Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
A CONTRACT SIGNED
Celeste
I stare at my signature on Joseph's contract, the ink still glistening.
My hand trembles. Marrying his grandson Max?
For money? This wasn't how my life was supposed to go.
But what choice did I have? The alternative was watching Lexi abandon her UCLA dreams, seeing Mom forced from her home while battling cancer.
They could find somewhere cheaper, sure—if landlords would overlook an eviction record, if Mom could survive the stress of moving while on chemo.
The eviction notice sitting on their kitchen counter told me everything Lexi had been hiding.
Months behind on rent. Utility shutoff warnings. Why hadn't she called me sooner?
So this is my life now—becoming Mrs. Kensington for a quarter million dollars.
My knees don't just wobble—they threaten to buckle entirely as I stand on the terrace, Joseph, Ruth and Max's eyes burning into me like laser sights.
The man I'm about to call husband might as well be from another planet.
Every glimpse of him sends electric shocks through my body: that vicious curl of his lip when he's displeased, the arctic calculation in his eyes during our ambush at the Centurion, the way his tailored shirts strain against shoulders that make my mouth go desert-dry, and that jawline—Christ—sharp enough to draw blood.
I'm utterly screwed. This devastating attraction will torture me daily when we're trapped together, sharing walls, sharing air.
I'll suffocate slowly. We exist in different universes—him soaring in private jets and savoring thousand-dollar wines, while I drown in student loan statements and calculate which happy hour offers the most calories per dollar.
I nod and hand the contract back to Joseph.
Max narrows his beautiful green eyes, regarding me coolly, one hand resting on his chin.
Of course he doesn't have to sign anything—I'm the only one being paid.
Paid! The distinction matters; this isn't sex work because I don't plan on sleeping with Max.
Ever. Though I'll probably fantasize about it while exiled to some forgotten wing of his mansion.
Not that he'd want me anyway. I've studied his type through late-night Google searches: A-list actresses whose faces grace magazine covers, supermodels who glide down red carpets while flashbulbs pop.
Women whose names everyone knows. Meanwhile, I'm lucky if I accidentally photobomb someone else's picture.
No wealth, no class, no fame—nothing that would catch the eye of a man who dates exclusively from People's "Most Beautiful" list.
“Uh,” I say, my voice shaking. “So, what happens now?”
Joseph rubs his hands together, grinning like he's just solved world hunger.
Meanwhile, my stomach plummets through the floor.
Olivia's face flashes in my mind—how is she supposed to manage the condo?
I can't dump my mortgage on her, which means I'll be keep paying it.
And Mom and Lexi? God. Lexi will want to sign me up for electroshock therapy and I can already see Mom's expression, that mix of concern and disappointment she perfected when I was twelve.
"Marrying a stranger? Celeste, honey, are you having some kind of breakdown?
" Maybe I am. Maybe Lexi's eviction notice short-circuited my brain.
And then there's Tally, who still remembers when I wet my pants during naptime in kindergarten. We’ve been inseparable since age 5, so, after 20 years of friendship, I now have to tell her I'm selling myself like some modern-day courtesan.
They're all going to want me involuntarily committed.
What have I done?
"Well," Joseph says, leaning forward with a glint in his eye.
“Two months. That's all I need. My castle in Scotland is just sitting there waiting for an occasion like this.
I've got people—the best people—on speed dial.
One call to my wedding planner, and we'll have the works: Wolfgang Puck catering, Alicia Crawford with a camera, the whole nine yards.
Everyone who matters will clear their schedules for this.
Spielberg's tied up shooting, but Marty and Christopher will be there.
And you know Leo and Oprah—they never miss these things.
" He taps the table decisively. "Trust me, when the trades get wind of this guest list, they'll be falling over themselves for an invitation. "
I gasp like a goldfish flopping on carpet.
Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as the chandelier above starts to swirl.
I should have Cedars-Sinai on speed dial by now—maybe they'll monogram my paper bag this time.
Martin Scorsese? Christopher Nolan? Oprah Winfrey herself?
Alicia Crawford, photographer to the stars, aiming her camera at my panic-stricken face?
