Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
A RECONSIDERED OFFER
Max
"What the fuck?" The words escape my lips as my phone screen illuminates with a most unwelcome email from my granddad, arriving like an unwanted visitor the day after my hospital discharge.
I was only at UCLA Medical for twenty-four miserable hours—just long enough for the nurses to thread an IV into my arm and push that familiar cocktail of Toradol that makes the jackhammer behind my eyes finally stop.
When the neurologist suggested additional tests, I waved him off with my discharge papers already in hand.
The Kensington-Dreamscape acquisition documents sit in a leather portfolio on my desk, each page requiring my signature in blue ink—the kind of work that defines a movie studio CEO's existence and doesn't pause for something as inconvenient as a debilitating migraine.
But there it is in my inbox, my grandfather's message demanding I meet with him and Celeste to "hammer out the terms of our impending nuptial agreement.
" Fuck. I slam my fist against the desk, making my coffee slosh over the rim.
The words blur as I squint at the screen, that familiar vice-grip tightening around my skull, those goddamn sparkles creeping in at the corners.
So much for thinking the migraine is gone for good.
But no. Not today. Not right now. Mind over matter, forget about the pain.
Finalize marriage details with Celeste? What the hell?
When I walked out of Dreamscape yesterday, we had an understanding.
Zero marriage. Zero announcements. Zero social media.
And definitely no exclusive with Vanity Fair magazine, which apparently Granddad is pushing for in this email—"someone's going to get the story, might as well be Vanity Fair.” He's acting like I never spoke to Celeste at all, like she didn't literally laugh in Iris's face when this ridiculous idea came up. As she damn well should have.
Fuck! My chest constricts like I'm being crushed by a boa constrictor.
This marriage can't happen. It just can't. Every morning I'd wake up, see that copper hair spread across the pillow next to mine, and feel another hairline fracture in the walls I've spent twenty-two years building.
I've never let anyone see what's behind those walls.
Not once. And now I'm supposed to let this woman—this stranger—live inside my house?
Inside my head? My fist clenches. The nearest drywall suddenly looks inviting.
No. I flex my fist, then release it. Another trip to UCLA with a fractured hand isn't what I need right now.
The X-ray techs know me by name. Christ, I'm already drowning after one day out of commission.
My inbox has exploded, the Chen Chinese distribution deal is hanging by a thread, and Spielberg's people keep calling about tomorrow's dinner.
Three of my execs are circling like sharks with their pet projects, all needing eight-figure greenlight decisions.
The marketing team's blowing up my phone about budget approvals for the Scorsese picture—the one everyone's already whispering "Best Picture" about.
And somewhere in this mess, there's a quarterly report that the board expects on their desks by Friday.
And now Granddad's goddamn summoned me tonight for his half-baked matchmaking scheme with Celeste Jenkins.
Fucking perfect. Because running a studio doesn't already devour every second of my existence like some ravenous beast. I had to reschedule lunch Selena Farley—the Selena Farley—who's sitting on scripts that would make Scorsese weep.
All so I can spend an hour pummeling Steve, my six-foot canvas punching bag, until my knuckles bleed through the wraps.
If I don't beat something lifeless into shreds first, I swear to God I'll launch that dinner table through Granddad's bay window the moment he utters the word "marriage. "
I storm through the Patrician Club's glass doors.
The doorman's greeting dies in his throat.
Familiar faces—trainers, members, even the smoothie bar girl who usually waves—avert their eyes as I pass.
My reflection in the weight room mirrors shows why: jaw clenched, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed to slits.
The crowd around the boxing ring parts without a word.
They've seen this look before. They know what it means.
And right now, it means Steve is about to get exactly what's coming to him.
I spend an hour destroying Steve with every punch and kick I can muster.
My screams echo off the walls of the private room the club reserved for me and Steve, and I'm grateful no one else can hear my unhinged howling.
