Page 67 of The Malibu Arrangement

My voice drops to a whisper. "Name your price. What would it take to keep that photo private?"

She examines her French manicure, tilting her hand to catch the light. "I've uncovered your little secret." Her eyes flick up to mine. "Do you have any idea how many nights I spent trying to understand? Max—brilliant, gorgeous Max, the man I’m absolutely in love with—choosing someone like you?" She gestures at me with a dismissive flick of her wrist, her lip curling. "Then I discovered the truth. Your marriage is nothing but theater. Old Joe blackmailed his own grandson with his livelihood. One word from Grandpa to those ancient board members he plays golf with every Sunday, and Max loses everything. Just—" She snaps her fingers inches from my face. "Like that."

My stomach drops like an elevator with cut cables. Of course Elody wouldn't let this go—she's like a terrier with a bone. Plus, someone talked. Max swore the board members all knew but signed those ironclad NDAs—breach one and kiss a few million goodbye. Still, money talks, but secrets walk. I rack my brain for who else might have spilled. Whoever it was, I've got to admit—Elody nailed us dead to rights.

I decide honesty is my only option. "Fine," I say, crossing my arms. "You clearly know something. What's your price for keeping that photo off social media?"

"That man," she says, leaning forward. "He's practically Max's twin, just older." Her eyes narrow to slits. "Are you sleeping with your husband's father behind his back?"

Shit. This woman misses nothing. "Max hasn't seen or spoken to his father in over twenty years." Technically true. The complete story? Hardly. But I haven't actually lied to her face.

She taps her foot impatiently. "I'm well-versed in the saga of Max and his runaway dad. But that man? He's Max in three decades. The resemblance is... striking."

My throat constricts. I picture Michael being thrust into a reunion he never planned for, or fleeing back to his uncle's farm to escape the tabloid frenzy. I barely survived the media circus myself—Michael wouldn't stand a chance. The careful reunion I've been orchestrating between him and his sons dissolves before my eyes. Elody's no fool. Without the truth from me, she'll unearth it herself and plaster it across every headline. Michael's newfound sobriety hangs by a thread too delicate for this kind of exposure.

What demons lurk in Michael's past across the pond? Two decades drowning in whiskey doesn't leave clean hands. I imagine hotel rooms he can't remember leaving, names forgotten by morning, maybe visits to sex workers, perhaps nights in holding cells—all waiting to become tomorrow's headlines. I'm not privy to his specific sins, but we all have chapters we'd rather keep unread. Michael likely has volumes, and Elody won't stop until she's devoured every word. Her network stretches into corners I didn't know existed. He's never whispered his worst moments to me between sobriety chips. Of course he hasn't. We all build walls around our darkest selves. But if those walls come crashing down...

I exhale slowly. "Name your price."

She leans forward. "You know the Dreamscape-Kensington merger is almost finalized, right?" Her eyes narrow to slits. "Ever wonder why I haven't leaked your little arrangement to Page Six?"

The thought hadn't crossed my mind until now. But now that she mentions it - why would someone like her—who clearly despises me—sit on Hollywood's juiciest scandal of the year?

"No," I say quietly. "Why?"

"Max." Her voice softens for the first time. "If this got out—the real reason behind your marriage—those shareholders would pull support faster than you can say 'unfit for leadership.' They'd never let someone so..." she pauses, searching for the word, "...impulsive take the helm of a billion-dollar company. He'd lose everything." She taps her designer purse. "So I've kept your dirty little secret. For him."

“Thank you,” I say, bowing my head.

She leans in close, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Trust me, I've lost sleep thinking about exposing your little charade. You know those gossip sites that publish anonymous celebrity dirt, blind items they call them? Crazy Days and Nights would have eaten this up. One email from me, and your precious arrangement would've been the biggest blind item of all time and trust me, the sleuths on that site would’ve figured it out in no time. But I restrained myself. Aren't you lucky?"

I lean forward, my knuckles white against the edge of the table. "Let's not waste time here. Name your price."

She taps her phone screen with a crimson fingernail, the photo of Michael and me glowing between us. Her lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile.

"I want to see moving trucks at that Malibu house the day after the merger closes." She examines her manicure, tilting her hand to catch the light. "TMZ will need those divorce papers by the following Monday." The phone disappears into her Hermès bag. "Nothing messy until after Max gets that CEO title, of course. The board hates... instability."

She looks away from me. Maybe she secretly feels bad about what she’s doing. Probably not. But I use her moment to look away as a chance to snatch her wallet from her purse. I need her address for future reference. Don’t ask me why I want her address, but it’s just something I think I might need. So I nervously look at her driver’s license and commit the address to memory before slipping the wallet back in her purse. Then I take out my phone and I hurriedly put her address into my contacts.