Wolfgang Puck? All within two months? At some drafty castle in Scotland?
Just hours ago I was scraping congealed Spaghetti-Os from the can with a plastic fork, and now I'm supposed to walk down the aisle with Leonardo DiCaprio in the front row?
"Media strategy is critical," Joseph continues, completely missing my hyperventilation.
"We'll offer Vogue or Vanity Fair exclusivity—keeps the gutter press like Star and In Touch from fabricating nonsense.
Though expect helicopters regardless. I'll have TMZ and Page Six outbidding each other for digital rights.
As for the musical guest—" The room tilts sideways.
Please don't say Taylor Swift. They'll need to shock my heart back to life right here on his imported marble.
"—I'm thinking Olivia Rodrigo, Chappell Roan or Ed Sheeran if those other two aren’t available. I'll secure one of them."
I nod while Max stares at the ceiling, his jaw twitching with impatience.
“Two months? That's it? Don't these Hollywood weddings usually require, like, a year of planning?
" My stomach knots as I try to process the timeline.
Seven days ago, Max Kensington was just a name in Variety headlines and industry gossip—the CEO with the golden touch, beautiful face and glacial personality.
I'd heard the whispers about his revolving door of model girlfriends and impossible standards.
The assistants who quit in tears. The directors who wouldn't work with him twice.
Now I'm initialing a marriage contract with the man.
If someone had predicted this a week ago, I would have snorted coffee through my nose.
“Planning for a year would be a luxury we can’t afford right now.”
Max rolls his eyes. "In this town, Granddad's word is law.
Anyone not filming on location that day will show up, guaranteed.
Hell, some will fly in from active sets just to be there.
" He lifts his hands, fingers curling into air quotes.
"To witness Hollywood's most eligible and ungettable bachelor finally captured.
" The moment his grandparents look away, he jams his finger down his throat in an exaggerated gag.
Something about this powerful CEO—this billionaire who graces countless magazine covers—making such a childish gesture breaks through my anxiety, and I laugh despite myself.
It's exactly what I need amid the chaos swirling around me.
"God, those tabloid stories," he mutters.
"As if these journalists have any clue why I'm single.
They don't know me, don't care to. Just chasing easy headlines. "
Joseph puts his arm around me. “You probably feel shell-shocked right now. You’ll be fine.”
It hits me like a freight train why Joseph's check has so many zeros.
This isn't just twelve months of tolerating Max's cold shoulder.
I'm expected to transform into some poised socialite who can chat up Spielberg over canapés without hyperventilating into a paper bag between courses.
That awkward feeling at the Centurion? Just the appetizer.
The main course of humiliation is still being plated.
I stare at my signature on the contract, the ink a permanent reminder of my impulsivity.
No attorney reviewed it. No one advised me.
Just Celeste, diving headfirst into the deep end as usual.
My Google search on Joseph Kensington revealed the truth behind that gentle smile and those kind eyes—the man's left a trail of crushed opponents in his wake.
If I tried to back out now, he'd unleash legal hell.
I vaguely remember something from Business Law 101 about contracts against public policy being void, but that's a flimsy defense against Kensington's army of attorneys billing $1500 an hour.
I'd drain every penny fighting him, leaving nothing for Mom's medical bills or Lexi's tuition.
My only option would be Tony Callahan, Esq.
, whose face I know not from Harvard Law Review but from bus stop benches across Los Angeles.
Max is studying me and narrowing his eyes, his beautiful and elegant manicured hand on his chin. He finally shakes his head.
"Granddad," he says with a sigh, running a hand through his hair.
"Let's dial this back. I'm not looking for some royal spectacle here. Fine—Crawford can shoot it, and Variety can have their exclusive. But Thornewood? In Scotland? We're talking late November at the earliest. We’ll be getting married in the freezing rain. St. John’s Cathedral for the ceremony, my house for the reception.
Small gathering, just the people who matter.
We keep it quiet—Wolfgang caters, everyone signs NDAs, and the press finds out when we decide they should.