By the time I'm done, it's a miracle the training dummy hasn't collapsed into a heap.
Sweat pours down my face, my knuckles throb, my throat burns raw, but the rage has subsided enough that I probably won't make a scene at Granddad's tonight—which was the whole point of this session.
Still, this helplessness, this lack of control...
I never deal with these feelings in my normal life.
That's what really fuels this rage. No one asked what I wanted.
No one cared. Now this woman—this gorgeous, infuriating woman I wish I'd never met—is about to completely derail my life, and I have absolutely no say in the matter.
After showering, I pull on my Armani suit, yanking the sleeves straight before hammering through the buttons.
The Stefano Ricci wing-tips wait by the door—expensive as hell but worth every cent.
Back at the office, my heart rate's finally normal after granddad's bombshell email.
Five o'clock deadline. Shit. Usually I'm here until ten, minimum.
The pressure starts drilling behind my eyes.
Goddamn it, not now. I grab the beta-blocker the hospital forced on me after last night's episode, dry-swallowing it.
No time for this migraine crap. I crack my neck, square my shoulders at the screen. Work will fix this. Work.
There’s no getting out of this, not if I want to avoid the whole “sue granddad for turning my shareholders against me for no reason” scenario.
So, at 5 o'clock sharp, I power down my laptop and head for Granddad's Malibu estate.
The document in my briefcase contains my non-negotiables for this sham marriage with Celeste.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, reminding myself that in any business deal, leverage matters.
Mine has evaporated like morning fog. Granddad wants this wedding, and what Granddad wants, Granddad gets.
I curse under my breath. Four years as CEO, and I never bothered to secure my position with the major shareholder groups or gather the kind of information that I could use to blackmail those SOBs into not ousting me whenever Granddad gets a fucking wild hair.
Now I'm cornered, with only a flimsy list of demands as my shield.
I get to his house and there she is—Celeste—and something in me ignites.
Her copper hair is twisted up, exposing the elegant curve of her neck.
The black dress she's wearing might be modest for dinner with the grandparents, but against her skin it transforms into something else entirely.
The subtle makeup around her eyes makes the blue more intense, like warning signals I'm choosing to ignore.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I clench my jaw against unwelcome thoughts, against the urge to pull her aside and taste those lips until neither of us can think straight.
No rainbow boots tonight. I miss them—miss how she wore them into Centurion with quiet defiance, past every A-lister and power player in Hollywood, not giving a good goddamn what anyone thought.
Her eyes lock with mine, tight-lipped and impatient. The message couldn't be clearer if she'd written it on her forehead: mutual misery, mutual desire to escape. I give a slight nod in silent agreement. Yes, let's power through this nightmare and be done.
"Max," she says, her voice as cold as the marble beneath our feet.
"Your grandparents are waiting on the back porch.
I only arrived moments ago." She gestures toward the uniformed woman hovering nearby, granddad’s longtime maid, Ingrid.
“Ingrid let me in." Her voice drops to a whisper.
"This feels surreal. Are you sure your grandfather isn't filming an episode of Punk’d?”
Her confusion cuts through my annoyance.
I catch myself almost smiling. "That show's been dead for twenty years.
We're both screwed." I roll my shoulders back.
"Welcome to hell, roomie." I track her eyes as she takes in the Italian Bianco marble terrace beyond the French doors.
The space could fit a hundred people for dinner, easy.
The infinity pool drops off into the Pacific like a knife edge. Back porch indeed. Jesus.
The two of us walk out on the terrace where Granddad and Nana are waiting for us.
Granddad already has his go-to drink - an Old Fashioned, a drink that makes me want to hurl because it’s too damned sweet.
Thank god he also has my go-to drink at the ready - a 60-year-old Macallan scotch, double-casked and smoother than silk.
Granddad always brings out the good scotch only on special occasions and when he wants to impress and it occurs to me that Granddad must really want to impress Celeste because he couldn’t care less about impressing me.