Page 26 of The Malibu Arrangement

Roman leans forward in his chair, elbows on the conference table. "So, my brother," he says, dark eyes narrowing. At thirty-five, he's the middle Kensington son—not the oldest - Cameron - not the youngest - me. When he runs his fingers through his jet-black hair, I catch our shared golden-brown complexion, the Sicilian heritage from our mother's immigrant parents. I inherited her coloring too, though my eyes are my father's—light green against my darker features. Mother. A woman I know only from photographs. She died when I was too young to form memories, her absence a wound that never properly healed, especially considering how she died. Roman taps the table impatiently. "Where's the fire?"

Ansel nods, his dirty-blonde hair catching the light. "Yeah." The Kensington genes run strong in him—that olive skin from our mother and those light blue eyes straight from our father's side. His fingers drum against the table in an irregular rhythm, something I've rarely seen from him. Usually it's Roman who can't sit still. Ansel's the diplomat, the one who listens to everyone's problems without judgment, though God help you if you ever truly betray him. His patience has its limits. Today, though, something's off. His mind seems elsewhere, and I'd bet good money it has to do with Larissa. I've never understood what he sees in her. A man like Ansel—loyal to his core, the kind who'd move mountains for someone he truly loves—deserves better than what she gives him. "What's going on?"

Gianni sits across from me, eyes knowing. He's been in on this since I met Celeste. I haven't mentioned her, but Gianni reads me better than my brothers do. His gaze holds no shadow, no unspoken blame about Mom. My brothers insist it wasn't my fault, but I catch that split-second hesitation sometimes. That flicker of what-if. Would she still be here if I'd never been born? They'd never say it, might not even admit it to themselves, but it hangs between us. She died because of me. Some debts can't be repaid.

I slam my glass down. "This marriage to Celeste? Not happening. I need your help ending it." My fingers rake through my hair. The panic rises in my chest. Maybe Granddad knew exactly what he was doing—throwing me together with the one woman who makes my pulse race. Being near her is like standing too close to a fire. Even with her sleeping across the house, I'll feel her presence. That's why she has to go.

A wicked gleam flashes in Ansel's pale blue eyes as he watches me flounder. His lips curl into a barely suppressed smile, like he's savoring some private joke at my expense. I search his face for clues, but all I find is that infuriating look of someone thoroughly entertained by another person's private hell.

“What are you smiling about, Ansel?” I demand.

He points at me, grinning. "Look at you. Completely besotted." He sips his scotch, the ice clinking against the glass. "The old man's a genius. When he first told me about this arrangement with Celeste, I thought, Christ, the poor woman—stuck with you for a year just to collect her due." He leans back, eyebrows raised. "Now I'm about to watch her wrap you around her finger, and I've got to say, brother, I never thought I'd live to see it."

Shit. I should've known better than to ask Ansel for help. My brother lives in some fantasy world where love conquers all. He doesn't get it—this arrangement with Celeste is a ticking time bomb. When it explodes, we'll both be left picking up the pieces. I see the collision course we're on. Ansel keeps pushing me to be some hero riding in to save the day, but that's not who I am. Never has been. Never will be. And my brother's refusal to accept that reality is just making everything worse.

“Not helping,” I say. “Rome. You’re up.”

Roman shakes his head. "You've been playing musical beds with half of L.A. for years. Granddad wouldn't have interfered if you hadn't been such a train wreck." He runs a hand through his hair. "Do I think forcing you to marry a stranger is the answer? No. Just glad he hasn't tried that shit with me yet." Roman raps his knuckles against the wooden beam, wincing—aware his own dating history is equally disastrous. "But the old man's instincts are supernatural. If he picked this woman for you, I'd bet on it. Neither Ansel nor I will help you escape this."

Christ. My brothers are impossible. They act like this fake marriage is a gift when having Celeste under my roof is dangerous. She could slip past defenses I've spent years building. Only Gianni's gotten close, and that took years of trust. But Celeste? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since she walked into the Centurion in those rainbow boots. She's the perfect weapon—make me care, then disappear. I've already watched my father's taillights fade down our driveway. It destroyed me. I won't survive it again. How do I make them see the threat?

Goddamn, if I ever found out that Warner Brothers or one of those vultures at Paramount is blackmailing Granddad into doing this to me, it would make one helluva lot of sense. Because a woman like Celeste—with those knowing green-blue eyes that seem to see right through my bullshit—not only threatens to break me into a thousand jagged pieces, but she'll also take me off my game when I need to be razor-sharp. And I can't afford that distraction right now. Not when we're in the middle of acquiring Dreamscape, the crown jewel that could finally put Kensington Pictures at the top of the Hollywood food chain.

I slam my palm on the table. "Some brothers you are. Look, I need this woman gone from my house. Non-negotiable." I lean in, lowering my voice. "You two have connections I don't." Roman's eyes dart away—he knows exactly what I'm getting at. His guy Lars could have those self-righteous board members' dirty laundry on my desk by morning. The kind of secrets that would make them forget all about firing me when Granddad gives them the green light. The kind that stay buried in offshore accounts or behind encrypted passwords. The kind that ends careers, marriages, and occasionally, freedom.

Gianni finally speaks, and his words cut to my marrow. My brothers I can dismiss, but not him. This is the guy who held my head at sixteen while I vomited tequila, who took a beating from Coachella security rather than leave me behind, who slept on Grandfather's floor after Dad left—never mentioning the bruises forming on his back. My brothers share my blood by accident. Gianni bled for me by choice.

