Page 50 of The Malibu Arrangement

The truth is, when he started asking about my writing, something in me just snapped. I've spent my whole life dreaming of seeing my name in credits, not expecting to be the next Phoebe Waller-Bridge or Aaron Sorkin, just wanting a chance. But after years of Hollywood crushing that hope, I've trained myself not to think about it. Max innocently pressed on that tender spot, and between that and those mango margaritas (four? five?), I panicked. I owe him an apology, but every time I rehearse one in my head, I end up hiding deeper in my wing of the house.

So, I'm sitting at my glass-topped desk in my office, the late afternoon sun streaming through the half-closed blinds, casting golden stripes across the pages of a series treatment that has me completely captivated. It's a beautiful coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of a sleepy coastal town, similar to "The Summer I Turned Pretty," but with two young lesbians navigating first love amid family expectations and small-town gossip. The writer, Amber Hayes, has this uncanny ability to capture the ache of teenage longing in prose that feels like poetry. I reach for my phone to call her when my assistant, Simone, appears in the doorway, her crimson lipstick matching her perfectly manicured nails.

"Selena Farley, line one," she says, her perfectly arched eyebrows shooting upward. "You want to take this."

I sigh. "Fine." Selena's calls are a weekly occurrence—she's got half the A-list writers in Hollywood on her roster. Whatever has Amber bouncing on her toes about this particular call is beyond me.

"Selena, hey," I say, wedging the phone between ear and shoulder. "Just email it over and I'll add it to the pile." The pile that's currently threatening to avalanche off my desk: ten screenplays with Post-its blooming from their edges, eight writer callbacks circled in red on my calendar, and a stack of fifteen scripts—fifteen!—all screaming for development notes. My eyes flick to the clock. I need to wrap this call up fast.

Selena's voice cuts through the phone. “No, not that kind of call. I’ve read your scripts, Celeste, and I want in. How soon can you meet? I've got contracts ready for your signature so we can start getting these in front of the right people."

My jaw drops to the floor. Selena Farley? THE Selena Farley wants to represent me? The woman who can make studio executives tremble with a single raised eyebrow? The kingmaker whose client list reads like the presenter lineup at the Academy Awards? I pinch my arm, hard. The sting confirms this isn't some wine-induced hallucination after falling asleep watching Entertainment Tonight. This is real. Selena Farley just said my name and the word "representation" in the same sentence.

“I, I, I…don’t understand. How did you get my scripts?”

“Celeste, they've been languishing in my slush pile for months now, buried under a mountain of mediocre screenplays and half-baked treatments. God, I'm sorry." She pauses on the phone. “But when I finally cracked open your Varian Fry script this morning, I couldn't put it down. That scene where he's smuggling Ernst through the checkpoint with the forged visas? My heart was pounding so hard I had to loosen my collar. And the way you captured Chagall's haunted eyes, Arendt's fierce intellect—these aren't just historical figures anymore, they're breathing, bleeding people. This could be the next Schindler's List, especially with everything happening in the world right now."

I’m shaking. This isn’t happening. This doesn’t just happen, does it?

I squeeze my eyes shut. Max. Who else could it be? Damn him and his savior complex. I can picture him now, calling Selena Farley's office, throwing around his last name and demanding she dust off scripts I submitted three years ago. Three years. I haven't sent anything out since landing at Dreamscape—traded one Hollywood dream for another that pays the bills. And now Selena Farley just happens to call? Please.

“Selena. You don’t have to do this. I can assure you that Max won’t blacklist you if you don’t sign me. I appreciate your offer, but-”

“Celeste. I need you to stop talking for a moment." The voice on the other end of the line softened slightly. "Your script? It's brilliant. Truly. And this has nothing to do with your connection to Max Kensington. I want to see you in my office next Monday at 9. I've already spoken with Iris about clearing your schedule. We have a lot to discuss."

The phone slips from my fingers onto the desk. Selena Farley—the Selena Farley—wants to represent me? My screenplay? Something doesn't add up.

I drum my fingers against the desk. Max will be home tonight. Those green eyes won't be able to hide whatever game he's playing. And when I find out what strings he's pulled behind my back, I'm not sure either of us will like what happens next.

Chapter Forty-Two

CONFRONTATION

Celeste

Max's Bugatti growls into the circular driveway around 8 PM, when the sky's already gone midnight-black. I'm lounging on the veranda by the pool, wine glass dangling between my fingers. It’s one of those perfect Malibu nights—crickets chirping their little hearts out, waves crashing in the distance, moonlight making the pool shimmer like something out of a movie set. I've positioned myself strategically in front of the sliding glass door. No way he's getting inside without seeing me first.

He emerges with a cardboard box, the Duke's logo stamped on its side. "Hey," he says, voice softer than usual. "Thought you might be hungry. Fish tacos and that shrimp pasta you mentioned last week."

I've been perched on the edge of this chaise lounge for forty-five minutes, rehearsing what to say. The smell of garlic and lime wafts across the space, but my stomach knots instead of growls. Max pulled strings with Selena Farley—one of the biggest agents in town—for someone whose writing he's never even seen. What did that conversation sound like? "Hey, represent my fake wife or I'll pull my company's business"? Now she's stuck representing the boss's charity case wife, resenting every minute. I need to shut this down, tell him to back off, reject his well-intentioned meddling before it makes everything worse.

I smile and nod. “Shrimp pasta sounds amazing, thanks.”

He disappears into the house, returning with two plates and silverware. The shrimp pasta cascades onto my plate, releasing a cloud of garlic and herbs that makes my stomach growl.

"Max," I say, twirling pasta around my fork. "About Saturday night—I shouldn't have bolted like that. Everything was going so well until I messed it up."

His lips quirk into a half-smile. "Reminds me of our first meeting at the Centurion. Maybe I should start ordering to-go boxes the minute we sit down."

I smile in spite of him bringing up that particular memory that I wanted to never think about again. “Well, thanks for not getting too angry about that.” The shrimp pasta is delicious - creamy sauce, fettuccine noodles, my favorite kind of comfort food.

The wine glass trembles slightly in my hand as I take a sip. My pulse quickens. I need to corner him about this, but delicately.

No. Directly.

"Max," I say, setting down my glass. "Selena Farley called today. Ring any bells for you?"

He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Doesn't she call you all the time for work stuff?"