Page 30 of The Malibu Arrangement

The singer's voice wraps around us, promising devotion until stars plummet and mountains dissolve into the sea. My heart skips. If Max selected this, what does it mean? I press my cheek against his starched shirt, inhaling his cologne, a warm blend of sandalwood and citrus that seems to wrap around me like an invisible embrace, both comforting and dangerously intoxicating. No—this is just theater for our audience. Perfect theater. Around us, Hollywood's elite exchange knowing glances. The studio head to my left leans toward her husband, nodding approvingly. The Netflix VP smiles. They're all buying it. My fingers curl slightly against Max's shoulder as I savor these final measures. I’m willing this song to never end. When the music stops, he'll remember I'm just a contract, just a favor to his grandfather. His hand rests warm against my lower back now, but soon he'll drift away, finding someone more important to speak with. I hate how much I want him to stay. I hate how my body betrays me, leaning into his. Enough. I straighten my spine slightly. This isn't real. I'm just another acquisition.

The song ends. Max's smile doesn't reach his eyes as he nods, squeezes my shoulders like I'm his basketball buddy, and says, "Okay, that's out of the way. If you'll excuse me, I need to make the rounds." Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd while Dua Lipa's bass thumps through the speakers. No one even glances my way. I stand frozen on the dance floor, watching diamond bracelets catch the light as women throw back champagne, men in bespoke suits laugh too loudly at each other's jokes. This is their tribe—sleek, moneyed, connected—and I'm the anthropologist who accidentally went native by marrying into it. These people wouldn't remember my face if I weren't wearing Max's last name like a VIP pass. I scan the room for familiar faces—Olivia, Tally, Lexi, Mom—my real people.

I spot them at the bar, Mom throwing her head back with that throaty laugh I haven't heard in months. Tally leans in, whispering something that sends Mom into another fit of giggles. This is the woman I remember—the one who'd swagger into a Vegas poker room at midnight and leave with everyone's chips and phone numbers. The woman who orders whiskey neat without blinking and curses so creatively that sailors take notes. When I think about Thanksgiving without that laugh, or no more “surprise” roses appearing on Valentine's Day (her annual reminder that I don't need a man to feel special, though she'd never say it that way), something cold settles in my chest. But tonight, watching her eyes crinkle at the corners, I can breathe again.

Max and his cold shoulder suddenly seem very small.

Chapter Twenty-Two

WHAT AM I DOING?

Max

Goddamn. That dance destroyed me. Her head nestled against my chest, my fingers lost in her hair, the rhythm of her heart matching mine—I've never felt so undone. For three minutes, the world disappeared. Just her. Just us. Then the music stopped, and reality crashed back. I did the only thing I know how to do with her: I bolted. Now I'm working the room solo, making small talk with familiar faces. Let them whisper about why the groom's abandoned his bride at their own reception. I don't care. I need air. I need distance. I need to remember who I am without her clouding my judgment.

The song choice was mine, though I lied to Celeste about that. Couldn't risk her deciphering what those lyrics meant—how perfectly they captured everything I wasn't ready to admit. I hadn’t heard that song since college, but one morning, it just popped into my head. Strange how it ambushed me after all these years, surfacing in my mind unprompted and refusing to leave. Like it had been waiting for this exact moment. For us. What else could explain a forgotten melody suddenly demanding to become the soundtrack to our first dance? I know exactly what it means, which is precisely why I'm circling the room alone right now, letting Celeste catch up with her friends, buying myself time before I have to face what that song choice reveals about feelings I can barely acknowledge to myself.