JFK Jr. managed to pull off a secret wedding, and so can we. "
With Max’s words, the boa constrictor that was squeezing my mid-section loosens and I can breathe again. Maybe I wouldn’t be rushed to the ER with a panic attack after all.
I decide to go to the restroom to freshen up my makeup and make sure nothing is smudged, because I swear to god, I was ready to cry when Joseph started talking about the gigantic celebrity wedding he had planned for us.
Maybe tears didn’t actually fall, but they were ready to, so I hope my mascara stayed in place.
“Would you excuse me,” I say. “I need to…”
"First door to your left," Max says, his voice softening slightly.
I nod and follow his directions, pushing open a heavy mahogany door to discover a bathroom bigger than my entire apartment.
Gleaming marble countertops stretch beneath a mirror framed in gold, while a freestanding tub that could fit four people dominates the center of the room.
Even the toilet looks expensive, with some kind of electronic panel I'm afraid to touch.
Everything is pristine white with gold accents—like something out of a magazine spread rather than a space where actual humans are supposed to perform bodily functions.
The mirror shows a passable reflection. Not stunning—my foundation has settled into the creases beside my nose, mascara flecks dust my under-eyes, and my lipstick has retreated to a thin line around the edges of my mouth.
But what do I expect? It’s now 2 AM and I need to feel my mattress beneath my body soon.
I walk back out and hear Max and Joseph arguing.
"Granddad," he says, his voice tight with frustration.
"She's not some debutante you can parade around.
The woman makes sixty grand a year developing other people's stories.
She shops at Target. She probably thinks Givenchy is a type of cheese.
" He rakes his fingers through his hair.
"You can't just throw her to the wolves and expect her to know which fork to use when Spielberg shows up. "
“Steven probably can’t make it. He’s on location.”
“You know what I’m trying to say. She's drowning.
I watched her while you were talking about the guest list and Ed Sheeran performing—her fingers kept twisting that little silver ring she wears, and I could see the panic in her eyes.
The girl was practically hyperventilating.
She's got two options right now: walk away from this whole arrangement or have a complete breakdown.
Neither scenario works for anyone. You'd drag her through legal hell if she bailed.
But mark my words, she's right on that edge. "
Joseph murmurs something I can't quite catch, and I clear my throat to let them know I'm here.
Earlier, when Joseph started rattling off his guest list—Scorsese, DiCaprio, even suggesting Ed Sheeran or Olivia Rodrigo as wedding performers—my eyes must have widened to the size of dinner plates.
Max noticed. He jumped in, told his grandfather we wanted something smaller, more intimate.
I'd call it sweet if this weren't all pretend. My hands still tremble at the thought of Olivia Rodrigo singing while I walk down an aisle toward a man who I’m being paid to marry.
Joseph missed my panic entirely, but Max caught it.
Though I doubt it's about me—he's probably using my discomfort as cover for his own reluctance.
What guy wants his grandfather planning his wedding, even a fake one?
Joseph smiles when I return to the terrace.
Max doesn't meet my eyes, but that's fine.
I'm feeling calmer now. Still, it's overwhelming—marrying a man I barely know.
Even if the wedding won't be the circus Joseph envisions, I'm definitely in over my head.
This marriage to Max will likely become a spectacle: my privacy invaded, paparazzi cameras thrust in my face, my name dragged through social media mud.
It's inevitable when you're marrying Max Kensington—three-time People magazine "Most Beautiful" honoree, a man whose wealth and power have people either kissing his ass or scurrying away in fear.
Last night's Google search confirmed he's considered the most eligible bachelor in town.
I won't measure up, and the trolls will tear me apart.
Yet another detail I failed to consider.
Joseph hands me and Max a glass of champagne and he raises his glass in a toast. “To my grandson Max and the beautiful Celeste. May the two of you be as happy for 60 years as Ruth and me.” Then he winks as I raise my glass with a shaking hand.
I glance at Max, who’s looking uncomfortable. He’s not into this. Neither am I.
But yet, here we are.
Stuck with each other.
And now I have to break the news to the people I love.
Before social media does it for me.