Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
WAITING AT THE CHURCH
Max
So here I stand at the altar, trapped in my own private Francis Bacon canvas.
The bishop looms before me in his white robes and pointed mitre, and I can't help but see him as Pope Innocent X from Bacon's famous portrait—mouth stretched in a silent scream, face twisted into something barely human.
A small, bitter smile tugs at my lips. All these guests, dressed in their Sunday best, waiting for Celeste to appear—they think they're witnessing a celebration.
They have no idea they're actually extras in a horror show.
Four hundred people. So much for small and intimate.
The church swims before my eyes—a sea of faces worth billions.
I scan the pews, my stomach twisting into a noose.
Eight Fortune 500 execs with their shark smiles.
Fifteen Hollywood A-Listers with eyes that strip you bare.
Steven fucking Spielberg is making small talk three rows back.
Jennifer Lawrence just glanced at me and whispered something.
The collective net worth in this room could buy a small country, and they're all here—watching, judging—front-row tickets to witness my complete and utter humiliation.
But the luminaries here are all witnesses to this charade, thanks to Granddad's meddling.
I catch his eye across the aisle, his satisfied smile only fueling my irritation.
He thinks he's clever, surrounding us with the most influential people in the country, as if social pressure will keep me from showing Celeste the door the moment this farce concludes.
As if I care what these people think when they inevitably receive news of our separation.
I can already picture the pitying looks, the complaints that they wasted a perfectly beautiful Saturday for this.
Granddad thinks he's built a fortress around this sham marriage, but he's about to learn—
I snap back to reality just as Lexi takes her place at the altar as maid of honor.
The other bridesmaids sit in the front row rather than stand—a concession to balance since I've only got Gianni as my best man. No way I would invite one or two of my brothers to stand up for me and start WWIII with the others, so I just didn’t include any of them, even Ansel, who is by far my closest brother, both in age and emotionally.
Then Celeste appears at the end of the aisle, and everything else fades away.
She clutches her mother's arm—a petite woman in burgundy with a vibrant headscarf who shares Celeste's unmistakable eyes.
But it's Celeste who steals my breath. Her Caribbean-blue gaze, enhanced by smoky shadow, darts nervously across the crowd.
That white gown hugs every curve, revealing just enough to make my collar feel two sizes too small.
With her hair swept up, the elegant line of her neck draws my eyes downward to—
I force myself to look away, silently cursing Granddad for this circus that's clearly overwhelming her.
When the bishop eventually asks me to kiss my bride, I'll be in trouble.
One taste and I might forget we're standing before God and four hundred of California's elite.
The way she looks right now, I'm fighting the urge to whisk her away somewhere private and forget this ceremony entirely.
She reaches the altar with a smile that doesn't touch her eyes.
The terror there hits me like a punch. Five weeks I've avoided her—all because of that kiss.
I hid in work rather than face the truth: this arrangement was becoming real for me, but apparently not for her.
Watching her white-knuckle that bouquet, I finally understand what I've done.
Abandoned her to plan this circus alone.
My chest tightens as I try to apologize with just a look.
Beneath my guilt runs something worse—relief she showed up, a feeling I won't name.
If I'm falling while she's just fulfilling a contract...
that would destroy me more thoroughly than any prenup disaster my grandfather imagined.
The bishop's voice drones like a broken air conditioner.
I stare at the ceiling, willing my hand not to make the universal "wrap it up" gesture.
Christ, did Granddad arrange this torture on purpose?
The bishop adjusts his ridiculous hat—seriously, who decided mitres were a good look?
—while rambling about a divine union. Divine my ass.
Unless "divine" is code for an octogenarian who measures exactly seventy-two inches in socks and owns seventeen identical cardigans, each with elbow patches shaped like Rhode Island.
I should've vetoed this whole cathedral setup when I had the chance.
If this turns into one of those marathon ceremonies with communion wafers and hymn books, just wheel me straight to the cemetery.
But I keep my eyes locked on the bishop for self-preservation.
One glance at Celeste is dangerous. Not the calculated danger of a business deal, but the kind that makes my chest tight.
Unlike Elody—who still blows up my phone weekly—Celeste has no clue how she affects a room.