He locks eyes with me. "I've seen you close billion-dollar deals without blinking. But this woman? She's got you running. The Max I know doesn't break promises. So stop hiding. Walk straight into whatever scares you about her. Because if those flames don't destroy you, what's waiting might be exactly what you've been searching for."

Perfect. Just fucking perfect. These jackasses won't lift a finger. My whiskey ripples with each hand tremor. Fear—Gianni was right—is unfamiliar terrain. Boardrooms I can handle. Personal disasters too. But Celeste? My chest constricts. She's got me cornered, breathless, ready to run. But I gave my word—to Granddad, to her. That money is her lifeline. Without it, everyone she cares about suffers. I can't let Granddad pull the plug because I couldn't handle this arrangement. No choice but to see it through.

Fine. I’ll accept what's happening. But I'll make damn sure she stays in her own wing of the house. Out of sight, out of mind. I just need to compartmentalize—keep her physically and mentally walled off. I can do this. I can share a roof without acknowledging her existence. That's the only way forward. Because any other path... I can't even consider it.

We'd both end up in ruins.

Chapter Nineteen

THE BIG DAY

Celeste

The woman in the mirror has hands that won't stop shaking, her French manicure catching the harsh bathroom light with each tremor. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated with fear, rimmed with smudged mascara from the night before.

In four hours, I'll be Mrs. Max Kensington. The ivory Vera Wang hanging on the door—a $150,000 dress I never would have chosen—looks more like a shroud than a wedding gown. Each tick of the grandfather clock pushes me closer to the inevitable. Mom needs that experimental treatment. Lexi needs UCLA. I need Dreamscape. So I'll walk down that marble aisle like the condemned, one Louboutin in front of the other, my pulse drowning out everything but the knowledge that there's no turning back.

Olivia and Tally keep shoving flutes of Veuve Clicquot into my hands, but my stomach lurches at the mere sight of the bubbles. "Just one sip," Olivia insists, but I shake my head. God, I wish I could down the entire bottle and float through this nightmare in a champagne haze. TMZ would have a field day: "Dreamscape Exec Weds Kensington CEO, Can't Stand Without Swaying." But my rebellious stomach won't even allow me that small mercy. Each time I bring the glass to my lips, bile rises in my throat.

Lexi perches on the chair beside me, shadows beneath her blue eyes. We've been over this already—first at our emergency summit on the rooftop bar, then daily in her desperate phone calls. "I could juggle full-time work with classes," she insisted yesterday, her voice cracking. I had to remind her that humans need sleep. Besides, if she goes through the restaurant management program, her restaurant would, you know, expect her to manage the restaurant. Duh. When she texted about a cheaper apartment listing, I shut that down too. "Mom can barely make it to chemo appointments. A move would destroy her." Lexi's shoulders finally slumped this morning. We're cornered, both of us. This arrangement is the only way forward.

Olivia's eyes flick over my wrinkled sundress. "You look pretty," she lies. She and Tally perch on a leather love seat in this ridiculous penthouse suite Max and his Granddad rented for me. Soon, celebrity makeup artist Lita Wilson will arrive with her entourage to transform me—chapped lips, day-old mascara and all—into someone Instagram-worthy enough to marry a Kensington.

I give Olivia a look that could wither a cactus. Goddamn it, Olivia, stop lying to me. I know how I look. I have eyes and what I see is skin the color of day-old oatmeal, raccoon-dark circles under bloodshot eyes that haven't closed for more than three hours at a stretch in nine days, lips cracked like the Mojave Desert floor, and last night's mascara smudged in sooty half-moons beneath my lower lashes because I've been too numb to even splash water on my face. I see hair that looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket—a rat's nest of tangles that snaps every tooth off my comb because it's as dry as straw and twice as brittle.

No matter about the hair, though—part of Lita's team consists of hairdressers to the stars, who'll arrive like a SWAT team armed with that legendary Moroccan deep hair conditioner that costs more than my mortgage payment, smells like an expensive bakery, and transforms even the most damaged strands into silk ribbons. They'll bring professional scissors that could probably cut through metal and those magical industrial-strength bobby pins that hopefully will defy gravity and hold up the Golden Gate Bridge of hair disasters.

It’s been thirty-seven days since Max disappeared after that electric kiss—the one that made him recoil like I'd burned him. Meanwhile, I've become Vera Wang's living doll. Hours on a mahogany platform with her team circling me, pins between lips, measuring tapes around necks, scissors snipping. Even Vera herself fussed over every crystal, her hands smoothing silk until, catching Olivia's tears and Tally's shock in the mirror, I nearly believed the princess lie myself.

My personal assistant Aimée has been my saving grace—or my emotional support human, as I'd taken to calling her. Without her, I'd have drowned in Wedding Wonderland's parade of absurdities: food tastings where Wolfgang Puck (yes, THAT Wolfgang Puck) watched me like I was judging the Olympics of Canapés; cake designers who stroked fondant samples and whispered "feel the texture" while maintaining uncomfortable eye contact; and florists who'd gasp "but the SYMBOLISM" when I suggested substituting peonies with something—anything—more original. During dress fittings, I'd hum the Imperial March while perfect strangers circled my butt with pins. Then there was Alicia-Fucking-Crawford, photographer to the stars, who kept demanding I practice my "candid laugh" until I started snorting like a congested hippo. The makeup squad insisted I pick a "face aesthetic" from their sacred scroll of options: Natural? Matte? Dewy? Smokey? Glam? Bridal? I deadpanned "Option G—Goth bride. Think Morticia Addams meets Edward Scissorhands." Their collective gasps could've inflated a hot air balloon. Worth it. I was feeling spicy that day.