Page 57 of The Malibu Arrangement

I scan the abstracts, pulse quickening. "And Patricia's been on the standard protocol until now? Chemo, radiation, surgery?"

"Yes," he confirms with a tight nod.

"Without significant improvement."

His pen taps against the desk three times before stopping. "I've already said more than I should." The unspoken hangs between us. His eyes dart to the family photo on his desk, then back to me—the universal language of physicians who've exhausted conventional options.

I swallow hard. "What's the price tag?"

"Each treatment runs about $24,000, administered every six weeks. Annually, we're looking at $200,000 plus.”

My finger lands on one of the studies. "Cut to the chase—could this save Patricia’s life?"

"The studies and real-world results are encouraging." He removes his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I've been battling with her insurance provider, but they keep denying coverage." A weary sigh escapes him. "These companies see patients as numbers on a spreadsheet. It's maddening."

I take a deep breath. "Let's do it. If this treatment is our best shot, I want her to have it." My fingers tremble slightly as I pull the Black Amex Centurion from my wallet. "This should cover everything. And doctor? I'd appreciate if you'd keep my involvement between us. Tell Patricia it came from an anonymous donor. She doesn't need to know."

“That’s very generous,” he says, nodding. “I’ll call her today and we can begin the treatment.”

I thank him, drumming my fingers against the polished mahogany. When Dr. West tells Patricia she's been approved for treatment, she and Celeste will immediately think of me. But I've got plausible deniability on my side. Since our wedding, the tabloids have been obsessed with Celeste, digging into every corner of her life. Patricia's cancer battle is public knowledge now. I can always claim some anonymous philanthropist stumbled across her story online and decided to help.

That's what I'll tell Celeste when she inevitably confronts me about it.

Chapter Forty-Six

NEW HOPE?

Celeste

December's early darkness had already fallen when my mother calls. It’s barely 5 PM, but outside the world is pitch black. Still, I couldn't resist the pull of the ocean sounds and cool air, so I take my usual spot by the infinity pool, huddled under the heat lamp with my cashmere blanket draped around my shoulders.

"Celeste," she says, her voice carrying a spark I haven't heard in months. "I've been approved for that immunotherapy!"

I press my back against the chaise lounge and close my eyes, my free hand involuntarily covering my mouth. For weeks I'd been bracing myself for that dreaded conversation with her oncologist—the one where words like “palliative care" would replace "treatment plan" and "remission." I'd memorized the survival statistics, could recite them in my sleep: months, not years. But this—this was the treatment I'd highlighted in all those medical journals, the one that showed promise in cases exactly like hers. The one her insurance had flat-out refused to cover, no matter how many appeals we filed.

"Mom," I whisper, my voice breaking. "How?"

Mom’s voice rises excitedly. "Someone anonymous paid for the entire treatment."

My heart skips. Max. Has to be. He'd shake his head if I asked, look away with that half-smile he thinks hides everything. He’s the kind of man who'd write a check for six figures then bury the evidence. Who else could afford experimental immunotherapy like it was takeout sushi?

I can't get the words out. "Mom, that's..." My voice catches as something swells in my throat. Hope? Terror? Both? "What if we celebrate your birthday properly this year?"

Her birthday's next Saturday, and I've been racking my brain for ways to make it special without endangering her. With her immune system shot from the treatments, even a restaurant dinner could be a death sentence. But now, with this new treatment...

Mom's laugh is gentle. "Let's not count our chickens, Celeste. We'll celebrate next year, I promise."

Next year. The words hang between us. No one gets promises like that—not really. People walk out their front doors on ordinary Tuesdays and get hit by trucks or have aneurysms or—I press my fingertips against my temples. This spiral of morbid thoughts won't help anyone, least of all Mom.

I spin around at the sound of a throat clearing. Max is leaning against the outdoor kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, and something in my chest flutters. Those green eyes catch the terrace lights, crinkling at the corners in a way they never did during those first icy weeks. My fingers twitch with the urge to trace the line of his jaw, to make sure he's actually real and not some mirage my desperate imagination conjured up. A few months ago, I'd have laughed if someone told me I'd feel this way about Max Kensington.

I cut my mother off mid-sentence. "Mom, I need to call you back. Max just walked in and it's—" I glance at my watch, blinking twice. "Six o'clock?" I don’t think he's ever been home before eight. "I'll call you back in a few minutes," I whisper, ending the call. When I look up, our eyes meet, and my lips curl into an involuntary smile. The word still catches in my throat sometimes. Husband.

He settles beside me on the outdoor couch, his fingers finding mine. The quiet stretches between us like a cat in sunlight—languid, warm, requiring nothing. I watch his profile, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and realize I've never felt this peaceful with anyone else. Mom's voice echoes in my memory: "When you can sit with someone and the silence feels like home, that's when you know." Looking at our intertwined hands, I think she might have been right.

Max settles back into the cushions and draws me against him, tucking me into the hollow beneath his shoulder. "Hungry?" he asks, his fingers wandering between mine, a lazy dance of touch and release.

"Rosa and I were planning to start dinner soon—curried goat from her homeland. I didn't expect you until later, so we haven't begun prepping yet. She's teaching me the recipe. Says nothing reminds her more of home."