She finally looks back at me, not suspecting what I did, and I swallow hard. “And if I don’t divorce Max?”

Her eyes narrow to slits. "Cross me at your own risk." She gives a dismissive head shake. "That man with you? Max's father—no question about it. Same eyes. Same smile that pulls you in. Same way of standing like he owns the room." She leans closer. "His sudden reappearance? That's headline material. And you’re desperate to protect him. Makes me wonder why.” Her gaze sharpens, calculating. "Whatever it is, I'll uncover it. By next week, his face will be splashed across every gossip site from here to New York." She taps a manicured nail against her temple. "Screenwriting isn't just about dialogue—it's about spotting the story nobody else sees. Finding the soft underbelly." Her lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer. "I'm exceptionally good at that part."

I shake my head. She’s a screenwriter on top of everything else? No wonder she pieced together Michael's identity so quickly. It takes a certain kind of person to notice the small details that make characters feel real—the slight tremor in someone's hand, the way they avoid eye contact when lying. She has that gift. Too bad she's using it like a weapon. I can see it in the calculated stillness of her expression—she'll tear Michael apart piece by piece if I don't give her exactly what she wants.

Her eyes narrow as she leans in. "And Celeste? That man's secrets won't stay buried for long. I'll dig them up, or if I come up empty..." She taps a manicured nail against the table. "Well, I've always had quite the imagination." The corner of her mouth lifts in a self-satisfied smirk. "Remember that little story about you and the varsity team after homecoming? Creative, wasn't it?"

My eyes burn as I blink back tears. God, Michael doesn't deserve this. When those vicious rumors about me spread online last year, I spent three sleepless nights staring at my balcony railing, wondering how much it would hurt if I jumped. But I survived. Hannah—Max's miracle-working PR specialist—systematically dismantled each lie until my name was cleared. I weathered the storm. Michael, though? His sobriety hangs by a thread, his gentle spirit already so damaged. I remember Michael's trembling voice at the AA meeting, how he admitted that without the numbing fog of whiskey, the thoughts of ending it all became too clear, too possible. The gun in his nightstand drawer had called to him every sober night. One public humiliation could shatter the fragile peace he's built, brick by painful brick.

I nod. "Okay. I'll divorce Max after the merger." Outside the window of her Aston Martin, the parking lot teems with happy people heading into the restaurant. Happy couples, like Max and me. I sigh. Then again, a divorce was always the plan, wasn't it? This was always a business arrangement with an expiration date. I should view it as a contract fulfilled, not a heart broken. Yet somewhere between our first horrible dinner and last night's shared laughter, I'd started collecting moments like seashells—tiny treasures of possibility. I'd catch myself wondering if Max might want to extend our arrangement... indefinitely. If the merger deadline might pass without either of us mentioning divorce. Now I know better. The fantasy ends here, and I'll be the one filing the papers.

Her smile makes my fingers curl into fists. Those beautiful and magnetic eyes, the ones on every magazine cover—I could claw them out. I could text TMZ right now with the truth about America's Sweetheart. The articles nauseate me: how she spends weekends at homeless shelters (photo ops, nothing more), how even the lowest crew members adore her (probably paid off to give her good reports to the sites). The stories about her unfailing politeness, her perfect memory for fan names. Whoever manages her public image deserves a Nobel Prize in fiction. They've transformed this viper into a saint, and not one person sees through it but me.

Well, Max probably sees through it, too. Which is why he never gave her the time of day.

I tilt my head. "Planning to boil any rabbits soon?" Her eyes flash with something unhinged—pure Glenn Close as Alex Forrest in the movie Fatal Attraction, turning a lamp on and off while staring into space. I can picture her apartment now: Max's photo with pins jabbed through his eyes, candles burning while she sobs to her publicist on speakerphone between consultations with her psychic. Poor thing doesn't realize the truth yet. He'll never be hers. When I'm gone, she'll still be standing outside in the rain, watching his windows go dark. The thought curls my lips upward. Neither of us gets the prize, but at least we’ll be equally miserable. Small victories.

She lets out a cold laugh, her eyes flashing. "Call me obsessed if you want. Maybe I am." She leans in, voice dropping. "But with you gone, I can resume my real project." Her perfectly manicured fingers form air quotes. "Operation Marry Max." Her lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Just picture the headlines—Academy Award winner, hottest actress in the world and the face of Chanel paired with Hollywood's most eligible billionaire studio head. We'd rule this town." She straightens, tossing her hair. "No one would even remember your name."