Page 25 of The Malibu Arrangement

Goddamn it, how could I be such a fucking idiot? Her Cajun accent hit me like a knife to the gut - perfect in every syllable, every goddamn drawn-out vowel. I've heard real Cajuns many times. I should've known better. Elody didn't just nail it, she buried it six feet deep. That's her whole game - she's not just Meryl Streep with accents, she's Meryl on steroids with a vendetta. Everyone in the industry knows it. Everyone but me, apparently.

As Elody goes out the door, Max comes in and I’m ready to throw him out the door, too.

“What do you want?” I ask him hostilely.

I've had it with him. DONE. His one-word texts make me want to hurl my phone through the window. I'm drowning, and he doesn't care. Yes, he sent Hannah, who saved my online reputation when I needed it most—the broken clock got that right. Without her, I'd be a muttering mess in my closet while Olivia slid crackers under the door. But Elody Martin twisting my kindness into a weapon? That was my breaking point. I want to tell Max to go to hell and watch his perfect face crumble. I would, if Joe's lawyers weren't circling. That contract is all that stops me from burning this whole arrangement to ash in front of him.

“I’ve been keeping my eye on Elody,” he calmly explains. “I knew she’d do something to try to trick you into getting out of our arrangement. I have eyes everywhere in Los Angeles, plenty of people who know her movements and I got the notification that she’s here. Took me an hour and a half in heavy traffic to get here. Figures she’d come see you during rush hour.”

“Well, how did she know I was working from home today?” Dreamscape gives all of us an opportunity to work from home one day a week and today was my day. How did Elody know this?

He shrugs. “Don’t know, except my guess is that she keeps as careful tabs on you as I do her.”

I shake my head so hard my vision blurs, jabbing my finger toward the door where Elody just exited. "Max, this is a goddamn nightmare," I hiss, my voice cracking. "If that—that viper and whatever the hell she just pulled is what I'm facing in your world, I'm done. I am completely done." My chest heaves as I struggle for breath. "Call your grandfather. Tonight. Get me out of this contract or I swear I'll walk away regardless of the consequences. I can't—" My voice breaks completely. "I mentally cannot do this anymore."

The tears burn down my cheeks, three weeks of hell finally breaking through. Online, they'd torn me apart with precision. My hair was "cut by a drunken Supercuts hairdresser," my clothes "Walmart clearance rack," my face "a Picasso with COVID." They created deepfakes so convincing my mother called asking if I needed help. Night after night, I clutched wine bottles until dawn, contemplating my balcony's height. Statistics about harassment victims who'd ended things became whispered possibilities in my mind. Yet I held on—until Elody's betrayal severed my last thread of trust. That's what finally shattered me.

Max's muscular arms encircle me, his gentle fingers threading through my tangled hair with unexpected gentleness. Something knotted and jagged inside my chest uncoils like a spring finally released, my racing pulse slowing with each careful stroke against my scalp. He makes soft shushing sounds against the shell of my ear—the kind that takes you back to Band-Aids on skinned knees and salty playground tears—and for a brief, startling moment, I feel anchored to the earth. Safe in the harbor of his embrace. I sob against the soft cotton of his Dior shirt, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath, time stretching and contracting like taffy pulled between invisible hands until my ragged breathing finally steadies.

When he speaks, his voice hums low against my temple. "I'm sorry about her. She's fixated on me, but that doesn't excuse what she did. You never asked to be dragged into this mess online. If you want to walk away, I'll understand completely. I'll talk to Granddad—he'll listen to me. But, Celeste,” he says, his voice breaking. “I’m hoping you'll stay."

My fists press against his chest—hard as marble. My heart pounds violently beneath my ribs. His hand tangles in my hair, sending shivers down my spine. Heat blazes between us. I crave his mouth on mine, want nothing separating us. I need him to erase it all—the hellish weeks, hospital rooms, my mother's gaunt face, years of inadequacy—with the press of his body against mine.

Reality cuts sharper than desire: Max doesn't see me. He lives among runway models and actresses, while I count pennies between rent and groceries. Soon I'll be just another possession in his Malibu mansion—a contractual obligation. But Joe Kensington's check means Mom's cancer treatments continue and they keep their apartment. It means Lexi stays at UCLA. So I swallow my pride along with the acid rising in my throat. I signed the papers. I'll honor them.

I finally shake my head. “I can’t back out. I literally can’t afford to.”

I jerk away from him and let my head fall. I can't bear to look up—his eyes would only confirm the pity I know is there. Pity for the fool who believed Elody. For the desperate girl who signed her life away. For someone whose condo no-doubt fits inside one of his smaller bathrooms. Instagram comments whisper in my ear: "Gold-digger." "Fraud." "Whore." The algorithm's kinder now, but those voices still scream loudest. Cruel words stick while compliments slide off. I've always found it easy to believe the worst about myself.

