Page 41 of The Malibu Arrangement

I need to open up. I'll ask Rosa to tell Celeste everything. My fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket as my heart races. Letting Celeste see that part of me—it would be like handing someone a key I've kept buried for decades. No woman has ever gotten that close. But something in me—something I can't name—keeps whispering that with her, it might be worth the risk.

I text Rosa.

Go ahead and tell her about Mom.

Are you sure?

No. But go ahead and tell her anyway.

I will. I’m proud of you.

I stare at my phone, thumb suspended above the screen. There's no going back from this. I'm about to reveal something to Celeste that I've only ever shared with Gianni, my brothers, and Rosa.

Sleep remains impossible. I pour three fingers of scotch, no ice, and carry it out to the terrace where the rhythm of waves against shore does nothing to calm me. Whatever exists between Celeste and me will transform after tonight. I sense it like an approaching storm. All I can do now is weather whatever follows, whether it destroys or rebuilds us.

Chapter Thirty-Four

CRISIS AVERTED- FOR NOW

Celeste

Sixteen hours later, I'm still sitting in the ICU waiting room's stiff vinyl chair, my spine aching, surrounded by the antiseptic smell that clings to everything. Lexi's curled up beside me, her mascara smudged from crying, while Rosa clutches her rosary beads, murmuring prayers.

Liv and Tally reluctantly left last night after I practically shoved them out the door. Olivia has that fancy brunch to cater for the cast of Midnight Whispers —Netflix's new psychological thriller that everyone's obsessed with. Her catering van is probably packed with her signature avocado toast triangles and those mini quiches that took her months to perfect. And Tally's prepping her tattoo station for Jax McKenzie, the brooding heartthrob from that vampire franchise—the one with those simmering gray eyes and that perfect jawline carved from marble that's plastered across billboards all over Sunset Boulevard, making traffic just a little more bearable on Monday mornings. So I squeezed their hands and promised to text updates, watching their torn expressions as they finally walked away, leaving me under the harsh fluorescent lights that make everyone look half-dead.

The doctor emerges every few hours with news. His first visits brought only grave nods and those four words I've grown to dread: "We're doing our best." Each time he said it, something inside me withered. The unspoken translation hung in the air: we're trying, but prepare yourself. As night bled into morning, his updates shifted. "The antibiotics are working," he told us, though his cautious tone added the silent "but" before he mentioned she remained unconscious. Later: "She's awake now. Weak. One visitor at a time." And finally, as sunlight streamed through the waiting room blinds: "We'll move her to a regular room soon. Just need to observe her a while longer." Only then did my lungs remember how to fill completely.

At the doctor's words—"We're moving her to a regular room for further observation"—my shoulders slump and a sob escapes my throat. The relief hits me like a wave, washing away the tension I've been carrying. My body shakes as I finally let go, though part of me wants to leap up and shout. Just hours ago, I was preparing for the worst. Now, a sliver of possibility has opened up. Mom's still fighting cancer, still fragile, still might lose this battle. But she's cleared this hurdle, and that's not nothing. It's like feeling the first warm rays after the longest night of the year. Beside me, Lexi's face crumples as she cries too, while Rosa lifts her hands toward the ceiling, her smile radiant with gratitude.

Lexi and I make our way to Mom's room. The nurse at the station stops Rosa with an apologetic smile, explaining the "immediate family only" policy. Rosa squeezes my hand before stepping back, despite having stayed by my side all night and ignoring my repeated suggestions that she go home. "Max will understand," she had insisted earlier, her eyes tired but determined. "I need to know she's okay."

“Mom," I whisper, reaching for her hand beneath the crisp hospital sheet. Her skin feels like tissue paper against mine, cold and blue-veined, her knuckles sharp ridges beneath my fingertips. She turns toward my voice, eyelids fluttering like moth wings before settling half-open, revealing irises dulled by medication yet still that familiar hazel. The corners of her chapped lips curve upward—that same determined smile she'd wear when helping me with homework or working double shifts. "I love you. You're the strongest person I know, so I'm not surprised you're getting better."

