Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
THE UNWANTED OFFER
Iris
"Celeste," Elaine's voice slices through the air like a chainsaw as I sit at my desk, staring into the abyss of my shattered career.
My throat burns from swallowing back sobs all morning until my chest feels like it might explode.
This job was EVERYTHING to me. The cruel irony crushes me - you never truly appreciate something until it's being ripped away, and now I'm free-falling into a pit so dark I can't even see the bottom.
My desk has become a goddamn funeral parlor, with co-workers filing past like mourners, offering pastries and awkward embraces, their eyes screaming what their mouths won't say: "Poor Celeste is finished.
" The restaurant disaster spread through this office like wildfire before I even made it back to my desk.
Just yesterday I thought I'd move up at Dreamscape.
Maybe get my name on movie posters, fix broken scripts, or run things myself one day.
My scripts just sit on my laptop where no one important will ever see them—each "no" chipping away at my dream bit by bit.
But I had choices yesterday. Today? Dreamscape will fire me, and people will talk.
"That's her—the one Kensington ruined." I could run to New York, try to work in TV, but who am I fooling?
When Max Kensington says you're done, you're done everywhere.
"Yes?" I ask Elaine, my fingers freezing over my keyboard. My stomach drops as she hovers in my doorway.
“Iris needs to see you right now.”
Six words from Elaine, and my mouth dries up. My heart races as I walk behind her down the hall, getting closer to what feels like the end of my job. Iris shuts the office door, and the small click sounds as loud as a gun. I try to calm down, but I can't. I might faint.
Everybody knows that when your superior shuts the door, nothing good will come of your meeting.
Iris smiles, obviously seeing my distress. Then she says something that I cling to like a lifeline. “Relax, Celeste. This meeting isn’t what you’re thinking.”
Whoosh. My breath, which I was holding, came out in one long tendril and I found myself crying.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I’ve been on pins and needles ever since last night. I shouldn’t have been so disrespectful towards Mr. Kensington. It’s just that I feel he disrespected me. But I’ll be more circumspect in the future, I promise.”
Iris wraps me in a hug, her perfume a cloud of vanilla and something floral.
"Oh, Celeste," she whispers against my hair, "he had it coming. Everyone knows what Max Kensington is like. He’s a monster in Armani.” She pulls back, her hands still on my shoulders, and gives a little dismissive shrug.
"But I shouldn't speak ill of him." Her eyes dart away, then back to mine as she inhales sharply. "Although..."
“Although?”
She sighs and rustles some papers on her desk. Her eyes aren’t meeting mine and the mood of the room is something different than it was earlier. She shakes her head. “Celeste, I received an interesting phone call. From Joseph Kensington.”
“Joseph Kensington? The billionaire who owns most of Los Angeles?”
“Yes, Joseph Kensington. When exactly did the two of you cross paths? He just called with the strangest proposition, and I'd like to understand what prompted it. I told him I'd speak with you, but frankly, I'm at a loss."
Wait….Damn. “Can I see a picture of him?”
She shows me his picture and I feel embarrassed. Of course! That man I met at UCLA hospital seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place his face. Now, as I stare at the picture, it becomes a bit more clear on who that angel was who visited me the night I was sure I’d lose my mother.
So, I tell Iris the story….
Three Months Earlier
Mom is hospitalized with an infection, and I’m terrified about her, but I don’t want to scare Lexi.
So, I didn’t call her to let her know what’s going on.
She’s staying on campus with a friend tonight because they’re working on a short film together, so she doesn’t need to know our mother is so sick.
I wish Olivia were here with me, but she’s staying the night with her on-again, off-again boyfriend. So, I feel alone.
I reach for my phone, fingers already tapping toward the comfort of Taylor's voice—the Life of a Showgirl album has been my emotional crutch lately—when an older gentleman approaches.
My reflection in the window shows everything: dark circles under bloodshot eyes, lips pressed thin, shoulders hunched forward like I'm bracing for impact.
The thought of Mom's empty chair at Thanksgiving, of Lexi's graduation with no one to cheer from the other side, of evenings without her laughter—it's all there, written across my face for anyone to read.
“Hello,” he says. “My name is Joe. You look like you need a shoulder to cry on.”
