Chapter 11 #2
Celeste wraps her arms around Granddad like she belongs to us, then does the same with Nana.
What the actual hell? This is my grandfather—the man who fired Thompson for a congratulatory back-pat after we landed the Westridge account—letting some stranger hug him.
And Nana? Christ. The woman stands like she's balancing a dictionary on her head, keeps her hair yanked back so tight it could double as a facelift, and has a stare that's made VPs forget their own names.
Now she's grinning at Celeste like she's the golden child.
These people drilled into me that a firm handshake was the pinnacle of human contact, and here they are, practically adopting this woman.
I shake my head, watching Granddad laugh at something Celeste says.
The man who once lectured me for an hour about wasting five dollars on lottery tickets is now throwing a fortune at a woman he barely knows.
If somebody told me that aliens abducted my actual grandfather and left this imposter in his place, I wouldn’t be surprised.
The man who taught me about sound investments and rational decision-making is suddenly throwing a quarter-million dollars at a stranger to solve a problem that doesn't even exist.
“Max,” Granddad booms. “Have a seat. Ruthie and I are just kicking back, enjoying some Old-Fashioneds and we have your favorite Scotch, neat like you like it. Celeste, what would you like to drink?”
"Um, a Perrier if you have it," she says, and my stomach plummets. Jesus Christ. No alcohol? Is she kidding me? Every Kensington since the dawn of time has practically bathed in scotch. She'll stick out like a teetotaling thumb at our holiday gatherings where champagne flows before noon.
I need Granddad Joe to see this girl is wrong—dead wrong—for the family.
I scan his face for a flicker of disapproval, a twitch, anything.
Nothing. He's beaming at her like she's the second coming. My hands clench. I need an escape hatch from this nightmare, and I need it now. I'll have to destroy her credibility myself. Make her slip up. Maybe she’ll use the wrong fork, or say something ridiculous about the Monet in the hallway. Maybe she’s a Democrat and that’ll come out in the inevitable political discussion that always erupts after the first course.
My mind races through possibilities, each more desperate than the last. The problem is I know nothing about this woman except that I want her gone. Tonight.
Jack returns to the terrace with drinks—sparkling water for Celeste, my usual scotch neat for me.
The amber liquid catches the light as I take a sip, the sixty-year-old double casked perfection warming my throat.
I scan Granddad and Nana's faces for any hint of disapproval toward my forced fiancée. A grimace? A subtle eye-roll? Nope. Instead, they're practically glowing at her, hanging on her every word. Maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise that they’re acting like this with her.
After all, Granddad's the mastermind who decided I should marry this woman after he talked to her for one hour in the hospital.
And now he's looking at her like she's the granddaughter he always wanted.
An hour later and it's time for dinner. Granddad's personal chef Jacques—poached from a three-star Michelin in Paris for a seven-figure package—has outdone himself tonight. The spread is worth every penny: A-5 Wagyu that runs $400 a pound, swimming in Bernaise; black truffles flown in from Alba this morning; firm asparagus grown in Granddad’s garden, topped with hollandaise; saffron risotto; and Maine lobster tails that my distributor usually reserves for the Four Seasons.
The '08 Dom is chilling. I check my Patek—right on schedule.
I can already picture Celeste's performative disgust when the carpaccio arrives.
At the Centurion, she practically delivered a TED talk on sustainable seafood when the abalone appeared.
If she's one of those non-drinking, vegetarian types, that's two strikes against this arrangement.
One more dealbreaker and I'm off the fucking hook.
I watch as Celeste takes a bite of the Wagyu beef, then practically swoons over the risotto.
The lobster, though, she pushes around her plate without touching.
Interesting. Not the full-on vegetarian I pegged her for, then.
Damn. I was counting on her being one of those crystal-clutching, Mercury-retrograde-fearing types who'd clash spectacularly with Granddad.
Downward dog at dawn, meditation apps, vegan diet, MAHA, the works.
If she starts spouting off about solstice dancing or her chakras being blocked, Granddad would implode.
The light catches on her wrist as she reaches for her water glass—several crystal bracelets slide down her arm.
