Page 27 of The Malibu Arrangement

So, yeah. That was my past 37 days. Or 888 hours. Or 53,280 minutes of wedding-prep hell squeezed between my regular 60-hour workweek like stuffing an elephant into spanx. My Netflix queue has gone from "Recently Watched" to "Are You Still Alive?" My yoga mat has developed its own ecosystem. My running shoes actually hissed at me yesterday. Meanwhile, Max has ghosted me so thoroughly I'm considering hiring an exorcist. His texts went from monosyllabic grunts—"yes," "no," and the ever-eloquent "k"—to digital tumbleweeds. Part of me keeps hoping he'll text "JK LOL WEDDING'S OFF" with a confetti emoji, but nope. This matrimonial train keeps chugging along, and I'm tied to the tracks in a white dress. Now I'm sitting here with bags under my eyes so large they require their own zip code, developing what feels like the plague. If I sneeze on some billionaire and get sued, I'm adding it to the wedding registry.

I arch an eyebrow at Olivia. "Pretty?" My voice cracks. "Stop lying." I glance at Tally, who stares back with unblinking eyes, red lips pressed thin. Tally—silent. Verbose, never-stops-talking Tally. I see their pact hanging between them—don't upset the bride. But Olivia's gaze keeps darting to my puffy eyes, while Tally fixates on my $150,000 gown's bodice. I need them to be the friends who told me my bangs looked like they'd been cut by a lawnmower, who warned me my ex was cheating.

“Okay, okay,” Olivia says. “You look kinda tired.”

Tally rolls her eyes dramatically. "Celeste, honey, you look like a nuclear disaster. Those aren't bags—they're luggage sets. Thank God for Lita Wilson, or you'd terrify the children at the reception." She gestures at my head. "And that situation needs industrial equipment. You're the 'before' photo where the model lives in a wind tunnel. Even Anne Hathaway's Princess Diaries makeover started with better raw material. You need José Eber himself to style your hair.” Then she laughs. “Wouldn’t that be fabulous?”

I snort despite myself. "For your information, it's Keeley Sanchez doing my hair, not José Eber. Though I wouldn't mind if José showed up. I've always wanted to meet a man whose hair is more fabulous than ninety percent of his clients." Keeley Sanchez, with her signature silver-streaked bob and collection of vintage Cartier bangles that clink as she works, reigns as Hollywood's most sought-after hairstylist. Her nimble fingers have crafted the Kardashians' sleek updos for Met Gala appearances and transformed the Hadid sisters' tresses into windswept perfection for Vogue covers shot on Mediterranean cliffs.

Then I smile at Tally. "Thank the tiny baby unicorns of Mount Olympus. For a hot minute there I thought aliens had replaced your brain with a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal or you'd joined some kind of secret society where they surgically remove your personality and replace it with a Hallmark card." Then I look at Olivia. “You’re up.”

Olivia winces. "Uh, you've looked better." I sigh. Classic Olivia—she'll never give me the brutal assessment Tally would deliver without hesitation. But that's why I need them both. Last month when I came home from Mom's chemo appointment, Olivia showed up with tissues and homemade soup, while Tally texted me memes about cancer wigs until I laughed so hard I forgot to cry. They balance me out and I need them both like air. And soon I'll have neither of them. Malibu might as well be Mars compared to downtown LA or Claremont—especially with that PCH traffic. Max's beachfront paradise might as well be solitary confinement.

I give her a thumbs-up. “Good enough.” Then I look at myself in the mirror. “Do you think this glam squad can transform me from swamp creature to passable humanoid?" I tilt my head, examining my reflection. "If not, I'll just embrace my final form as Bride of Frankenstein meets rejected Star Wars droid. The tabloids can run with 'Beauty Tames the Beast: How Max Kensington Married a Woman with the Facial Symmetry of a Picasso Painting.' So, of course, I’m the beast in this scenario, while Max is the beauty, so flipping the script! I’ll start a support group for the aesthetically challenged spouses of the genetically blessed." I flutter my eyelashes dramatically.