His soft fingertips brush my chin, rough against my skin as he tilts my face upward until I can't look anywhere but into those emerald-green eyes, flecked with blue near the pupils. Something flutters in my chest, a trapped hummingbird beneath my ribs. My throat constricts, desert-dry, as I catch myself wondering about the warmth of his mouth, how his full bottom lip might feel pressed against mine, how he would taste. I blink the thought away, eyelashes batting like panicked moths. Don't be stupid, Celeste. This isn't attraction—it's pity. Whatever he feels, it's...

But his lips find mine and time stops. His mouth is soft at first, then urgent—a gasp caught between us. I taste tart cherries and expensive whiskey as his tongue traces the seam of my lips. My hands find his shoulders, steadying myself as he pulls me closer, one hand at the small of my back. The world falls away so I can only feel his touch: his fingers pressing into my skin, the brush of his stubble against my chin, the heat of his breath. When he catches my lower lip between his teeth, my knees nearly buckle. I rise onto my toes, chasing the pressure, the sweet ache of it. His palm slides along my inner thigh, fingertips tracing upward with deliberate slowness, and I'm dizzy with wanting…

But he rips away from me like I've burned him, his green eyes wild with something primal—fear or disgust, I can't tell which is worse. His arms shoot up between us, palms out, fingers splayed as if warding off evil. The space between us crackles with rejection. A strangled sound escapes him—guttural, foreign—something ancient and wounded. His jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

"You'll be okay," he says, voice like gravel. "I'll see you at the wedding."

Then he's gone, the door slamming with such finality it feels like a physical blow. I collapse inward, lungs crushed beneath the sudden vacuum he's left behind, every cell in my body screaming his absence.

Chapter Eighteen

AN ATTEMPT TO BACK OUT

Max

Christ, that kiss. It detonated through me like a bomb, incinerating me to the marrow. My body combusted when our lips met—soft yet demanding—with an intensity that erased my name. Her teeth caught my lip, drawing blood, and I wanted more. Something feral lived in that kiss, something ravenous in her shattered breath, the cinnamon taste of her tongue like a drug I'd kill for. If I hadn't pulled away, fingers trembling in her hair, I would have consumed her completely until nothing remained of either of us. It doesn't just terrify me—it haunts me.

I had everything planned—separate wings, entrances, lives. Her pool, her hot tub (whose jets I hear at night), her kitchen. A fortress against what I feel. Then that kiss demolished everything. Now her taste haunts me, her jasmine scent lingers on my skin, and I'm facing what I've tried to deny: I want her. I need her.

And it's going to destroy me.

I need to call an emergency summit with Gianni and my brothers Ansel and Roman. My communication with my brothers has been sparse—my fault entirely—but those two are the only ones currently in Los Angeles. Connor is in France, immersed in his latest period drama, no doubt charming the entire production with that effortless charisma he apparently inherited from our Mother, not that I would know. Asher's in Kyoto examining Edo-period scrolls with those meticulous eyes that miss nothing. Kalen's in Australia right now selling out stadiums while Cameron—the best of us, truly—performs surgeries by lamplight somewhere in Sudan, saving lives while the rest of us merely live them. Silas, Asher’s identical twin (Connor and Kalen are also identical twins. Apparently, that’s a Kensington thing), is in England, bidding on some rare royal jewels from the days of King Henry VIII at a Christie’s auction.

Roman suggests Xavier's for our meeting—the crown jewel of his Romanesque hotel empire and the kind of place where even the water costs more than most people’s car payment. The place screams money—not the flashy kind, but old wealth that doesn't need to announce itself. The hostess, legs for days, leads us past tables where deals worth eight figures are closed with handshakes. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead like suspended fortunes. The sommelier approaches with a bottle, his cufflinks catching the light—platinum, if I had to guess. Roman's a phantom to his staff, this titan who commands a global portfolio: the seaside resort in Palos Verdes, the razor-edged skyscraper in Beijing, that medieval palace he gutted in Brussels, the compound on the Brazilian coastline. Having him actually show up in LA while carving three hours from his schedule is like catching a great white shark with a kiddie rod—a once-in-a-lifetime event that nobody would believe without proof.

As for Ansel? He's got a sleek penthouse downtown—all glass and steel, the kind of place where you can see half of LA sprawled out beneath you like some giant circuit board at night. Runs Kensington Records with an iron fist. The guy's signed everyone from indie darlings to hip-hop legends, and he doesn't take shit from anyone in the industry. So, for the most part, he's in town, when he's not jetting off to Tokyo to woo some brooding indie band with cult status, or flying on his private jet to Berlin to schmooze with avant-garde producers in minimalist studios, or chartering private planes to Rio to sign distribution deals over caipirinhas at rooftop bars overlooking Copacabana. His passport is stamped with more international subsidiaries of Kensington Records than most people have credit cards.

My brothers are scattered globally, but they'll all be at this joke of a "wedding." I need Ansel and Roman now. Roman will cut through my bullshit with that shark smile of his. Ansel's different—velvet voice, snake charmer, but just as lethal when crossed. And Gianni? He'll drown me in uncomfortable truths. I've called them for one reason: I need out. Should've done it before agreeing to marry Celeste. Then I kissed her and everything ignited. Now I know—she's not just another woman. She's my personal apocalypse.