Chapter 4
Chapter Four
SPARRING SESSION
Max
After Celeste stormed out of the restaurant, I stared at the empty chair across from me, my knuckles white around my phone.
My thumb hovered over Iris's contact. One call and Celeste would be packing her desk by morning.
The waiter approaches with a hesitant smile, refilling my water glass that I hadn't touched.
I straighten my tie and force my shoulders back.
Employees don't walk away from Max Kensington.
Not if they want to keep their jobs. Not if they want to stay in this industry at all.
I change after dinner and go to the Patrician gym.
I check my phone. 7:58 PM. Two minutes until Gianni shows up.
My hands already itch for the cold metal of the barbell.
I picture myself under the bench press, Gianni's steady hands hovering just inches above the bar as I push through that final rep, his voice counting down—"three, two, one"—until I can finally exhale.
My jaw unclenches just thinking about it.
The vein that's been throbbing at my temple since Celeste stormed off might finally stop pulsing.
Gianni and I have been inseparable since Malibu Montessori at five—navy uniforms with dolphin logos—through Harvard-Westlake prep's calculus hell.
We split for college; I chose USC for film while he went to Harvard.
But he's always been there when it mattered.
Like when I was seven, hiding in the garage that rainy February afternoon my father loaded his Porsche and drove away forever, leaving only the echo of a slammed door and my grandparents sobbing on the porch.
Gianni found me there, my world shattered.
While I wait for him in the gym, I slam my fist into the speed bag until the chain rattles.
Then I destroy Steve, my sparring mannequin.
I lunge, vision narrowing as I drive my knee into his gut.
My split knuckles leave blood on the vinyl.
I can't stop. Something feral claws inside me.
Is it because Celeste walked away like I was nothing?
Or because she made me feel alive? Those emerald eyes cutting through my bullshit.
Her copper hair falling across ivory skin.
The freckles I wanted to trace. My chest seized when she spoke, and I hated it. Hated how much I needed her next words.
Gianni materializes beside me, palms raised in mock surrender. "Hey now, let's not traumatize Steve for life." His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as his arm settles across my shoulders. "I haven't seen those worry lines since the Paramount pitch. What's up?”
I shrug. As much as I want to spill my guts to my best friend, the guy who’s seen me through some of the worst times of my life, I can’t quite articulate exactly why I’m feeling so pissed. “Nothing, man. Let’s go.”
For the next hour, we pump iron. I grunt through squats until my quads scream, metal bar digging into my trapezius.
I load another plate onto the leg press, determined to crush my fury beneath 300 pounds of steel.
My goal: exhaust myself enough to finish work tonight with a clear head.
But even after this punishment—shirt soaked, hair plastered to my forehead, salt on my lip—the tightness in my jaw remains.
My gaze finds Steve, the sparring mannequin in the corner, his blank face begging for the beat-down I still crave.
Gianni just shakes his head as he sees me eyeing Steve. “Max, you pounded Steve enough. I know you have a lot of merger reports you need to get to at home but maybe it all can wait. Let’s get a drink. You look like you need it.”
I nod, remembering the Cabernet with dinner.
No more drinks tonight. Still, the thought of Neon and Noir beckons—that speakeasy tucked behind the Orpheum where Gianni and I have spent countless nights.
Those reports can wait. Tomorrow I'll power through them twice as fast, but tonight I need to untangle the Celeste situation before it consumes me entirely.
"See you there," I tell him, ducking into the locker room. After a quick shower, I swap the suit for dark Ferragamos, Seven jeans, and a gray cashmere V-neck that cost more than most people’s first car.
The valet brings my Bugatti around, its engine purring like a predator.
Sliding behind the wheel, I force myself to ease onto Mulholland rather than tearing down toward the Arts District at 120, though God knows the car could handle it.
I duck through the unmarked door behind the Orpheum, past the hostess who recognizes me with a discreet nod, and into the amber-lit sanctuary where crystal decanters catch the light from Edison bulbs.
Gianni is already perched at the copper bar, one Italian leather loafer hooked on the brass rail, swirling what is presumably a thirty-year-old Macallan in a hand-cut crystal tumbler, his go-to drink.
I join him at the oak-stained bar, with the mirror behind it and crystal glasses lined up overhead, sinking into the red leather bar stool and order a tonic water over ice.
I’m sticking to my no-drinking pledge, only because the wine from earlier makes alcohol here seem redundant, and face Gianni, his dark eyes looking at me with worry.
