Chapter 6
VICTORIA
Isat across from Betty in her cramped office and did my best not to look around at the clutter.
I loved Betty, but tidiness wasn’t her thing.
But I also knew I would never touch a damn thing in her office because she knew exactly where everything was.
The coffee she’d made me was lukewarm now, but I drank it because I needed the caffeine.
“So he just left?” Betty asked, her brow furrowed.
“Vanished,” I said. “The second that water hit, he was gone. Didn’t even look back to see if I was okay. Which, for the record, I wasn’t. I was soaked through, my shoes are ruined, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to get a bill for that wine he ordered.”
Betty winced. “How much was the wine?”
“I don’t know yet. But it had the word ‘reserve’ in the name, so I’m guessing it wasn’t cheap.”
She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples.
Betty was only a few years older than me, but sometimes she carried herself like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Which, in a way, she did. She’d built this charity from nothing.
Six years of her life poured into helping families navigate the nightmare of having a sick child.
She was the kind of person I aspired to be—selfless, dedicated, genuinely good.
“Did he at least commit before he bailed?” she asked.
“He said to send the details to his publicist, which is basically celebrity speak for ‘I’ll think about it and probably say no through a third party.’ He was smarmy, Betty. I’m not sure he’s a good look for the charity anyway.”
“Damn it.” Betty dropped her hands and looked at the ceiling. “We need him, Vic. Or someone like him. The auction is soon and we’re still light on big names.”
“I know.” I set my coffee down and pulled out my phone. “I’ve got a list of other people we can reach out to. Smaller names but still recognizable. If we can get three or four of them, it might offset losing Montana.”
“Might,” she repeated, not sounding convinced.
I didn’t blame her for being skeptical. The truth was, we needed someone with real star power. Someone whose name alone would get people to open their wallets. Jack Montana was supposed to be that person. And now he was probably going to ghost us.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I really thought I had him.”
Betty’s expression softened immediately. “This isn’t on you. You did everything right. He’s just…” She trailed off, searching for a diplomatic word.
“An asshole?” I supplied.
She laughed. “I was going to say ‘difficult,’ but sure. That works too.”
I smiled, but it did nothing to assuage my guilt. I’d spent the entire night replaying the dinner in my mind, wondering if there was something I could have said differently. Some way I could have sealed the deal before the universe intervened with a fire alarm and a deluge of sprinkler water.
“At least the night wasn’t a total loss,” I said. “I did get knocked on my ass by some hot prick before dinner even started. So that was fun.”
Betty raised an eyebrow. “Hot prick?”
“Very hot. Very much a jerk. He wasn’t watching where he was going and just plowed right into me. Sent me flying. And when I called him out on it, he didn’t even apologize. Just walked into the restaurant like nothing happened.”
“Charming.”
“Right?”
“Did you get his number?”
I snorted. “I just said he bowled me over.”
“But you also said he was hot.”
“That adjective described a real jerk. He could have been hotter than the sun and it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“You really should be dating,” she said.
I rolled my eyes. She was always trying to get me to date. Like I was another charity she needed to worry about.
“It’s the men in this city.” I took another sip of shitty coffee. “I’m sure there are good men out there somewhere. Probably somewhere with trees and fresh air and people who don’t film themselves eating.”
Betty laughed again. “You sound like you need a vacation.”
“What I need is a miracle.” I set the coffee down and looked at her seriously. “What are we going to do, Betty? If Montana backs out, we’re in trouble.”
I could see her mind working, running through options. That’s what she did and she was damn good at it. She was the entire backbone of this whole charity. She could make two cents into two hundred dollars. It just took a little finessing.
Finally, she sat up straighter and looked at me with renewed energy.
“Okay,” she said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to talk to Max Blackwell.”
I blinked. “Max Blackwell?”
“Yes.”
“The Max Blackwell? The guy whose family name is on half the buildings in LA?”
“That’s the one.”
I stared at her. “Betty, I can’t just call Max Blackwell.”
“He’s a philanthropist,” she said. “A big one. He gives to a lot of charities, and he knows people. Big people. Stars bigger than Jack Montana. If anyone can help us pull this together, it’s him.”
“And you think he’ll just take a meeting with me? A random person calling to ask for favors?”
Betty smiled. “I think he’ll take a meeting if you explain what we’re trying to do and what happened with Jack Montana. The worst he can say is no.”
“Or he could ignore me completely.”
“Then you’re in the same position you’re in now,” she said reasonably. “But if he says yes? He could connect us with people we’d never get access to on our own. He’s got pull in this town. Look, I’m not just randomly suggesting him. I’ve gotten some donations from him before.”
I wanted to argue. It was a long shot. But she was right. We had nothing to lose.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try. How do I even get in touch with him? I don’t think I can just Google his number.”
Betty was already pulling up something on her computer.
“His assistant’s name is Lauren. She’s good people.
I met her at a fundraiser a few years back.
” She scribbled down a number and handed it to me.
“Call her. Tell her who you are and what you’re trying to do.
Be honest. Be yourself. That’s your best shot. ”
“Okay,” I said again. “I’ll call her today.”
“Now,” Betty said.
She knew me too well. “I will. I’m getting more coffee.”
“Let me know what he says.”
She reached for her own phone. “I’ve got to make calls and beg for food for this thing.”
“Good luck.”
After a refill on my coffee, I debated what I would say. It had to be a strong hook to keep her from hanging up on me. Rich people got asked for money on the daily. I dialed before I could overthink it.
“Max Blackwell’s office, this is Lauren.”
I gave my spiel, not daring to stop for even a second to breathe. I didn’t want her to hang up on me before I got it all out.
A pause.
“Mr. Blackwell has an opening tomorrow at two,” she said warmly. “Would that work for you?”