Lexi's voice cuts through Celeste's spiral. "Would you listen to yourself? You're beautiful. Sure, maybe the Diet Coke IV drip and three-hour sleep schedule have you looking a little rough around the edges, but that's temporary. What isn't temporary is that Max hit the jackpot with you, not the other way around. So enough."

I nod. My friends know their roles. Tally calls me "Skeletor" and I call her "Thunder Thighs," though we both know she's a knockout and I clean up pretty well when I try. Olivia's the one who reminds me I'm worth something when I forget. And Lexi? She's the reality check—the one who grabs my shoulders and tells me to get it together. She's right this time. A few months ago, I was Celeste 1.0—five-mile runs, downward dog at dawn, perfect sleep schedule, and a fridge full of kale. Now I'm running on four hours of sleep, Diet Coke, takeout containers, and whatever wine is on sale. Between my insane work hours and the low-grade panic of marrying a man who despises me—a man whose cologne makes my pulse quicken despite everything—I've become someone I barely recognize.

I force a smile. "Thanks, everyone." My stomach churns as I glance at the clock. "Is it too late to request general anesthesia? Or maybe there's some memory-wiping service I could hire afterward—like that Jim Carrey-Kate Winslet movie where they zap away all the bad stuff?" I tug at my sleeve, unable to meet anyone's eyes. "Because the way I'm feeling right now, this whole thing is going to be a train wreck. There's just no way this ends with me keeping my dignity intact."

Five minutes later, my suite becomes beauty central. The hairdresser attacks with products, applying some ridiculously expensive masque that smells like bottled luxury. The makeup artist examines my face with bomb-squad focus—fair enough, given my raccoon eyes and blotchy skin. My bridesmaids - Tally, Liv and Lexi - circle in burgundy off-shoulder gowns, offering champagne and chatter to distract me. I focus on my breathing—four counts in, seven hold, eight out—and hope I make it to "I do" without passing out.

“So, tell me about Max’s house,” Olivia asks. “After all, this is where the shindig will take place. What’s it like?”

I shake my head. "No clue. I've never set foot in the place. You'd think with all his money, his mansion would be plastered across every tabloid spread from here to TMZ, but I haven't seen it anywhere. Probably too high-brow for the gossip rags—more like Architectural Digest territory. Not that I've had time to flip through those either."

Tally's face lights up. "Oh my GOD, I've seen his house in Architectural Digest." She lunges forward, gripping the table. "Thirty-thousand square feet of Mediterranean perfection practically hanging off a cliff. Stone walls like a fortress, those arched windows framing the ocean." She slaps the table. "That courtyard with the fountain and lemon trees! Portuguese tiles worth a fortune. And the master bath—" she's practically hyperventilating “not only makes my entire apartment look like a storage closet, but has a tub carved from a single marble slab. The infinity pool—" her voice drops to a whisper "—just melts into the Pacific."

I let out a nervous "Oh," followed by uncontrollable giggles. "When Max suggested having the reception at his house, I pictured string lights and intimate gatherings, not some Malibu fortress with infinity pools and disappearing glass walls." I twist my engagement ring. "I should've known better. A Kensington wouldn't live in a normal home where neighbors can actually see your yard." My smile fades. "I just wanted that ordinary life—patchy lawns, barking dogs, and Sunday neighbors dropping by with beer."

Tally rolls her eyes. "Honey, please. His 'house'?" She makes air quotes. "It's practically the Getty Museum. We're talking marble columns, infinity pools, and a cobble-stone driveway that could double as a Formula One track. There will be Lamborghinis, Bentleys, Aston Martins in that driveway today and those will be the cheaper cars pulling up. Some of the cars will cost more than your lifetime salary and mine put together. The fountain in front spouts champagne on weekends—I'm barely exaggerating."

Olivia shoots Tally a look as I gasp for air. The room tilts, my vision tunnels. She grabs the paper bag from my purse—the one I packed just in case. Four hundred guests wait at the church. So much for Max's "small, intimate gathering." I count breaths against the crinkling paper. One-two-three in. One-two-three out. Five minutes later, the pressure eases. Crisis averted—for now.

