Chapter 3
Chapter Three
NO EXCUSES, NO APOLOGIES
Celeste
I’m late, and Max better not say a word about it.
After all, I had zero notice of this meeting, and the more I think about it, the angrier I get.
I’m not some powerless serf bowing to “Lord Max of Kensington” just because he snaps his fingers.
I have agency—and if I cave to his demands now, he’ll be insufferable once Dreamscape is swallowed by his behemoth studio. So I’ll get there when I get there.
I leave the office at 4:30 and saunter over to my Pilates studio to make sure Gretchen, my evening instructor, is okay with a last-minute cancellation.
If she isn’t, I’ll blow off Max and go to class—I refuse to pay a late fee just because Mr. Thing decides he needs me on a whim.
I explain everything to Gretchen; she says it’s fine—there’s a wait list and someone’s dying for my spot—but warns me not to do it again. I promise I won’t.
Then I crawl through rush-hour traffic to Beverly Hills, cursing Max’s name with every breath—inhale “fuck,” exhale “you”; inhale “fuck,” exhale “you.”
I finally arrive at the fancy club in my ten-year-old Prius, sticking out like a sore thumb among the Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Bugattis, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, and Paganis.
Every car here is worth at least a half-million, some much more, and honestly—could there be a more useless vehicle than a Lamborghini?
Eight miles per gallon, and you can’t actually floor it to 200 MPH in L.A.
Oh, but the owner is rich, so rules don’t apply.
He (and it’s always a he) probably floors it anyway, endangering everyone, then sweet-talks the cop who pulls him over.
The valet tells me it’s fifty bucks to park.
Nope—not paying that. Even if I were a zillionaire like the Patrician Club members, I wouldn’t shell out that much on principle.
I smile, turn around, and plan to find street parking.
Good luck with that—the club sits on a cliff overlooking the Pacific, and the winding access road has zero parking.
Obviously that plan fails. I drive back to Los Angeles proper, pay twenty dollars to park in a public lot, and call an Uber. I’m spending more than fifty dollars between parking and ride fare, but I’d rather burn money than hand anything to that valet.
By the time I stride into the club at 6:30, the concierge is eyeing me like I’m a stray.
I can’t blame her; I’m in a Plato’s Closet outfit, rainbow Doc Martens on my feet, and my hair’s a wild mess from the cliff-top wind.
I tell her I’m seeing Max Kensington. She checks the list, gives me the Little Orphan Annie look, then directs me to the restaurant.
Everyone here drips wealth like it's their sweat.
A woman in a cream Dior suit casually adjusts her diamond-encrusted watch while chatting on her phone, not even glancing at the waiter refilling her champagne.
Three men in Brioni and Tom Ford suits with fabric so fine it catches the light like water laugh too loudly near the bar, their custom Italian loafers probably worth more than my monthly rent.
Even the tennis players walking through the lobby flaunt money—a blonde in a pristine white Lacoste dress that's never seen actual sweat, her tennis bracelet flashing with actual diamonds as she tosses her hair.
The club dazzles with old-money opulence: thirty-foot ceilings adorned with Venetian crystal chandeliers that catch the sunset through floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors so polished they mirror the designer heels clicking across them, and dominating the grand foyer, a colossal M-shaped light fixture made of what must be thousands of hand-cut crystals, each refracting golden light that makes even my shabby outfit momentarily shimmer with borrowed wealth.
The ma?tre d' seats me at a table draped in crisp white linen, and there he is—Max Kensington, exactly how I imagined yet somehow worse.
He can't be more than thirty, with that trust-fund glow that screams nepo-baby.
How else is he CEO of a major studio while I'm still eating ramen three nights a week?
But damn, he's unfairly good-looking—the kind of man whose face makes your train of thought derail and crash into a ravine.
His hair is obsidian dark, swept back just enough to look careless while clearly taking an hour to style.
Green eyes like expensive jade, framed by lashes so long they cast shadows on his cheekbones when he blinks.
His jawline could cut glass. The charcoal Tom Ford suit hugs his broad shoulders like it was tailored by angels, and that Patek Philippe gleaming on his wrist?
I could sell it and pay off my student loans, and probably have enough left for a down payment on a studio apartment in the Palisades.