My eyes burn with the effort of containing tears, but the gentle creases around his eyes invite rather than judge. Something loosens in my chest—a knot I didn't realize I'd been carrying—and I let a single tear fall, no longer afraid of what might follow.
He hands me a handkerchief from his coat pocket. I assume it’s a new one, so I take it gratefully. “Thank you,” I say and then dab my eyes.
He looks at me, his green eyes shining. He’s probably in his 80s, but he looks attractive for his age. “Can I help you with anything?” he asks.
I let out a deep breath. “Thank you so much, but I don’t know what I need right now. Except for my mother to get out of the hospital and beat her cancer. That’s what I need,” I say, hanging my head. “But unfortunately, you can’t give me that.”
His Adam’s Apple bobs up and down, as if he’s holding back tears himself.
“Cancer,” he says, shaking his head. “It took my Gracie all those years ago. I was 20, she was 19. We just got married when she was diagnosed.” He smiles.
“Gracie and I didn’t have much, but our love got us through those tough days and nights when there wasn’t food on the table or heat running through our tiny place in Skid Row. ”
Skid Row is an actual area of Los Angeles. It’s known, then as now, as a place where alcoholics and people on the margins of society live.
I put my hand on Joe’s hand as he gets out his own handkerchief and dabs his eyes with it. “I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “You never got over that, did you?”
He shakes his head. “No. Never did. But I remarried and we lived happily. I’m still with her today, Ruth. But I never forgot my Gracie.”
I wonder if he managed to get off Skid Row, but I don’t want to pry. It’s none of my business, but I’m curious.
“Well, that’s a good thing, huh? You found a new love.”
“Yes,” he says. “But you can’t find a new mother. I’ll pray for you tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
I nod, my vision blurring as tears well up without permission. It's always the kindness that breaks me—never the tragedies, just the unexpected moments of grace. My throat tightens around the words. "Thank you," I whisper, the sound barely making it past the knot of emotion.
For the next hour or so, Joseph and I sit and talk.
I tell him about my job, about my sister Lexi and how proud I am of her for excelling in the UCLA film program, and, of course, about my mother.
I tell him about how Mom worked 12-hour days between her three jobs when Lexi and I were younger.
How Mom sacrificed her whole life to make sure Lexi and I could eat and have shelter.
How I feel guilty because Mom only had to work that hard because she had us kids at home, and if we were never around, she could’ve had more of a life.
And maybe she wouldn’t be sick today if she could’ve taken life easier.
There’s something about this kind-hearted man that makes me feel comfortable opening up about my deepest fears and insecurities.
In return, I gain a wealth of information about him.
He shares stories about Ruth and their grandchildren, but he deliberately avoids revealing his profession.
I suspect he’s retired, but I have no idea what he did during his working life.
He seems to be deliberately withholding that information.
Despite this, I found it acceptable.
At some point, I feel the need to stretch my legs, so I descend to the coffee shop to grab a cup. I return with a cup of coffee for me and one for him even though he didn’t request one, and he smiles, placing his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a lovely young woman,” he says. “You’ll find a suitable husband someday.”
I shrug. I've dated here and there, but, aside from one jerk I dated for a year, nothing ever stuck past the third dinner or the awkward morning-after coffee.
When they ghosted or I let the texts fade away, I never found myself crying into ice cream, driving past their home or drunk-dialing at 2 AM.
They were all wrong anyway—too loud, too quiet, too ambitious, not ambitious enough.
Finally, the doctor arrives and informs me that Mom is awake. I can see her and talk to her.
I extend a grateful handshake to the kindly older gentleman. “Thank you so much, Joe,” I say. “You truly made a difference today, more than you’ll ever know.”
As I leave that day, I anticipate never seeing Joe again. He undoubtedly served as one of those angels sent to provide comfort during my time of need.
He did offer me comfort, more than he could ever know.
Iris's eyes glisten as I finish telling her about my mother.
"Oh, Celeste," she whispers, reaching across the desk to squeeze my hand.
"I had no idea about your mother. Would it be alright if I sent her some flowers?
" I watch as she jots a quick note on her planner, drawing a little star beside it for importance.
A smile tugs at my lips. In a world of Maxes, it's the Irises who make the unbearable somehow bearable.
Now, I’m crying, but I nod. “My mother loves flowers. She likes orchids the best. Also sunflowers. Reminds her of our life in Kansas.”