Two hours later, my throat raw from shouting over the pulsing bass, I've glad-handed everyone from Spielberg (shorter than you'd think) to Musk (taller, somehow). I've manufactured a dozen different excuses for Celeste's absence—she has a migraine that's making her see spots, she's intimidated by the Architectural Digest-worthy mansion with its infinity pool overlooking the Pacific, I didn't want to subject her to the piranha tank on her first night out. The last two are probably true; the migraine is fiction. My cheeks ache from forced smiling, and I scan the crowded terrace for the bartender, desperate for some whiskey served in a glass the size of a fishbowl. Gianni's blazer flashes under the string lights near the koi pond, and I spot Ansel's perfectly coiffed hair bobbing through the crowd by the DJ booth. I should find the rest of my brothers, but my social battery is completely drained.

I step onto the terrace looking for Gianni, but every muscle in my body locks. Celeste—my Celeste—is sitting on the fountain with some stranger, his arm snaked around her shoulders, her head pressed against his chest.

Molten rage floods through me, scorching my veins. The sight of another man's hands on her skin—today of all fucking days—sends my heart hammering against my ribs like it wants to break free and attack him itself. My vision narrows, darkens at the edges. My fists clench so tight my knuckles crack. MINE. The word explodes through my skull with each violent pulse of blood. Who the fuck does he think he is touching what belongs to me?

I stride over, the world narrowing to a pinprick of red. There's only Celeste and this motherfucker with his hand around her shoulders, and my pulse hammers so hard I taste copper. Something primal claws up my throat as I imagine grabbing him by that designer collar, smashing his skull against the marble fountain edge until it cracks open like an egg, holding his twitching body under the chlorinated water until the bubbles stop. The rational part of my brain—barely a whisper now—warns that TMZ would have the footage before his lungs even filled with water, but I'm already flexing my fingers, already calculating the exact pressure needed to crush his windpipe.

I lunge forward, my vision tunneling to a pinpoint focused on this guy's smug face. My fist cocks back, knuckles white, blood roaring in my ears. Celeste's gasp barely registers—a distant echo drowned by the thundering of my pulse. The bastard's still laughing, oblivious that I'm about to shatter his perfect teeth across the floor. Then—pain. My arm wrenches backward, shoulder socket screaming as Gianni's iron grip locks around my wrist. "MAX, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" His voice slices through my rage, but my muscles still strain against his hold, desperate for release.

Lexi appears suddenly, a crimson cocktail clutched in her hand. She drapes herself over the guy's shoulders, planting a sloppy kiss near his ear. He returns the gesture, completely unaware of the confrontation I'd been about to initiate. My racing pulse begins to slow. "Got your Cosmo," she announces to the interloper, the words tumbling together. Her gaze shifts to me, eyes unfocused. "Oh hey, Max. See this? My man Shane here loves these fancy pink drinks. Whatcha make of that, huh?" Then she laughs. “Just kidding. He’s not my boyfriend, but my gay boyfriend. See I have a gay husband and a gay boyfriend. My gay husband is with his actual husband tonight, so Shane it is.” She’s slurring her words and swaying, and Shane is still oblivious to what almost happened.

Lexi's gay bestie? My eyes dart to Celeste perched on the fountain's edge, horror etched across her face. Gianni's fingers dig into my wrist as he restrains my clenched fist behind my back. The thundering in my chest doesn't subside for what feels like forever, the rush of blood in my ears drowning everything else out. Lexi's. Gay. Bestie. Since when did I become this territorial beast? Before Celeste, I'd see exes with new guys and shrug it off without a second thought. But now? This primal surge has hijacked every rational thought. Christ. There's no running from this anymore. What I feel for her transcends mere possessiveness. It's something I can't even name⁠—

I mumble an apology to the guy, then catch Gianni's eye with a look that says I'm under control now. He gets it immediately—nods once and releases his grip on my fist. I need to escape this scene. Can't bear to see Celeste's face—her fingers splayed across her eyes, her mouth frozen in shock. She's stunned. I'm stunned. The only one who isn't? Shane.

“Sorry for what, dude?” he slurs after me, but I'm already retreating to the bar for what will be my first drink tonight. The irony isn't lost on me—I didn't need alcohol to act like a complete jackass.

