Page 42 of The Malibu Arrangement

What am I missing?

Rosa inhales deeply, fidgeting with her gold locket. "This isn't in any tabloid. But Max..." Her eyes cloud over as she shakes her silver-streaked head. "His mother Catherine—I learned this from Michael before he vanished, and from Max's brothers after too much wine." She pauses. "Catherine was extraordinary—remembered birthdays, left wildflowers for neighbors. Michael said meeting her was like summer lightning. For ten years, they were inseparable—finishing sentences, dancing in kitchen darkness, stealing food from each other's plates, sharing private jokes. All those threads that make a marriage—they had them."

I nod, wondering where this was going.

Rosa's fingers find her necklace again, twisting the pendant in a nervous rhythm. "By thirty-five, she had those six wild boys running circles around her. The ones you didn't meet at the wedding." She pauses, her eyes drifting somewhere past me. "Then came the diagnosis. Breast cancer—aggressive, but they caught it early. Stage 0. Her oncologist told them both not to worry. Even with how fast that particular type could spread, they'd found it in time. 'A double mastectomy,' he said, 'some chemo, and you'll be back chasing those boys around the yard.' That's what they promised her."

I close my eyes, a lump forming in my throat. I somehow know where this is going and it would explain a lot about Max. But I let her go on.

Rosa sighs. "According to Michael, the cancer diagnosis terrified them both, though the doctors were optimistic since they caught it early. Stage zero. Very treatable. They booked her surgery right away." Rosa's fingers twist in her lap. "Then Catherine started getting sick every morning. At first, she blamed the cancer, but her oncologist said that wasn't possible—not at that stage. So she bought a test." Rosa's voice drops to nearly a whisper. "Two pink lines appeared in that little window, and everything changed."

I nod, willing her to go on, even though I don’t want to hear the rest.

“Catherine refused to end the pregnancy, despite her oncologist's warnings. The doctor had been clear: postponing chemotherapy, combined with the physical demands of carrying a child and the aggressive nature of her tumor, meant she likely wouldn't survive. Michael pleaded with her to reconsider. She remained steadfast. ‘I can't be responsible for taking a life,’ she told him quietly. ‘This is in God's hands now.’”

Rosa shakes her head. "Catherine passed three weeks after Max was born. The disease took her so fast." She folds a dish towel with practiced hands. "Michael—he'd never touched alcohol before. His grandparents were alcoholics, and he always said addiction skips generations. He knew the risk. But after losing her..." Her voice trails off. "Joe brought me in because those boys needed someone. Michael couldn't be there for them—couldn't be there for himself. Morning till night, that bottle was his only companion." She looks up, eyes distant with memory. "I remember him saying once, 'If Catherine had lived, I'd never have known what whiskey tastes like.' First drink he took, something in him just... vanished."

I swallow hard. The weight of what Max must carry every day hits me like a physical blow. A child born into tragedy, his first breaths coinciding with his mother's last. His father's mind fracturing at the loss. A family splintered beyond repair. And somewhere deep inside Max, that voice must whisper: I caused this. I know it's not true—no baby asks to be the fulcrum on which a family's fate balances—but how do you silence such a whisper when it's been your lifelong companion?

Rosa nods. "Michael did his best to hold on. He'd string together these stretches of sobriety—three months here, six months there—but you could see the strain in his eyes the whole time. During those good periods?" Her voice softens. "He was magic with those boys. Got them up at dawn for surfing lessons with this Hawaiian champion he somehow befriended. Packed the station wagon for weekend camping trips where they'd catch their own dinner. But eventually, the bottle always called him back." She pauses, her fingers twisting in her lap. "The last time anybody saw him, Max had just turned seven. Michael dropped all the boys at Joe's place with their little backpacks. That was twenty-two years ago."

I shake my head. "Poor Max." The tabloids paint him as Hollywood's golden child—the wunderkind who seized control of a floundering studio at twenty-four and transformed it into a titan that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Disney and Warner Bros. Everyone genuflects before his perfect jawline and billion-dollar smile. But behind those magazine covers must be a man haunted by ghosts. A mother who chose death over terminating her pregnancy. A father who drowned his grief in whiskey before vanishing altogether. And Max, left carrying the weight of a family shattered by his very existence. How do you build an empire when your foundation is made of absences?

“Max blamed himself for everything. He was too smart for his own good—at four, he'd sit on my lap reading Oliver Twist aloud, those big eyes so serious. Nothing got past that child. When his mother died shortly after he was born, he pieced it together. He watched his father collapse in front of those home videos night after night, whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers, and draw his own conclusions. The family photos and videos told him a story: they were happy before he arrived. In his mind, if he'd never existed, Catherine would still be alive, his father would be sober, and his brothers would have their mother. That's a crushing weight for any child to bear. No wonder he lashed out.”

