Page 32 of The Malibu Arrangement

Dammit! What an idiot I've been! Whatever leverage Max's grandfather has over him could've been mine too. I could've flipped the script—told Max to handle the wedding planning himself or watch me walk. These last eight weeks might have looked like his—feet up, carefree, while someone else handled the details. But who am I kidding? He would've seen right through it. The cold reality is I couldn't afford to walk away, and Max knows that better than anyone. With his shark-like instincts, he would've called my bluff in a heartbeat. Still... I should've at least made him sweat.

I shake my head. No, I can't leverage my way out of this mess. Max knows exactly why I signed those marriage papers—Mom's medical bills, Lexi's tuition. My back's against the wall, and he's just leaning casually against his. This isn't some standoff where we're both holding loaded guns. He's got a cannon; I've got a water pistol. If I try the whole "treat me better or I walk" routine, he’ll probably say “don’t threaten me with a good time” and hold the door open for me on my way out. And that would be that.

I look around the apartment. “Well, I guess that’s it. Let’s go.”

The U-Haul's door slams behind us, the sound final as a gavel. Through the smudged window, I catch a last glimpse of my third-floor condo—the one I scrimped for years to afford, the one with the mortgage paperwork I signed with trembling fingers. For three years, that place has been home: the kitchen counter where Olivia and I demolished pints of Häagen-Dazs after midnight, the bathtub where I soaked away terrible days with cheap Merlot, the couch that caught our tears when men whose faces now blur together walked away. The engine rumbles to life beneath us, and something in my chest seems to tear loose, floating untethered as we pull away from the curb.

“Bye beautiful apartment,” I say, looking out the window.

Leaving this place hits me in the gut more than I ever thought it would. I’m leaving my sanctuary for a cold palace where I’ll materially have everything I need, but emotionally will be bereft.

Oh, god, what the hell am I doing?

Chapter Twenty-Six

MY NEW HOME…UGH! NO, AMAZING…

Celeste

I can feel my pulse in my throat as I stand before Max's imposing front door—solid mahogany with wrought iron accents that screams "I cost six figures." Thank god for Olivia and Tally flanking me like bodyguards. Their presence steadies me, even as I notice my fingertips trembling against my purse.

The door swings open to reveal a woman in her early sixties with warm brown skin, draped in a vibrant caftan that matches her head wrap. Her smile breaks across her face like sunrise, and before I can even introduce myself, she pulls me into an embrace that feels like coming home. In this massive, cold mansion, her presence radiates warmth.

"Celeste," she says, her voice musical with genuine delight—something I've never once heard from Max. Suddenly I'm sobbing against her shoulder, my body betraying me. The tears I've been swallowing for months while dreading this day come rushing out all at once. But mixed with the release of tension is something unexpected: hope. If this woman—probably the housekeeper—will be here too, maybe I won't be completely alone after all.

Olivia puts her hand on my back. “You okay?” she asks me.

I nod, feeling the tightness in my chest finally begin to loosen. "Actually, for the first time since this whole nightmare started, I think I might be." I look at this woman, whose weathered face is creased with laugh lines, her dark eyes warm and knowing as she beams at me like California sunlight breaking through morning fog. "Um, I'm so sorry for ruining your beautiful gown like this." I gesture helplessly at the silk fabric, now spotted with mascara and salt stains.

"It's okay, child," she says, her accent melodic and soothing as she pats my hand with fingers that are calloused but gentle. "By the way, I'm Rosa. I'm Max's housekeeper. Been with the family since he was knee-high."

I walk through the door with Rosa's arm around me and freeze. Max stands in the foyer, transformed. His black cashmere shirt hugs his chest and shoulders, dark jeans hanging from narrow hips, bare feet against marble. His usually perfect hair falls in waves, one lock curling above his eyebrow. When he moves, his sleeve rides up, revealing a Celtic tattoo I never knew existed. My pulse hammers in my throat as I swallow, suddenly hungry in a way that has nothing to do with dinner.

That's the first thing I notice. The second thing I notice is holy god, this place! The marble foyer stretches before us like a white sea, with Grecian columns soaring to a cherub-painted dome. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow light across twin mahogany staircases that curve to the second floor. Not a fingerprint mars the brass railings. The air smells of expensive perfume, polished wood, and fresh flowers. And this is just the foyer.

“Hello,” I say stiffly to Max, who’s just standing there, not saying a word. Rosa gives him some side-eye and Max shakes his head and waves his hand vaguely towards the back of the house, where I can see, way off in the distance, there is a floor to ceiling glass door that leads to the outside terrace.

Rosa rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind Max,” she says with a shake of her head. “Let me show you to your living quarters.”