His glare alone raises my heart rate, sending a flush up my neck that I'm praying doesn't reach my cheeks.
Those green eyes narrow beneath thick brows, his jaw clenching so tight I can see the muscle twitch beneath his five o'clock shadow.
The temperature between us heats up ten degrees, and my palms are suddenly damp.
Is it because he's magnetic—this ridiculous Adonis in his custom suit with shoulders that fill the frame of his chair—or because I'm pissed he's giving me these imperious stink-eyes when he should be on his knees grateful I showed up at all?
Then I notice the woman at the table and my inner fangirl squees.
Elody Martin is right there—my favorite actress.
Her Oscar-winning turn in that Joan Baez biopic was astounding, and the box-office numbers prove it.
She’s equally brilliant in rom-coms, action flicks, sci-fi, and period dramas.
Now she’s also a top model, being chosen to be the new face of Chanel N° 5, so her flawless face is seen everywhere around the city.
I dig in my purse for something to sign and find only a tattered, ketchup-stained Bubba Gump napkin.
Why do I keep this thing? It’s from the night I dined with my mother when she told me her diagnosis—a good-luck charm, a promise of more dinners to come at her favorite seafood joint.
Now the napkin will be even more special. Elody smiles and signs it, then departs, leaving me disappointed. I’d rather she stay and chat than sit across from this striking man shooting daggers with his eyes.
I sink into the plush velvet chair, smoothing Elody's autographed napkin across my lap like it's priceless silk.
Max's eyes narrow to emerald slits beneath those perfect brows, his full lips pressed into a bloodless line.
The air between us crackles with tension as thick as the fog rolling in off the Pacific outside.
I extend my hand across the pristine white tablecloth, my chipped nail polish suddenly glaring under the warm glow of the crystal sconces.
His gaze drops to my fingers, then back to my face, leaving my hand suspended in humiliating limbo while he continues to glare with such intensity that the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention.
The heat crawling up my neck threatens to consume me whole, and I wonder if spontaneous combustion from a man's stare is scientifically possible.
I clear my throat. “Hello,” I say, my voice shaky.
Why is my voice shaking like this? I was so angry coming here that I planned on giving him what-for once I arrived.
I practically had my Norma Rae speech rehearsed in my head, complete with indignant finger-pointing and a righteous quiver in my voice that comes from standing up to power.
I was going to tell him that he can't treat his underlings like this, that we're human beings with rent payments and sick mothers and dreams beyond the glass-walled offices. I was going to dramatically give him a piece of my mind and then storm out of the restaurant, just like in the movies. Yet, here I am, timid as a damn mouse and feeling like maybe I’ve done something wrong. There’s something about this man’s aura that’s really throwing me.
The script has veered off-course without my consent, and I can't seem to find my rhythm again. I press my lips together, then release a breath. Speak up, Celeste. The words are in there somewhere.
He doesn’t say hello back, just coolly raises an eyebrow and then puts his glass of wine up to his beautiful and full lips.
“Ms. Jenkins,” he says and, just like that, I remember my earlier anger coming over here.
Ms. Jenkins? Who addresses people like that?
“Let’s dispense of pleasantries, shall we?
You know why I’m meeting with you and I’d like to get your side of the story. ”
He hasn’t yet offered me a glass of wine even though there’s another Baccarat crystal wine glass on the table, just beckoning me. And I really need a drink of that wine. I’m about to melt down like the candle on our table.
“Yes,” I say, eyeing the empty glass meaningfully. He still doesn’t offer me a glass of wine. “You wanted to talk to me about the the Nora Davis…incident.”
“Right,” he says, and I look around the dining room.
So many luminaries have dined here and a very talented artist, I’m not sure who, immortalized just a few of them in charcoal and watercolor portraits.
Cary Grant, Marilyn Monroe, Charlie Chaplin, James Dean and Humphrey Bogart represent Old Hollywood on the walls.
Julia Roberts, Emma Stone, Daniel Day Lewis, Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep represent New Hollywood.
Directors are immortalized too - Martin Scorsese and Steven Spielberg have their portraits proudly displayed.
There are also portraits of people who aren’t in the movie business.
Every American president of the past century, prominent CEOs such as Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk and… .there’s also a portrait of Max.