.”
Frankie spotted them then, eyes going wide. “Mom!” he yelled, abandoning the ball and sprinting toward her.
She ran to meet him, folding him into her arms so fiercely he squeaked, both of them laughing and crying at the same time.
Maxwell stepped back, hands in his pockets, watching as sun dipped lower over an American city that had made and broken so many dreams. For once, he felt like he was on the side of the ledger that mattered.
Christina would later call him.
“You almost lost everything,” she’d say. “If I hadn’t talked to that girl, you’d be single and miserable in that big house.”
“I know,” he’d reply. “You really are the best.”
“And you said you were going to double my salary,” she’d remind him. “I expect it by next paycheck. Maybe triple it. Don’t act like you don’t have it.”
He’d laugh. “Done. Triple.”
“Good,” she’d say. “Now go listen to that woman of yours. And try not to make me clean up any more emotional messes. I’m tired.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he’d say.
On the field, Gisela lifted Frankie up and spun him, both of them shouting. Her mother watched, hand pressed over her heart, eyes shining.
Maxwell looked at them and knew, with a clarity that had nothing to do with stock prices or quarterly growth, that this was the only kind of wealth that really mattered.
He reached into his pocket and fingered the necklace box, feeling its shape, its weight.
“Hey, Gisela?” he called.
She turned, Frankie still clinging to her neck.
“Yeah?” she said.
He smiled. “Happy anniversary,” he said.
She smiled back, a real, unguarded smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
This time, no one was lying.