She takes my hand—her fingers cool and dry against my sweaty palm—and leads me through enormous glass doors that swing open without a sound. We pass through one room after another, each with pristine white walls that soar twenty feet high. In the first, stark black and white photographs of nude figures hang beside a de Kooning—violent slashes of crimson and ochre that seem to bleed across the canvas. The next room showcases a Monet, its water lilies floating in purples and blues so delicate they appear to shimmer in the recessed lighting. The back room stops me cold: an enormous stone fireplace dominates the far wall, rough-hewn granite blocks stacked floor to ceiling, making my heart race as if I've stumbled into some ancient temple.

I glance over my shoulder at Olivia and Tally, their jaws hanging slack, eyes wide as dinner plates. During our wedding reception, we'd only glimpsed the ballroom with its hand-painted murals, the infinity-edge terrace pool that seemed to melt into the Pacific, and the mahogany-paneled smoking room where vintage Cohibas rested in humidors worth more than my car. But this—this living space feels like stepping onto a movie set, the kind where some tragic heiress in silk and diamonds would descend those stairs with theatrical flair. I half expect Gloria Swanson to materialize at the landing, arms outstretched, declaring she's ready for her close-up while insisting she's still big, it's the pictures that got small.

We get to the back room, and go through a heavy mahogany door that leads to a hallway with gleaming marble floors and recessed lighting. The hallway stretches for what feels like fifty feet before opening into a completely different wing of the enormous mansion. It's not just an addition—it's practically another house attached to the main residence, with its own sun-drenched living room featuring floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Pacific and an enormous stone fireplace on one wall. There are several bedrooms with custom California king beds, bathrooms with rainfall showers and heated floors, and a chef's kitchen outfitted with a six-burner La Cornue Grand Palais range, double Sub-Zero refrigerators, and countertops of polished Carrara marble that gleam under pendant lighting.

I freeze in the doorway. "This...this is mine?" My fingers trail along cream-colored walls as I move from room to room, sinking into carpet that costs more than my yearly salary. The master bedroom steals my breath—a California king with sea foam sheets, velvet headboard, and perfect pillows. Lavender drapes puddle on herringbone floors while Diptyque candles surround watercolors of peonies. Silver frames hold photos of my family I never gave him. Everything sits precisely placed, as if measured for maximum tranquility. A crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling. When I push open the French doors, salt air rushes in with the sound of waves. The balcony overlooks the Pacific—endless blues melting into the diamond-scattered horizon.

Somehow, Max absorbed every detail of my hastily decorated condo and transformed it into this sophisticated fantasy version that still feels unmistakably like me.

I walk into the walk-in closet and freeze, momentarily disoriented by the sheer scale of it—a space larger than my condo, with gleaming cedar-lined walls, custom glass-fronted cabinets, and a center island topped with what appears to be actual marble. Recessed lighting casts a soft glow over rows of designer ladies’ suits and shoes that probably cost more than my car.

My fingers tremble as I run them over the ladies' suits, hats, jeans, sweaters, and blouses hanging in perfect alignment—each one precisely my size, each one something I've only ever seen in magazine spreads. The labels read like poetry: Chanel, Dior, Armani. Below them, shoes rest in individual glass shrines like museum artifacts—Blahnik's curves, Prada's sharp angles, the red-soled Louboutins I once pressed my nose against a department store window to see. They catch the light like forgotten treasures, as if Prince Charming had collected every glass slipper in the kingdom and displayed them here for me.

And the jewelry! Earrings in every hue of diamond imaginable—champagne pinks that catch the light like sunset on crystal waters, forest greens deep as ancient emeralds, cognac browns that warm like aged whiskey, and ice blues that shimmer with winter's breath. There are even blood-red diamonds. They're masterfully cut into teardrop earrings that dangle like frozen tears, statement necklaces with stones the size of quail eggs, and tennis bracelets that could blind you when they catch the light, and custom platinum rings. My fingers tremble as I touch these exquisite treasures, my heart pounding. Suspicious, I slide each diamond across the compact mirror from my purse—it etches a perfect line into the glass surface, confirming what I already know: genuine diamonds. But they’re lab-created. They must be. There’s no way these are all natural diamonds, or any of them are, for that matter, because multi-colored diamonds costs millions apiece and Max wouldn’t spend that much on me, a woman he barely knows. Still, they’re gorgeous and I’m over the moon looking at them.

The mahogany jewelry chest holds treasures I never imagined touching. I lift out Prada necklaces with emeralds like quail eggs, test a pearl necklace against my teeth for that telltale sandy texture. Diamond rings in canary, ice blue, and blush wink from platinum settings. A Cartier bracelet sparkles against midnight velvet. My hands tremble, half expecting alarms. At home, my jewelry box held plastic beads and tarnished silver, save for a $50 black pearl necklace from Cozumel that had felt extravagant. This collection isn't just wealth—it's dynasty crystallized into perfect objects I'm somehow allowed to touch.

I spin around to find Max hovering at the closet entrance, his brow furrowed. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and I notice he now has shoes on. "My shopper Jack picked these out. Thought you might—" He clears his throat. "Jack can take back anything you don't want. No big deal." His eyes dart to mine, then away. "So...yeah."