Gianni trails me into the haze of the smoking den. Men in tailored suits huddle around green felt tables, Cuban cigars dangling from their lips as they play round after round of high-stakes Blackjack and Texas Hold’em. The amber glow of wall sconces barely penetrates the cloud hanging over the room. Through archways, I glimpse the rest of the party—bodies swaying on makeshift dance floors, couples entwined in shadowy corners, empty crystal tumblers abandoned on every surface. These VIPs don't do moderation. The Macallan flows like water, and Cristal bottles stand empty like fallen soldiers. At least my near-brawl with Lexi's “gay boyfriend” happened when everyone was too far gone to remember the groom almost hospitalizing someone for the unforgivable sin of touching what's mine.

“Okay,” Gianni says as we sit down to the bar. “What the fuck happened back there?”

I shake my head and snap my fingers. The bartender slides a glass of Macallan neat across the polished wood before I can even open my mouth. My usual. The only thing I ever order. A convenient lie forms in my mind—transparent to Gianni, maybe, but necessary armor against what's really happening inside me. Against what that woman is making me feel. I clear my throat. "Look, it's our damn wedding reception. Those two idiots in the fountain? That video's going viral in the next five minutes. The last thing I need is my new wife's reputation getting dragged through social media because some jackass couldn't keep his hands off her. So yeah, I lost it. Sue me."

Gianni's eyebrow inches upward, his face a billboard advertising disbelief. "Right. You exploded because the guy exercised poor judgment and created a PR nightmare. Nothing to do with jealousy. Nothing to do with the fact that seeing his arm around her made your blood boil." He pauses, watching me squirm. "It's not possessiveness—that's beneath you. It's just that you don't want anyone else touching her because..." His voice trails off, eyebrows lifting in challenge. The unfinished sentence dangles between us like bait. Because what? Because she's crawled under my skin? Because I can’t stop thinking about her, and I’m…I’m…I’m…goddamn it! I shake my head. She irritates me, frustrates me, but that's all.

That has to be all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

WHAT WAS THAT?

Celeste

Talk about bizarre. There I was, perched on the fountain's edge with Shane—Lexi's gay bestie who only has eyes for his fiancé Marcus. Both Lexi and Shane went overboard at the open bar, but who could blame them? The selection was ridiculous—Macallan scotch, Gran Patron tequila, Chopin Vintage Vault vodka, Appleton Estate rum—liquid luxury they'd never afford otherwise. Of course they'd over indulge.

I had my arm around Shane's waist, keeping him upright while some security guy watched us like a hawk. I figured if I stayed with him, they couldn't toss out the "bride's" friend, even if he was three sheets to the wind. I was playing babysitter to both him and my sister, who'd wandered off somewhere when Max suddenly appeared. His eyes were wild, fists balled tight, looking ready to deck poor Shane. And now I'm completely baffled—why would he act jealous when he's been treating me like I'm invisible at our own damn wedding reception?

Yeah. The moment our "first dance" ended, Max vanished into the sea of designer-clad wealth. Suddenly I was invisible—the non-Kensington in a room of diamonds, A-Listers and old money. While my new husband worked the ballroom solo, I retreated to the wall. These people with their perfect posture and practiced laughs weren't my crowd. Mingling terrified me. One wrong comment about Cannes or wine, and I'd become tomorrow's whispered joke. Mr. Five-Languages-and-a-PhD belongs here. I don't have his framed credentials, but I can fix a broken screenplay in my sleep. Not that anyone with their Harvard rings would care.

When it became clear Max wasn't even pretending to want me around, I gathered my little island of reality—Tally, Mom, Lexi, Olivia, Shane and me—at a corner table with a wilting centerpiece. I talked to Joe and Ruth, of course. I have to be polite with them because if Joe is the person paying to stay married to Max. But after I talk to them, I gravitate to my tribe like a magnet.