Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
AN ATTEMPT TO BACK OUT
Max
Christ, that kiss. It detonated through me like a bomb, incinerating me to the marrow.
My body combusted when our lips met—soft yet demanding—with an intensity that erased my name.
Her teeth caught my lip, drawing blood, and I wanted more.
Something feral lived in that kiss, something ravenous in her shattered breath, the cinnamon taste of her tongue like a drug I'd kill for.
If I hadn't pulled away, fingers trembling in her hair, I would have consumed her completely until nothing remained of either of us.
It doesn't just terrify me—it haunts me.
I had everything planned—separate wings, entrances, lives.
Her pool, her hot tub (whose jets I hear at night), her kitchen.
A fortress against what I feel. Then that kiss demolished everything.
Now her taste haunts me, her jasmine scent lingers on my skin, and I'm facing what I've tried to deny: I want her. I need her.
And it's going to destroy me.
I need to call an emergency summit with Gianni and my brothers Ansel and Roman.
My communication with my brothers has been sparse—my fault entirely—but those two are the only ones currently in Los Angeles.
Connor is in France, immersed in his latest period drama, no doubt charming the entire production with that effortless charisma he apparently inherited from our Mother, not that I would know.
Asher's in Kyoto examining Edo-period scrolls with those meticulous eyes that miss nothing. Kalen's in Australia right now selling out stadiums while Cameron—the best of us, truly—performs surgeries by lamplight somewhere in Sudan, saving lives while the rest of us merely live them. Silas, Asher’s identical twin (Connor and Kalen are also identical twins. Apparently, that’s a Kensington thing), is in England, bidding on some rare royal jewels from the days of King Henry VIII at a Christie’s auction.
Roman suggests Xavier's for our meeting—the crown jewel of his Romanesque hotel empire and the kind of place where even the water costs more than most people’s car payment.
The place screams money—not the flashy kind, but old wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.
The hostess, legs for days, leads us past tables where deals worth eight figures are closed with handshakes.
Crystal chandeliers hang overhead like suspended fortunes.
The sommelier approaches with a bottle, his cufflinks catching the light—platinum, if I had to guess.
Roman's a phantom to his staff, this titan who commands a global portfolio: the seaside resort in Palos Verdes, the razor-edged skyscraper in Beijing, that medieval palace he gutted in Brussels, the compound on the Brazilian coastline.
Having him actually show up in LA while carving three hours from his schedule is like catching a great white shark with a kiddie rod—a once-in-a-lifetime event that nobody would believe without proof.
As for Ansel? He's got a sleek penthouse downtown—all glass and steel, the kind of place where you can see half of LA sprawled out beneath you like some giant circuit board at night.
Runs Kensington Records with an iron fist. The guy's signed everyone from indie darlings to hip-hop legends, and he doesn't take shit from anyone in the industry.
So, for the most part, he's in town, when he's not jetting off to Tokyo to woo some brooding indie band with cult status, or flying on his private jet to Berlin to schmooze with avant-garde producers in minimalist studios, or chartering private planes to Rio to sign distribution deals over caipirinhas at rooftop bars overlooking Copacabana.
His passport is stamped with more international subsidiaries of Kensington Records than most people have credit cards.
My brothers are scattered globally, but they'll all be at this joke of a "wedding.
" I need Ansel and Roman now. Roman will cut through my bullshit with that shark smile of his.
Ansel's different—velvet voice, snake charmer, but just as lethal when crossed.
And Gianni? He'll drown me in uncomfortable truths.
I've called them for one reason: I need out.
Should've done it before agreeing to marry Celeste.
Then I kissed her and everything ignited.
Now I know—she's not just another woman. She's my personal apocalypse.
Roman leans forward in his chair, elbows on the conference table.
"So, my brother," he says, dark eyes narrowing.
At thirty-five, he's the middle Kensington son—not the oldest - Cameron - not the youngest - me.
When he runs his fingers through his jet-black hair, I catch our shared golden-brown complexion, the Sicilian heritage from our mother's immigrant parents.
I inherited her coloring too, though my eyes are my father's—light green against my darker features.
Mother. A woman I know only from photographs.
She died when I was too young to form memories, her absence a wound that never properly healed, especially considering how she died.
Roman taps the table impatiently. "Where's the fire? "
Ansel nods, his dirty-blonde hair catching the light.
"Yeah." The Kensington genes run strong in him—that olive skin from our mother and those light blue eyes straight from our father's side.
His fingers drum against the table in an irregular rhythm, something I've rarely seen from him.
Usually it's Roman who can't sit still. Ansel's the diplomat, the one who listens to everyone's problems without judgment, though God help you if you ever truly betray him.
His patience has its limits. Today, though, something's off.
His mind seems elsewhere, and I'd bet good money it has to do with Larissa.
I've never understood what he sees in her.
A man like Ansel—loyal to his core, the kind who'd move mountains for someone he truly loves—deserves better than what she gives him. "What's going on?"
Gianni sits across from me, eyes knowing.
He's been in on this since I met Celeste.
I haven't mentioned her, but Gianni reads me better than my brothers do.
His gaze holds no shadow, no unspoken blame about Mom.
My brothers insist it wasn't my fault, but I catch that split-second hesitation sometimes.