I nearly dropped the phone. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. At his office. I’ll send you the address and parking information.”
“That—yes. That works. That’s perfect. Thank you so much.”
“Of course. I’ll send you a confirmation email within the hour. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, that’s—that’s everything. Thank you so much, Lauren.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
She hung up. I sat there holding my phone in disbelief. Holy shit.
The next morning, I stood in front of my closet for too long trying to decide what to wear to meet Max Blackwell. Everything felt wrong. Too casual. Too formal. Trying too hard. Finally, I settled on a navy sheath dress. It was professional without being stuffy.
I drove to Blackwell Studios with my stomach in knots.
The security guard at the gate checked my ID against a list and waved me through.
I followed the signs to visitor parking and tried not to gawk at everything around me.
This was a real, working studio lot. Sound stages lined the streets.
Golf carts zipped past carrying people who looked important.
I passed a woman in full period costume—complete with a massive wig—talking on her cell phone like it was completely normal.
The walk to Max Blackwell’s office building took me past what I was pretty sure was the set of a TV show I watched religiously. Then I saw the guy that just had a huge box office hit walking down the street like a normal person. I nearly tripped over my own feet.
Keep it together, Victoria.
I made it to the office without completely humiliating myself but it was close a couple of times. The place was crawling with men and women I had only see on the big screen. It felt surreal. I checked in, sat down, and tried not to stare at the movie posters neatly hung around the area.
A smartly dressed young woman found me. “Victoria? I’m Lauren.”
She led me to an elevator, up to the third floor, and down another hallway lined with more posters. I recognized most of them. Blackwell Studios had produced some of the biggest films of the last two decades.
“He’s just wrapping up a call,” she said. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She gestured to a seating area outside the office. “He shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
I sat and tried not to think about all the ways this could go wrong. Max Blackwell was doing me a favor by even taking this meeting. I couldn’t afford to screw it up.
Five minutes later, Lauren came back. “He’s ready for you.”
I stood, smoothed my dress, and followed her inside.
The office was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the lot. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with scripts and what looked like genuine first-edition novels. Awards and photos covered another wall—Max with presidents, A-list actors, and landmarks from around the world.
And then there was Max himself.
He stood from behind his desk and came around to greet me.
He was probably in his early sixties, but he looked like he could still run a marathon.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and a presence that just exuded success.
His hair was silver-gray. His smile was genuine, and unlike so many in the business, he looked natural, forehead wrinkles and all.
He was wearing jeans and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up.
He was objectively handsome. I wasn’t attracted to him—he was old enough to be my father—but I could appreciate that he was the kind of man who probably made women of all ages do a double-take.
For some inexplicable reason, I thought of the guy from the restaurant. The one who’d knocked me over. There was something similar about them. The confidence, maybe. The knowledge of knowing they were gorgeous.
Stop it, I told myself. Stop being obsessed with some stranger you’ll never see again.
“Victoria,” Max said, shaking my hand firmly. “It’s a pleasure. Please, sit.”
He gestured to a seating area near the windows, a couch and two chairs arranged around a coffee table. I sat on the edge of the couch, and he took one of the chairs.
“Lauren tells me you’re working with Betty’s charity,” he said. “The children’s hospital foundation.”
“Yes. We’re planning our annual fundraising auction, and we’re trying to secure some high-profile names to help draw donors.”
He nodded, listening intently. “Tell me more.”
I launched into my pitch. I told him about the families we served, the kind of support we provided, the difference the money made.
I explained the auction format, the dinner dates, and, most importantly, the positive press.
I tried to explain why it mattered. The kids who got to stay close to their families during treatment.
The parents who didn’t have to choose between being at their child’s bedside and paying rent.
Max listened without interrupting. When I finished, he was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful.
“That’s good work you’re doing,” he said finally. “Really good work. Betty’s one of the best people I know. If she’s running it, I know it’s being done right.”
Betty didn’t tell me she knew him this well. Apparently, my boss had connections I didn’t know about.
“She is,” I said. “She’s incredible.”
“So you need names,” he said. “Big ones.”
“Yes. We had someone lined up, but it fell through. We’re scrambling a bit, to be honest.”
He smiled. “I think I can help you out.”
Relief flooded through me. “Really?”
“I know two guys who would be perfect for this,” he said. “Both of them are successful, personable, and they could use a little positive PR. Plus, they’re single. Who knows? Maybe they’ll actually meet someone worth their time.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “That would be amazing. Thank you so much, Mr. Blackwell.”
“Max,” he corrected. “And don’t thank me yet. Let me make sure they’re on board first.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his photos. “Let me show you who I’m thinking.”
He turned the phone toward me, and my stomach dropped.
It was them.
The guy from the restaurant. The one who’d knocked me over.
And another man who looked almost identical—same dark hair, same strong jaw, same insufferable handsomeness.
The other guy from outside the restaurant.
They were both in the photo, arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera like they didn’t have a care in the world.
“That’s Callum and Drew,” Max said proudly. “My two eldest sons.”
I stared at the screen. His sons. Which meant the guy who’d bulldozed me and then smiled about it was part of one of the most powerful families in Hollywood.
“Great.” My voice sounded like I’d been sucking helium.
“They’re good boys,” Max said, completely unaware of my internal crisis. He was already typing out a message on his phone. “I’ll text them right now. Get this set up.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
He looked up and smiled. “It’s for a good cause. And honestly, it’ll be good for them too.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else. Whatever that comment was about didn’t concern me.
“I’ll have Lauren coordinate with you once I hear back from them. But they’ll say yes.”
“Thank you,” I managed. “Really. This means everything to us.”
“Happy to help.” He stood, and I took that as my cue to do the same.
We shook hands again, and somehow, I managed to make my shaky legs carry me all the way back to my car.