Several hours later, I stare at my reflection. Smoky shadow widens my eyes, and my skin glows from the esthetician's magic. Gone are the shadows beneath my eyes and my chapped lips. Even my sparse eyelashes now fan out thick and dark—extensions I'm definitely keeping. The hair team created an elegant half-updo secured with diamond pins worth more than my mortgage, while the rest of my usually unruly curls cascade down my back in gentle waves. I touch it, surprised by its kitten-soft texture. This polished stranger in the mirror bears no resemblance to the exhausted development exec who walked in earlier.

When I stand, the wedding dress transforms. Pale ivory silk cascades from the structured bodice, cool against my skin where the back dips low. It hugs my waist before releasing into a skirt that whispers with each step, gathering in folds that catch the light like moon on water. At my collar, Belgian lace forms a delicate edge so fine it seems to float. Nothing fussy—just understated elegance that costs more than five years of my mortgage. For once, I don't look like I'm drowning in someone else's clothes. "Not bad," I whisper to my reflection. "Not bad at all."

The three girls—Lexi with her champagne flute frozen halfway to her lips, Tally clutching the doorframe as if she might faint, and Olivia whose mascara-rimmed eyes have gone so wide they might pop from her skull—are looking at me like I'm the Venus coming out of the half shell in that famous Botticelli painting. They're speechless, mouths hanging open in perfect O's, as if the oxygen has been sucked from the room and replaced with pure, unfiltered astonishment.

Tally's eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she takes in the transformation. "Oh, Celeste," she whispers, her voice catching. "That champagne silk drapes like it was made for you. The way it catches the light when you move..." She circles me slowly, fingertips hovering just above the delicate beadwork at the neckline. "Stunning! For once, you won't look like the hired help at one of their Malibu galas."

I laugh at Tally's transformation from fashion critic to stammering fangirl. Olivia blinks back mascara-smudged tears while Lexi's freckled cheeks flush pink, all of us tangled in a cloud of designer perfume and hairspray. Their approval echoes off the mirrored walls as I bite my trembling lip. The stranger in the reflection—hair swept up, silk hugging my curves—finally looks like she belongs beside Max. For once, I won't be Instagram's punching bag.

And now, it's time. The sleek black limousine idles at the curb, waiting to ferry us to St. John's Episcopal on Adams. Ironic choice—I abandoned Catholicism after Dad died, and Max is agnostic according to my late-night Googling. Not like we've discussed religion, or much of anything. I doubt any Kensington has darkened a church door in years, except with checkbook in hand. Joseph must have made quite the donation to secure a bishop in full regalia for our little charade. The ceremony, like the marriage itself, is just window-dressing. Fitting, really.

As we head to the limo, I smooth my hands over the silk of my Vera Wang dress, its champagne color catching the late afternoon light.

The stylist's magic has transformed me into a socialite bride, but dread still twists in my stomach like ice. My reflection shows a stranger—perfect makeup, elaborate updo—yet my eyes betray the truth. I can wear this costume for now, but becoming Mrs. Max Kensington demands more than designer labels and borrowed diamonds. My manicured hands tremble against the beaded clutch, terrified of being exposed as the fraud I am.

As I step from the limo, a tsunami of flashbulbs crashes over me, burning my retinas even through closed eyelids. Jesus Christ. The crowd roars—hundreds of bodies pressing against security barricades, their faces contorted with a hunger that makes my skin crawl. Security guards in full riot gear form a human wall between me and them, as if I'm the President, not some development exec in a dress worth more than five years of my annual salary.

"CELESTE! CELESTE!" They're screaming my name like I'm supposed to know them. "HOW DOES IT FEEL MARRYING MAX?" one shrieks. What am I supposed to say? That my stomach is a concrete mixer? That I'm selling myself like medieval chattel? That I'd rather walk naked through Times Square than down this aisle?

"ARE YOU MARRYING FOR MONEY?" The question slices through me. Yes, you vulture. Yes. I'm whoring myself for cash because my mother is dying and my sister deserves a future. But the truth sticks in my throat like a fishbone.

"WAS IT LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT?" someone howls, and I almost laugh. Love? It was pure, visceral loathing. Still is. I'd sooner fall for a rattlesnake.