Page 56 of The Malibu Arrangement

I lean forward, my voice dropping. "Trust me, Selena, I tried. Every agency in this town has a copy of my work somewhere in their slush pile. After rejection number one hundred—and yes, I counted—I just... broke. Couldn't face another 'thanks but no thanks' email. So I buried myself in development at Dreamscape, filed my scripts away on some forgotten hard drive, and pretended I'd never written them. At least until recently."

She shakes her head. "Classic Hollywood gatekeeping. No agent gives you the time of day without credits, but how do you get credits without representation?" Her manicured nail taps my Thanksgiving script. "Their loss. This is gold. Thank God Max pulled some strings." She leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Between us? We're looking at six figures before Christmas. High six figures."

I can't close my mouth. Six figures—high six figures—for my script? A lifeboat materializes before me, bobbing on uncertain waters. When Max and I... No. I blink hard. Our arrangement was always temporary. He gets his merger with Dreamscape, his CEO title, and then we part ways. I was counting down to that one-year mark, but now everything's shifted. Joseph's money? I don't need it anymore. If I break the contract early, would he sue? Doubtful. He'd just withhold payment—which suddenly doesn't matter. Not when Selena's looking at my portfolio like it's gold and diamonds. The way her eyes gleam tells me everything: my other screenplays will sell too.

I could walk away from Max the minute the merger with Dreamscape finalizes. I wouldn’t do it earlier - Max doesn’t deserve that, because if I walked away before the merger, he gets shafted. But, yeah, once he’s installed as CEO of the merged company, I can walk away. I don’t have to wait my year.

My chest tightens at the thought, a physical pain I wasn't expecting. I press my hand against my sternum, willing the sensation away. This is business—was always business. Two people with separate agendas sharing the same roof, the same last name. When those agendas are fulfilled, the contract dissolves. Simple as that.

My fingers find the pendant hanging from my neck—one of many in the collection Max has given me. Nothing special, just beautiful. I slide it back and forth along the chain while Selena's brows furrow in confusion. She must be wondering why I'm not jumping for joy at her "six figure bidding war" prediction.

The answer is simple but impossible to explain. This money from my scripts means I'll have no excuse to remain Mrs. Kensington after the merger completes in March. The timeline is set for that merger, the deal proceeding without complications. And the thought of our marriage ending on schedule hollows me out completely.

Her voice cuts through my daze. "Celeste? Earth to Celeste." She leans forward, tapping manicured nails against my scripts. "Trust me, I've been at this long enough to recognize gold when I see it. The Fry piece, the Thanksgiving one—we're talking serious bidding war territory. Seven figures, maybe." She stops, studying my face. "But from your expression, I might as well have told you your car's being towed."

I force my lips into a weak smile. "Oh, Selena, this is amazing news. I'm just... processing it all. It doesn't feel real yet." I bob my head mechanically while stretching my mouth wider, hoping enthusiasm might follow the gesture. "Should we discuss contract details?" I place my fire-engine red Hermés Birkin—Max's gift that costs more than I make in a year—on her spotless solid marble desk and dig through it for my phone so I can see what time it is. The walls of her minimalist office are predictably clockless, and I'm already anxious about my afternoon meetings at Dreamscape. Time to wrap this up.

She eyes my hand hovering over my purse. "Oh, don't bother hunting for a pen—though that is a gorgeous bag. Hermès?" She slides a Mont Blanc across the desk along with a stack of papers. "Standard contracts. Nothing you haven't reviewed before, but have your attorney look them over if you'd like. I'm eager to get these to marketing, but take whatever time you need."

I nod and scan the contract. She's right—standard stuff. Still, I read line by line, paranoid about hidden clauses. Not that Selena would screw me over, but Hollywood's taught me to trust no one.

An hour later, I've scrutinized every paragraph and signature line. I scrawl my name and slide the papers across her desk. "Well," I say, forcing a smile, "guess we're officially in business." We shake hands, but Selena's eyes narrow.

"Everything cool?" She sips her coffee, studying me. "You seem weird."

I shake my head. How could I possibly tell her the truth? “Sorry, just realizing I've lost my last excuse to stay married to Max after March.” Can't exactly admit our "marriage" is basically a business transaction with an expiration date. Everyone probably suspects our bullshit story anyway—the whole lightning-struck-us-on-the-drive-to-Claremont fairy tale, our instant connection, the perfect Hollywood romance. Thank god Max's publicist is a miracle worker, or TMZ would've exposed us months ago.

"I'm fine," I lie, pressing my palm to my forehead. "Just feeling kinda crappy today."

She raises her mug. "Feel better, rockstar. Talk soon."

I fake another smile and escape to the street, gulping fresh air. Things with Max are good lately, surprisingly good, but I can't let myself believe it. The man collects and discards women like trading cards. Why would I be any different?

Chapter Forty-Five

VISITING PATRICIA’S DOCTOR

Max

The one thing that would truly make Celeste happy would be fixing her mother's situation. I'd considered a spontaneous Paris getaway last weekend—still on my to-do list—but instead, we stayed local. Watching her catch her first wave after a morning of tumbles made me want her joining our Saturday surf crew permanently. Later we wandered the Farmer's Market stalls, then she transformed winter vegetables into this incredible pasta primavera—zucchini, broccoli, and kohlrabi swimming in cream sauce. Having a wife who cooks is something I never knew I needed. François might have his Cordon Bleu credentials and Food Network fame, but there's something about Celeste's cooking that feels like home.

Paris can wait. What Celeste needs most is her mother's health. I tracked down Patricia's oncologist—a Dr. West at UCLA—and made an appointment. When I arrive at his office, the receptionist reminds me about patient confidentiality laws. I nod politely, then lean in.

"I understand HIPAA," I say, sliding my business card across the counter. "But perhaps you could mention to Dr. West that Joe Kensington's grandson would like five minutes of his time. The same Joe Kensington whose name is on the oncology wing."

Twenty minutes later, Dr. West ushers me into his office with a knowing smile.

"Mr. Kensington," he says, gesturing to a chair. "How can I help you?"

I hate leveraging my family name, but for Patricia—for Celeste—I make an exception. What matters is getting Patricia the treatment she needs, anonymously. No strings, no gratitude required.

I clear my throat. "Patricia Jenkins is under your care. My wife—her daughter—mentioned an immunotherapy treatment that could help her. But the insurance company..." I let my voice trail off, my fingers drumming once against the polished desk. "They've denied coverage."

He nods and summons his medical assistant to bring him Patricia’s file. She does and is back with the file in a matter of minutes. “Thanks,” he says, looking over the file. “And yes, Mr. Kensington…” He studies me. “I’m struggling with how much to tell you. HIPAA laws dictate that I can’t tell you anything without a waiver, but…”

I raise an eyebrow and sit back in my chair.

Dr. West leans back in his chair. "Your grandfather has been quite generous to our research department." He taps a folder on his desk. "There's a promising immunotherapy, Keytruda. It helps the immune system recognize and attack cancer cells. It’s specifically used for Patricia’s type of cancer ” His eyes brighten as he explains further how it works. He slides several journal articles across his desk.