Reading Dickens at age 4? So he’s a genius on top of everything else. Still, I wouldn’t wish his situation on my worst enemy.

Rosa's shoulders drop with her exhale. "After Michael walked out, Max fell apart. Started believing it was his fault—the abandonment, his mother's passing, all of it. Reasoning with him became impossible." She looks straight ahead at the road, her knuckles gripping the steering wheel, 10 and 2. "Thank God for Joe's fortune. He could afford the best specialists for his grandson, and Max needed the help.”

She looks ahead at the road, her eyes clouded with memory. "Those years... Max's knuckles always bandaged from punching walls. The dents in the drywall from his forehead. Finding him watching flames dance in his wastebasket at three in the morning." Her voice softens. "The therapy helped, but the damage was done. He built a fortress around himself—only lets in those who knew him before Michael left. Me, his grandparents, his brothers, Gianni. That's his entire world now. He once told me, 'I can't survive being left again. Not ever.'"

I close my eyes, feeling the warm afternoon sun on my face through the car window. "But what about…"

"His relationship with you?" Rosa asks, her voice gentle but knowing. I look ahead and realize that we've arrived back at Max's house, the arches and embellishments of his Mediterranean style palace gleaming against the backdrop of the Pacific. The waves crash rhythmically against the shore below, indifferent to my turmoil. "I'm hopeful that he might be willing to give it a chance."

I furrow my brows, twisting the platinum band on my finger. "Why do you think this?"

"He said I could tell you about his past." Rosa's weathered hands grip the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening. "For him, that's a sign. The first crack in the wall he's built around himself."

I shake my head violently, my hands trembling. "But I'm nothing like him. Nothing. Have you seen the women he parades around? They're all six-foot glamazons with trust funds and connections. I drive a car held together with duct tape and prayer." My voice cracks. "I'm not his type."

She leans forward, eyes burning into mine. "Exactly," she whispers, gripping my wrist. "Which is why you're the only one who could ever save him."

Chapter Thirty-Six

HOME AGAIN…

Celeste

I creep into my wing of Max's home at 10 o'clock, my bare feet silent against the cool marble floors. I should find Max. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes—still early enough that he's probably awake, but in this sprawling Malibu mansion, finding him feels like searching for a needle in a haystack of luxury. Rosa, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, retired to her quarters after we arrived, so I'm on my own.

I venture into the main house, Max's domain, moving from one cavernous room to another. I check all ten guest bedrooms with their pristine white linens and ocean views, even the master suite with its emperor-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows—empty. The home gym with its gleaming equipment stands unused. The indoor pool's surface remains unbroken, its azure water reflecting the recessed lighting. The glass-walled atrium filled with exotic plants, the cedar-scented wine cellar, and the private spa—where the infrared sauna glows amber, the sensory deprivation tank waits like a sealed tomb, and the cold plunge pool radiates an eerie blue—all vacant.

Then I go to the theater, which is as vast and opulent as any AMC multiplex, with a forty-foot screen that dominates the far wall and approximately one hundred plush leather recliners arranged in gently sloping tiers. The air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and expensive cologne. And there he is, up front, silhouetted against the flickering blue light, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward as he stares at the screen. He's wearing wireless Bose headphones, the kind that cost more than my monthly mortgage, and watching what appears to be old home movies.

I'm staring at this video of a woman with honey-blonde hair, and she's laughing with her head thrown back like she's having the time of her life. She's wearing this yellow sundress with little daisies on it that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Next to her is this guy who looks exactly like Max—same jawline, same blue-green eyes that make you feel like you're drowning. Holy shit, that's his dad. The guy's chasing after what must be Max and his brothers—six dark-haired boys running around like they own the world. They're darting in and out of the shadows under this massive oak tree, looking like something out of a Ralph Lauren commercial.

Max keeps dabbing his eyes with a crumpled wad of Kleenex. Those massive shoulders—the ones that fill out Armani suits like they were born for it—are all hunched forward now, making him look like some wounded bear. I can hear his breathing from here: small, controlled little hitches. God, I know that sound. It's the sound guys make when they'd rather die than let anyone see them fall apart. I freeze mid-step in the doorway. Holy shit. This is THE Max Kensington, and he’s crying. Something twists in my chest—not quite pity, but close. Those same hands would probably punch a wall if he knew I was standing here gawking at him like this. I back away, one careful step at a time, praying the stupid antique million-dollar floorboards don't give me away.