Lexi leans in close to Mom's hospital bed, her voice cracking as she whispers, "I love you." Mom's pale lips curve into a fragile smile, and she manages a slight nod that rustles the thin pillow beneath her head. The sepsis ordeal has left her too weak to speak, her once-vibrant voice now trapped behind the oxygen tube looped under her nose. We squeeze her cool fingers and promise to return when she's stronger, maybe in a day or two, when the harsh fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell won't exhaust what little energy she has left.

And then the three of us leave the hospital, stepping through the automatic glass doors that exhale a final antiseptic breath onto our backs. Outside, the sky bleeds watercolor oranges into purples. I check my watch—6:42 PM—and realize it was also dusk when I arrived yesterday, my shadow stretching long across the parking lot just like it does now. Twenty-four hours of fluorescent lights, vinyl chairs, and the constant beeping of monitors have left me hollow.

On the way home, Rosa grips the steering wheel with her small, capable hands, the ones that brought me coffee every three hours throughout the night. She insists on driving after seeing me fumble with my keys, my fingers still trembling from everything that's happened. As we merge onto the freeway, she glances at me, her dark eyes catching the last of the sunset, and softly says, "I need to tell you about Max."

Oh, boy.

Chapter Thirty-Five

THE TRUTH ABOUT MAX

Celeste

I whip my head toward Rosa. "What about Max?" The words scrape out of my throat. I hadn't thought of him once while counting Mom's breaths under those hospital lights. His face in the doorway last night sparked pure rage. The audacity—after dumping the wedding planning on me, abandoning our reception, then acting betrayed over Lexi's drunk friend? After three weeks of treating me like I'm invisible in his precious Malibu mansion? He gets to be there for me after all that? Nope. My hands shake as I dig my nails into my palms. He doesn't get to be there for Mom's final moments. That space belongs to those who've shown up—Liv, Tally, Lexi, Rosa. Not him. He should’ve known to stay away.

Rosa's brown hand clamps down on mine, her grip fierce and steady as an anchor chain. My racing pulse slams against her fingers, then gradually surrenders. God, this woman. When she looks at me, it's like being bathed in sunlight after months of darkness—her eyes burning away the shadows that have been choking me. Without her these past few weeks, I'd have already walked straight into the Pacific, let the salt water fill my lungs, and welcomed the cold embrace pulling me down to the seafloor. She is the only lifeline I have left in Max’s home.

Rosa's eyes burn with sudden conviction. "Max is a good man." Her jaw sets, and something flashes across her face—not just a furrow between her brows, but a fierce protectiveness that makes my chest tighten. She's been there through everything: his blood-soaked knees, his teenage heartbreaks, the man he's become. I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat. How can I reconcile this "good man" with the one who cuts through our shared spaces like I'm nothing but vapor, who's built walls between us so thick I can feel them crushing my lungs? The raw certainty blazing in her eyes makes me wonder what catastrophe I'm missing—what devastation carved him hollow enough to make this cruelty seem like self-preservation.

I open my mouth to protest, but she silences me with a single, razor-sharp glance that slices through my objections before they can escape my lips. Her eyes burn with an intensity that pins me to my seat—the look of someone clutching dynamite knowledge about this man who's become my personal riddle. My heart hammers against my ribs as I swallow hard and nod, bracing myself for whatever bomb she's about to detonate.

Her voice drops to a whisper. "Max has had a difficult life," she says, her fingers fidgeting with her beaded bracelet.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Join the club, who hasn't? I think of my father’s accident on that ski slope, how I’ve always felt responsible for his death. Now my mother lies in a hospital bed, her skin the color of old paper, tubes snaking from her arms. My dreams of becoming a working screenwriter are utterly destroyed. Meanwhile, Max is a billionaire with cheekbones that could cut glass, eyes the exact blue-green of the Malibu shoreline at sunset, and a smile that's graced the cover of Forbes three times in the past year alone. The world doesn't just fall at his feet—it prostrates itself there, begging for attention.