Of course Gianni would know when there’s something wrong with me.
He’s known me my entire life. Literally.
He puts one tan hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Out with it,” he says, raising one dark eyebrow.
I shake my head. “You know about the meeting I scheduled tonight with Celeste Jenkins.” I shake my head. “Didn’t go well.”
"Ah, Celeste Jenkins," Gianni says, his lips curving into a knowing smile.
"Your randomly selected sacrificial lamb from Dreamscape.
The one you planned to humiliate as a warning to the others.
" He tilts his head, studying Max's expression.
"But she didn't play along with your little power game, did she?
" One eyebrow arches perfectly. "Am I getting warm? "
“Goddamn you,” I say. “How can you see through me like I’m made of glass?”
Gianni just grins and shakes his head. “I knew when you told me about your little plan that it would backfire, my friend. And I told you that, too. So not surprised it didn’t go well. But what happened?”
I tell him the story and Gianni just nods along.
He takes a sip of his scotch, the ice clinking against the crystal, before he lays into me.
"Max," he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
"Look, I get it. The Nora Davis memoir was a shit show that needed handling.
And yeah, Celeste fucked up by not vetting it properly before sending it upstairs.
But Christ, man—you could've shot her an email instead of summoning her like some medieval king.
I know you're trying to establish dominance with the Dreamscape people, but this alpha male bullshit?
Sometimes it just makes you look like a dick. "
I say nothing and he stares at me. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”
I shrug, but my jaw clenches until I taste blood.
Celeste. Her name burns like acid. Gianni's seen everything—the nightmares at seven, the bloody knuckles at twelve, me staring at my father's empty chair until Grandpa had to shake me back. When I learned how my mother died, I understood why I felt like an outcast. Everybody knows that I’m responsible for her death.
I've kept women at arm's length since, letting them touch my body but never what's broken inside.
But Celeste? One look and something cracked open in me, something I've spent twenty-two years sealing shut.
That terrifies me more than anything my father did.
"I'm talking to Iris tomorrow about letting her go," I mutter.
I pretend it's about her mistake, but the truth is simpler.
I can't bear to see her again. Something in those flashing blue eyes and that wild red hair makes my chest tighten.
She looked at me like she could see straight through me, and I felt naked.
Exposed. If she peered any deeper into the cracks, she might actually make me believe she'd stay.
And then she'd walk away, just like my father did.
"You're firing her? Over one mistake?" Gianni's eyes narrow as he leans forward.
"Must be nice being infallible. The rest of us mere mortals have to live with our flaws.
" He drums his fingers on the desk. "Look, she pushed for that script, sure.
But she didn't sign the check. That disaster had signatures all over it—development, legal, finance.
If you're hunting for sacrificial lambs, why stop with her?
Hell, might as well clean house entirely.
A train wreck that spectacular requires multiple conductors. "
I just shake my head. Celeste needs to go.
My decision is final. Gianni called her a sacrificial lamb—he doesn't know the half of it.
Her presence in Los Angeles is too much.
Despite my CEO role keeping me away from development, I'd eventually manufacture reasons to see her.
I'd feign interest in projects just to be near her.
That's exactly why she has to leave. She’ll make me forget quarterly projections in board meetings. Pure kryptonite.
“So, what’s going on with you these days?” I ask him, changing the subject. “It’s been awhile since we’ve hung out like this.” And that’s true - we meet at the gym four evenings a week, as our schedules allow, but we don’t usually hang afterwards and catch up like we’re doing now.
His eyes flick down to his beer when I glare at him.
The name "Celeste" hangs in the air between us for a moment, then dissolves.
He clears his throat. "Lakers looked good last night." I nod, grateful that he can always pick up what I’m putting down - I don’t feel like talking about Celeste anymore.
We drift through the safety of box scores and quarterly projections until, inevitably, we're laughing about Master Dawkins' econ final from senior year.
The bartender rings the bell for last call.
I check my watch: 1:15 AM. The Kensington merger folder sits unopened in my briefcase, sticky tabs marking twenty pages I need to memorize before 7 AM. My temples throb at the thought of it.
But thank God I have work to drown in when I get home.
I need something—anything—to obliterate the memory of Celeste's hair, that untamed flame that haunts me even with my eyes closed, and those blue eyes that cut through my defenses like they were nothing, leaving me exposed, vulnerable, terrified of what she might have seen inside me.