Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
REALITY CHECK
Celeste
That Monday, I'm halfway out the door of my house when a barrage of camera flashes blinds me.
Microphones thrust toward my face like spears.
"Miss Jenkins! Is it true you're marrying Max Kensington?
" "When's the wedding?" "Was it love at first sight?
" The questions bombard me from all directions.
I retreat inside, slamming the door with such force the hinges rattle.
My pulse thunders in my ears as I slide down against the wood, hugging my knees.
Jesus Christ. Is this what being engaged to a Kensington means?
“Olivia!” I shout, tears streaming down my face. “Come help me, please!”
"What's going on?" Olivia crouches beside me, her brow furrowed. Her brown eyes widen as she waits for my answer, searching my face.
My hands won't stop trembling. My stomach lurches.
Is a quarter million really enough for what I'm about to do?
I picture Mom and Lexi crammed into some shoebox apartment in a neighborhood where sirens never stop, where they'd need a guard dog just to feel safe at night.
Lexi's twenty-minute walk to UCLA would stretch to an hour drive each way. Or worse—Lexi standing in the registrar's office, withdrawal papers in hand, her dreams shelved so she can work full-time just to keep them in Palm, their current neighborhood which is just a stone’s throw from campus. Focus, Celeste. Remember why you’re doing this.
Though it's nearly impossible with the vultures from TMZ and Entertainment Weekly swarming my front steps, cameras flashing like strobe lights.
"They're—" I stab my finger toward the door, the digit quivering between us like a divining rod.
"They're out there with cameras and microphones, just waiting.
" Blood pounds against my skull. Twenty-four hours ago, I was invisible—just another woman in yoga pants buying tampons at CVS.
Now I'm probably trending. Complete strangers hungry for a quote about Max Kensington's fiancée.
I can practically see tomorrow's headlines scrolling across my vision: "Unknown Assistant Snags Billionaire" or "America's Most Eligible Bachelor Caught in Nobody's Web. "
Olivia goes over to her laptop on the kitchen counter because I can’t bear to.
Her eyes get wide as she confirms my fear that I’m trending on X, Tik Tok, Instagram and Yahoo.
“Oh, Celeste,” she says after about an hour of her burying her face in her laptop.
“You don’t want to see the comments and articles. ”
“Why?”
"They're not flattering," she says, exhaling slowly.
"But you'll find them anyway, so I should prepare you.
" Her shoulders tense as she steels herself.
"All over social media—'gold digger,' 'pathetic nobody,' 'how did she trap him'—you know, the usual bile when an ordinary woman lands the bachelor everyone wanted." She shakes her head. “And there’s already a picture of you that’s not great - it’s when you just now opened the door to the reporters and the look on your face…”
I shake my head. Work is waiting and I'm already behind schedule. A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts. "Get the hell away from here!” The words escape before I can stop them. I turn away from the door and dash into my bedroom.
Before I know it, I'm huddled in the darkness of my walk-in closet, my sanctuary.
The familiar smell of fabric softener and leather surrounds me.
How long has it been since I've retreated here?
The memory surfaces unbidden—my mother's diagnosis.
That day, I'd curled into myself on this same floor for hours, fingernails digging into my knees, fighting to hold myself together.
"Celeste?" Olivia's voice drifted through the closet door, soft as a whisper. "You can come out now. Max is downstairs. He sent all those vultures packing—threatened them with everything from lawsuits to bodily harm if they didn't clear out."
Max? How did he know?
My knees wobble as I stand, tremors running through my body.
Downstairs, I find Max leaning against my kitchen counter.
His charcoal grey Armani hugs his frame perfectly, the purple pocket square adding just enough color against the dark fabric.
His open collar reveals a hint of skin, his discarded necktie lying beside him.
His eyes find mine, concern etched across his features as his fingers tap a restless rhythm on the granite countertops.
Then something shifts—the corner of his mouth curves upward, a smile I've never witnessed before, transforming his face entirely.
The sight of it hits me like a physical force, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
“Max,” I say. “How did you-”
He shakes his head. "My phone lit up at 4 AM.
I was knee-deep in paperwork for an overseas merger when the notifications started.
" He glances at his pocket where his phone buzzes again.
"Been like this all morning. Congratulations, questions, and...
" He turns away, jaw tightening. I can picture his inbox flooding with messages from women with perfect hair and designer dresses, begging him to reconsider.
"Let's just say not everyone's thrilled," he finishes.
"Figured the press would be camped outside your place by now. Seems I was right."
I sit down and take a deep breath. “Well, thank you. For saving me like that.”
He nods slightly. "Celeste," he begins, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
His fingers tap against his thigh once, twice, before he stills them.
"I know this isn't what you signed up for. This world—my world—it can be overwhelming. You’re not used to it and it can be consuming and can eat you alive if you let it.” He pauses, looking somewhere past my shoulder.
"I should be making this easier, not harder.
You didn't choose any of this, and I can't just stand by and watch you fall apart because of it. "
I furrow my brow and nod. Across the room, Olivia cradles her coffee mug, eyebrows arched in that told-you-so way of hers.
As if Max deserves a medal for driving to Claremont to chase away the vultures circling my front lawn.
The photographers with their telephoto lenses.
The influencers hunting for content. The substackers desperate for a fresh angle.