I lean forward slightly. Are those just fashion accessories, or does she actually believe they channel energy?
If I could just get her talking about alternative medicine or sustainable farming or trans rights or whatever, Granddad would lose it.
The old man still thinks climate change is a hoax and gay marriage will bring about the apocalypse.
His religion? The almighty dollar. One conversation about her rising sign, and he'd show her the door before the chocolate soufflé arrives.
I need to figure her out. Those crystal bracelets jangling on her wrist tell a story.
So does the way her nose wrinkles when the lobster arrives, and how she picks at the Wagyu beef without enthusiasm.
Her Prius in the driveway screams recycling bins and canvas grocery bags.
If I can get her talking about billionaires paying their "fair share," Granddad might just have an aneurysm right here at the dinner table.
The old man guards his portfolio like a dragon with gold.
Still, I could be reading this all wrong.
Maybe those crystals are just pretty accessories, not some healing chakra bullshit.
Maybe she hates lobster because she once had food poisoning.
Maybe she drives a Prius because it was a good deal and she doesn’t like to pay for gas.
Hell, for all I know, she could be a closet libertarian who thinks our tax shelters are genius.
Only one way to find out—I'll drop some bait and see if she bites.
One hint of socialism and I've got my exit strategy.
I clear my throat. "So, Celeste," I say. "Ever seen Poldark on Netflix?"
"Oh, I love that show!" Her eyes light up instantly. "All those love triangles and period drama scandals. It's addictive."
I swirl my drink, watching the ice cubes clink against the glass. "I'm more drawn to the class commentary, actually. The way the Cornwall aristocrats crush the miners while dining on pheasant."
"God, yes," Celeste nods enthusiastically. "George Warleggan is such a—" Her gaze darts to Granddad, and she catches herself. "Well, he'd do anything to destroy Ross. Just another greedy little... person."
I glance sideways at Granddad, suppressing a smile.
She's carefully tiptoeing around calling the wealthy villain what he really is.
I can see the restraint in her eyes—the unspoken critique of privilege hanging in the air between us.
She spears a piece of risotto without eating it, then takes a long sip of water.
I wonder what it would take to make her say what she's really thinking.
I lean forward, not letting her off the hook. "What's your take on those plotlines where the aristocratic bankers crush the working class? You know—shuttering the mines, foreclosing on owners who treat workers decently, shipping grain overseas during famines..."
Celeste's knuckles whiten around her glass.
"And what happens to those who speak out?
The gallows." She draws a sharp breath. "Two hundred years later and it's the same damn story, just with different costumes.
" Her eyes narrow as she stares into her drink.
"Every Sunday night I watch those Poldark aristocrats in their stone fortresses, scheming how to squeeze another penny from people who can barely feed their children.
The miners' faces covered in grime while the lords and ladies sip tea from fine china.
" She gives a bitter laugh. "Only Ross and Sir Francis seem to have a conscience.
The rest? They're no different from today's billionaires—different century, same playbook. "
Bingo! Bing-fucking-o! I catch Granddad's eye and smile. Perfect timing. He’ll throw her out the door in a heartbeat after that little screed.
But he leans forward, patting Celeste's hand.
"Tell me, dear," he says, "how would you feel about a winter wedding at our place in Scotland? The castle looks magical with snow on the turrets. The village below celebrates Christmas with these charming little markets—all very Dickensian."
Damn. He must not have heard our conversation.
If he'd heard her passionate speech about aristocratic exploitation in Poldark—her apparent favorite show—he wouldn't be casually offering up his literal castle as a wedding venue, he’d be putting his boot in her rear as he gives her the bum’s rush out the door. Strike one.
I stare at my grandfather. "You want us to get married at your drafty old castle? In the dead of winter? In Scotland?" I shake my head. "The bridesmaids will be wearing parkas instead of dresses, and we'll have to hire polar bears as groomsmen."
“We’ll discuss it later,” he says.
About fifteen minutes later, my fingers tap a restless rhythm against the mahogany as I nurse my port. Across the table, Celeste raises her glass of sparkling water to her lips—again with the abstinence. Didn't she have a cabernet that first night? The memory slips away like smoke.