That flicker of what-if. Would she still be here if I'd never been born?
They'd never say it, might not even admit it to themselves, but it hangs between us.
She died because of me. Some debts can't be repaid.
I slam my glass down. "This marriage to Celeste?
Not happening. I need your help ending it.
" My fingers rake through my hair. The panic rises in my chest. Maybe Granddad knew exactly what he was doing—throwing me together with the one woman who makes my pulse race.
Being near her is like standing too close to a fire.
Even with her sleeping across the house, I'll feel her presence. That's why she has to go.
A wicked gleam flashes in Ansel's pale blue eyes as he watches me flounder.
His lips curl into a barely suppressed smile, like he's savoring some private joke at my expense.
I search his face for clues, but all I find is that infuriating look of someone thoroughly entertained by another person's private hell.
“What are you smiling about, Ansel?” I demand.
He points at me, grinning. "Look at you.
Completely besotted." He sips his scotch, the ice clinking against the glass.
"The old man's a genius. When he first told me about this arrangement with Celeste, I thought, Christ, the poor woman—stuck with you for a year just to collect her due.
" He leans back, eyebrows raised. "Now I'm about to watch her wrap you around her finger, and I've got to say, brother, I never thought I'd live to see it. "
Shit. I should've known better than to ask Ansel for help.
My brother lives in some fantasy world where love conquers all.
He doesn't get it—this arrangement with Celeste is a ticking time bomb.
When it explodes, we'll both be left picking up the pieces.
I see the collision course we're on. Ansel keeps pushing me to be some hero riding in to save the day, but that's not who I am.
Never has been. Never will be. And my brother's refusal to accept that reality is just making everything worse.
“Not helping,” I say. “Rome. You’re up.”
Roman shakes his head. "You've been playing musical beds with half of L.A.
for years. Granddad wouldn't have interfered if you hadn't been such a train wreck.
" He runs a hand through his hair. "Do I think forcing you to marry a stranger is the answer?
No. Just glad he hasn't tried that shit with me yet.
" Roman raps his knuckles against the wooden beam, wincing—aware his own dating history is equally disastrous.
"But the old man's instincts are supernatural.
If he picked this woman for you, I'd bet on it.
Neither Ansel nor I will help you escape this. "
Christ. My brothers are impossible. They act like this fake marriage is a gift when having Celeste under my roof is dangerous.
She could slip past defenses I've spent years building.
Only Gianni's gotten close, and that took years of trust. But Celeste? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since she walked into the Centurion in those rainbow boots.
She's the perfect weapon—make me care, then disappear.
I've already watched my father's taillights fade down our driveway.
It destroyed me. I won't survive it again. How do I make them see the threat?
Goddamn, if I ever found out that Warner Brothers or one of those vultures at Paramount is blackmailing Granddad into doing this to me, it would make one helluva lot of sense.
Because a woman like Celeste—with those knowing green-blue eyes that seem to see right through my bullshit—not only threatens to break me into a thousand jagged pieces, but she'll also take me off my game when I need to be razor-sharp.
And I can't afford that distraction right now.
Not when we're in the middle of acquiring Dreamscape, the crown jewel that could finally put Kensington Pictures at the top of the Hollywood food chain.
I slam my palm on the table. "Some brothers you are.
Look, I need this woman gone from my house.
Non-negotiable." I lean in, lowering my voice.
"You two have connections I don't." Roman's eyes dart away—he knows exactly what I'm getting at.
His guy Lars could have those self-righteous board members' dirty laundry on my desk by morning.
The kind of secrets that would make them forget all about firing me when Granddad gives them the green light.
The kind that stay buried in offshore accounts or behind encrypted passwords.
The kind that ends careers, marriages, and occasionally, freedom.
Gianni finally speaks, and his words cut to my marrow.
My brothers I can dismiss, but not him. This is the guy who held my head at sixteen while I vomited tequila, who took a beating from Coachella security rather than leave me behind, who slept on Grandfather's floor after Dad left—never mentioning the bruises forming on his back.
My brothers share my blood by accident. Gianni bled for me by choice.
He locks eyes with me. "I've seen you close billion-dollar deals without blinking.
But this woman? She's got you running. The Max I know doesn't break promises.
So stop hiding. Walk straight into whatever scares you about her.
Because if those flames don't destroy you, what's waiting might be exactly what you've been searching for. "
Perfect. Just fucking perfect. These jackasses won't lift a finger.
My whiskey ripples with each hand tremor.
Fear—Gianni was right—is unfamiliar terrain.
Boardrooms I can handle. Personal disasters too.
But Celeste? My chest constricts. She's got me cornered, breathless, ready to run.
But I gave my word—to Granddad, to her. That money is her lifeline.
Without it, everyone she cares about suffers.
I can't let Granddad pull the plug because I couldn't handle this arrangement. No choice but to see it through.
Fine. I’ll accept what's happening. But I'll make damn sure she stays in her own wing of the house.
Out of sight, out of mind. I just need to compartmentalize—keep her physically and mentally walled off.
I can do this. I can share a roof without acknowledging her existence.
That's the only way forward. Because any other path... I can't even consider it.
We'd both end up in ruins.