The TikTok opportunists waiting to catch me losing it on camera, ready to splice those five seconds into viral infamy.
Please. He's not protecting me—he's protecting his image.
Can't have the future Mrs. Kensington carted off to a psych ward before the wedding photos. Bad optics.
"Well, thanks," I say, glancing at the clock.
My meeting with that new writer starts in ten minutes, and I'm already late.
At least I can still dash over—the office is just down the block.
Not like when I move to Max's place in Malibu.
My stomach knots thinking about crawling down the 101 for an hour each morning.
I back towards the door. "I really should run, but... thanks for dealing with those guys."
"Sure," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Um, now that I'm here, we should probably sort out your schedule.
You'll need to meet the wedding team. Wolfgang Puck's handling the food—" he watches my face carefully "—don't worry, he's actually pretty down-to-earth.
Marc Whitaker's doing the flowers. He's the guy who did that insane orchid installation for Meryl Streep's charity gala last year.
And David Blackwood's running the whole show.
He's... particular, but the best in the business. "
"David Blackwood," Olivia says, her eyes widening.
"Only the most sought-after event designer in Hollywood.
The Oscar After-Parties, the Academy Museum Gala—you know, our West Coast answer to the Met.
Last year's Kardashian fundraiser? The floating champagne tower and those ice sculptures that melted to reveal diamond bracelets for the VIP guests? That was all him."
"And Alicia Crawford will be the photographer," he says, and my knees nearly buckle beneath me. Alicia Crawford—the Alicia Crawford—whose haunting black-and-white portraits hang in the MoMA, whose ethereal lighting techniques have revolutionized fashion photography. The woman who captured Cara Delevingne emerging from Venetian waters like some mythological deity, who transformed the Kardashians into Renaissance paintings come to life, who made the Hadid sisters appear simultaneously otherworldly and achingly human in that legendary Vogue spread that sold out worldwide in six hours. And she’ll be clearing her schedule for our wedding?
I mouth "help!" to Olivia, who squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.
"I've got your back," she says. "I'll be your wingwoman at all these fancy meetings.
Might even score some contacts for my catering business.
" Her eyes sparkle with excitement about my wedding—excitement I should share but can't quite muster.
This morning's paparazzi ambush was a harsh reminder: I've stumbled into celebrity status, complete with its invasive attention and online hatred.
The surreal details barely register—Wolfgang Puck handling the food, florists who decorate Oscar parties arranging my centerpieces.
The whole situation feels like someone else's life projected onto mine.
I've always prided myself on handling stress without medication, but maybe this calls for pharmaceutical intervention.
“I’ll…”
"You're going to need help," Max says, checking his watch.
"This timeline is insane. I'll have Janine find you someone—she's my PA, she knows what to look for.
Whoever she picks can manage your calendar, field calls from vendors.
They can even stand in for you at some of the wedding meetings if you'd prefer.
We'll need them starting immediately, by the way. Monday at the latest.”
I just nod. He’s right, of course. I’ll drown without somebody to help me with all this mess. “Thank you,” I mumble. “Just assign somebody to me, I’m sure she or he will be fine. I trust your judgment.” Then I look at my watch. “Gotta go. Got a meeting in just five minutes.”
"Fine," he says. "I'll have someone meet with you this week.
You'll need to see Vera too—she's making room for you despite her packed calendar.
She's been on my case about the rushed timeframe, but I redirected her complaints to Granddad since he's the one behind this impossible deadline.
" He runs a hand through his hair. "Everyone's furious about rearranging their lives for this event, but they'll pull all-nighters if necessary.
When Granddad makes a demand, the world bends to accommodate him. "
“Vera…Wang?” There goes my heart pounding again. She’ll be doing my haute couture gown?
Max nods. “And your makeup artist will be Lita Wilson.” Lita Wilson? As in Vogue’s most influential makeup artist? “So, you really need to be getting on this. Didn’t mean to dump all this on you, but…”
“Yes, I know. I signed up for this.”
"And you need a media handler." He shakes his head, checking his Patek Philippe watch.
"Someone who'll shut down the vultures in the press.
Someone to run your socials, because—trust me—you don't want to see that cesspool right now.
It's brutal out there. These keyboard warriors have nothing better to do than tear down successful people.
" He drums his fingers on the kitchen counter.
"Look, the PR nightmare will blow over, but until then, we need to control the narrative.
Make you seem relatable. Real. If the public thinks you're just some regular woman who happened to marry into money, they might back off. No guarantees though.”
I groan. Between Olivia's warnings and Max's not-so-subtle comments, I can picture exactly what's happening online.
He's right—I'd rather walk barefoot across hot coals than check my social media right now.
My already fragile confidence would shatter like thin ice under a sledgehammer.
A week ago, I was just Celeste: development exec, loyal friend, devoted sister.
Invisible to the public eye. Now I'm apparently trending for all the wrong reasons, my name being dragged through digital mud by strangers who've never met me but somehow decided I'm public enemy number one.
What did I do to deserve this? Get engaged to a famous billionaire? Exist?
I now don’t want to go to work or even leave the house. I only want to do one thing - go to my closet, turn off the lights, and never, ever come out. But I can’t. I have to get to work. I’m already late.
I leave for work, feeling like I’m living somebody else’s life.