Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
A SURPRISE VISITOR
Celeste
The past month vanished in a blur. My only lifeline has been Hannah Sterling, my new media handler, who's helped me navigate the cesspool of online hatred.
The deepfakes, the distorted photos, the fabricated stories about my love life—it all made me want to disappear.
I never imagined the internet could turn so viciously on someone they deemed unworthy.
And why? Because I, an ordinary woman with no supermodel credentials or acting credits, somehow ended up engaged to Max Kensington.
The narrative writes itself: gold-digger snags billionaire bachelor.
Nobody questions what he might see in me because they've already decided there's nothing to see.
But Hannah proved to be a beacon in the storm.
She's the social media sorceress behind Hollywood's elite—the woman who transforms A-listers' Instagram feeds into digital gold mines, turning athletes' Twitter rants into charming quips, and making tech billionaires seem almost human.
Max somehow convinced her to drop her constellation of stars and focus her galaxy-sized talents solely on me.
He wrote her a check with enough zeros to make her temporarily forget about Chris Hemsworth's abs and Beyoncé's latest album drop.
Hannah worked her magic instantly. She captured me in golden hour on hotel balconies, hair perfectly windswept, laughing at jokes she'd written on hidden cue cards.
Online, she crafted my voice—witty comments, relatable memes, and videos portraying me as the girl next door.
The transformation was immediate. Trolls who'd speculated about our arrangement vanished, replaced by heart emojis and "couple goals" comments.
My mentions filled with praise for my "authentic vibe.
" In a week, Hannah had transformed me from gold-digger to America's sweetheart—all without a single honest word from me.
So, that nightmare's over. I've been miraculously transformed from Celeste the Whore to Celeste the Fairy Tale Princess.
Then comes the Vanity Fair exclusive—with ME.
Not Max. ME. I guess America's already had enough Max Kensington shoved down their throats.
Amber Salazar herself—the damn editor-in-chief—shows up at my pathetic shoebox condo, voice recorder clutched like a weapon, her photographer skulking behind her like some paparazzi hitman.
They insist on shooting here, of course.
Nothing sells magazines like a good rags-to-riches story.
The contrast between my IKEA furniture and Max's billions?
Pure editorial gold. I feed Amber every saccharine lie I've rehearsed until my jaw aches—our chance meeting when I mistook his Rolls for an Uber, how we felt we were soulmates finding each other, how my heart is bursting with anticipation for our future.
Four excruciating hours of this performance, bile rising in my throat with each fabrication about my "feelings" for Max.
But I survived. Can't wait to see what twisted fairy tale they manufacture from this charade.
And I somehow had to deal with, of all people, Elody Martin.
THE Elody Martin—the violet-eyed Chanel goddess whose Oscar speech made hardened cameramen cry.
And apparently, she's obsessed with Max.
Everyone knew this but me, including Olivia and Lexi, who showed me countless paparazzi shots of Elody's hand on Max's arm outside Chateau Marmont.
Max insists it's all publicity stunts orchestrated by her team—the daily calls to his office, the lavish gifts, the "accidental" resort bookings.
According to him, she's manufactured the whole romance.
According to me, she's going to be trouble.
And, sure enough, Elody turns up at my house one day when I'm working from home.
Holy God, the pictures don't do this woman justice.
She stands on my front stoop, purple crocodile Birkin dangling from one slender wrist, tennis bracelet catching the light.
I stare at this woman who wears wealth as casually as I wear my faded Target cardigan.
Her cheekbones gleam like marble, her honey-blonde hair falls in waves that don't dare frizz, and her body—all lean muscle beneath cream silk—makes me acutely aware of my chipped pedicure and coffee-stained t-shirt.
Her violet eyes flash beneath thick lashes.
When she smiles, her teeth gleam against her bronze tan, and I swear I smell money instead of perfume.
She tilts her head, honey-blonde hair falling across her cheekbone.
"Hello," she says, and I freeze. The word unfurls with a Southern drawl I've never heard from her before—not in her action blockbusters, period dramas, or even her Oscar roles.
This voice is different—warm like pulled toffee.
Her smile reaches her violet eyes. "May I come in? "
I'm shaking so hard my teeth might crack, and God, I need Olivia here, but she's off balancing trays of mini quiches for some tech mogul's birthday.
Meanwhile, I'm trapped with America's Sweetheart, who's glowing like she swallowed a damn supernova.
Her perfect teeth flash as she probably plots how to steal my fake fiancé—not that I want him.
The wedding freight train keeps barreling forward: Vera Wang herself draping me in silk that costs more than my car; Wolfgang Puck himself feeding me truffle-whatever samples while I secretly miss his $4.
99 frozen pizzas; florists shoving peonies under my nose until I can't smell anything else.
My "personal assistant" Aimée—a glossy brunette with legs for days who Max hired to babysit me—schedules it all in her color-coded planner while I smile and nod like a dashboard bobblehead.
But every night I curl up in my IKEA bed, dreading the day I'll trade my cozy shoebox condo with its chipped mugs and fuzzy throw blankets for Max's sterile beach mansion that belongs in Architectural Digest. The man himself remains a complete mystery—a walking, breathing enigma who responds to my carefully crafted texts with digital grunts.
I send "Can't wait to try the cake samples tomorrow!
" and get back "fine." I've tried everything—cute emojis, witty banter, even the occasional well-placed gif—and get back "yes" or worse, the dreaded "k.
" It's like texting a particularly uncommunicative rock.
I mumble, "Sure, sure," and try to close my mouth as this glorious enigma—all honey-blonde waves and impossibly long limbs—floats into the condo and places her buttery leather Birkin on my chipped laminate kitchen counter.
She scans the cramped living room, her mascara-coated lashes fluttering as she takes in my IKEA furniture, the particle-board bookshelf and the water stain blooming across the popcorn ceiling.
"This place is so cute," she says, her glossy lips barely moving, voice dripping with the same condescension she'd use to describe a child's crayon drawing.
Her eyes linger on the mismatched throw pillows, the $50 Target floor lamp, the dying pothos plant drooping in the corner.
I've memorized every detail of her 30,000 foot Bel Air palace from that Architectural Digest spread—the sun-drenched rooms with twenty-foot ceilings, Carrara marble floors, the Olympic-sized indoor pool with its azure waters, the infinity pool, the screening room where twenty guests could recline in buttery leather seats while sampling truffle popcorn from crystal bowls, and the training room that should belong to an Olympian.
My voice cracks. "Something to drink? I have...
" I yank open my ancient fridge, which groans in protest. "Wildberry Poppi or some Costco water with the label peeling off.
" My cheeks burn as I picture her Sub-Zero at home, stocked with those $200 Bling H2O bottles I saw in Vanity Fair—the ones with Swarovski crystals on the label.
Her manicured fingers drum against her thigh as she surveys my offerings.
Please take the Poppi, I think. At least it has personality.
Elody's face brightens. "I'd love some Poppi," she says, and my shoulders relax.
She takes the glass, her crimson nails clicking against it before she sips, nodding with approval.
"This flavor's like the only decent one they make.
Their Dr. Pepper knockoff?" She wrinkles her nose.
"Total disaster. And don't get me started on their wannabe Sprite. "
“Uh,” I say. “I wish I had something to offer you besides Poppi. I mean, I have some Blue Diamond Almonds and some cheese and crackers and…”
She places one delicate, manicured hand on my forearm, her rose gold bracelet catching the light as she flashes a dimpled smile.
"It's okay," she says, her southern drawl softening the words.
"I really am not hungry. Now if you told me you had some cajun poutine stashed around here somewhere, that would be another story entirely.
I grew up eating that stuff in my grandma's kitchen.
" She pats her concave stomach beneath her silk blouse, the fabric barely disturbing under her touch.
"Of course, can't hardly eat that now, but what are you going to do, huh? "
"Cajun poutine?"
Her eyes light up. "Golden fries in spicy gravy, shrimp, creole seasoning that makes your lips burn, and those cheese curds that squeak between your teeth." She inhales deeply. "That's why I lost sixty pounds when I moved here. Heaven for me is unlimited cajun poutine."
Then it clicks—her accent isn't Southern but Cajun. Those stretched vowels and musical lilts, the throaty "r" sounds like water over stones. Not Georgia's honey drawl or Texas twang, but pure Louisiana, where moss hangs from cypress trees and the air tastes like spice.
“Did you eat that stuff on the Bayou?” I asked her.