How she affects me. That unconscious grace only amplifies everything about her.
Two seconds of eye contact and I'm already imagining whisking her away somewhere private where I could...
Jesus. Where I could make her call out my name until her voice gives out.
No. That's exactly what can't happen. Not today, not ever.
Because Celeste is the one woman I wouldn't want to be in a hurry to leave my bed in the morning, and that makes her absolutely lethal.
I'm fixated on the ceiling cherubs—seventeen pudgy babies with middle-aged faces—rather than acknowledging the crowd witnessing this charade.
A cough punctuates the silence. Someone's phone vibrates.
Then another phone blares the opening notes of "Creep" before a symphony of shushes drowns out the Radiohead classic.
The poor soul who forgot to silence their phone is getting murdered with glares.
Been there. The unexpected soundtrack nearly cracks my composure so I have to keep myself from laughing out loud, especially because the bishop is droning on with funeral-director solemnity.
The contrast makes everything feel even more surreal.
And Celeste? I'm deliberately avoiding her gaze.
One look and I'd grab her hand and drag her out of here, consequences be damned.
When the bishop finally - finally! - asks if I take Celeste as my lawfully wedded wife, I catch at least three executives checking their watches.
The collective sigh of relief is practically audible.
These Hollywood types aren't exactly Sunday regulars—unless there's a photographer from Variety outside the church.
Half the guests are probably nursing hangovers from last night's afterparty at Soho House, scrolling through Instagram under their programs. My grandfather sits in the front row, nodding along to every word like it's gospel, but I doubt the bishop's sermon on holy matrimony is landing with the rest of this crowd.
My "I do" rips from my throat like a confession under torture.
Holy shit—did those words actually leave my mouth?
My heart slams against my ribcage like it's trying to escape, and lightning bolts of pain shoot behind my eyes. I’ll need those beta blockers the second this ceremony ends or I'll be convulsing on a gurney while everyone else is downing top-shelf liquor and devouring Wolfgang Puck's culinary masterpieces.
No fucking way am I missing that reception.
I've sold my soul in this sham marriage—I'm damn well collecting my thirty pieces of silver in champagne and lobster puffs.
Missing this reception would be like choking down poison without getting the antidote.
Her "I do" sounds like she's being waterboarded.
Christ, did she actually say it? Her face is sheet-white, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitching.
She keeps blinking rapidly, like she's also fighting off a migraine.
I should also get her those beta blockers the second we're done here or she'll collapse while everyone’s getting wasted on Macallan 25 and inhaling Wolfgang's overpriced appetizers. I’m sure she’ll be eyeing the reception bar like it's salvation.
Can't blame her—she's just legally shackled herself to me for a quarter million.
Might as well enjoy the champagne and lobster puffs she's earned.
Poor thing looks like she'd rather swallow cyanide than my last name, but at least there's an open bar waiting.
The bishop declares us husband and wife, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling.
I lean in and brush my lips against Celeste's cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin, the subtle scent of jasmine in her hair.
My body tenses with restraint. What I truly want—what I need—is to taste those full, rose-petal lips, to feel her sharp intake of breath as my mouth claims hers.
In my mind, I'm already tracing the delicate curve of her bottom lip with my tongue, gently catching her top lip between my teeth, our tongues meeting in a dance that promises so much more.
Her champagne-colored dress rustles as she shifts slightly, and I force myself to pull away.
The innocent kiss on her soft cheek is my only defense against the tide of desire threatening to drown us both - or probably just me - in front of God and everyone.
The crowd erupts in applause as I paste on a smile, walking beside Celeste down the aisle. I keep my hands to myself. One brush of her fingers against mine in this moment—with her looking like that—and I'd be dragging her into the nearest confessional, turning sacred space profane in seconds flat.
We step out into the blinding California sun, the heat already making my collar stick to my neck as we slide into the waiting Rolls Royce Phantom limo.
The butter-soft leather seats creak beneath us.
I fix my gaze out the window, watching palm trees blur past, counting each one to keep my mind occupied.
My jaw clenches so tight I feel I might crack some teeth.
Celeste shifts beside me, the silk of her dress whispering against the seat, and I catch a hint of her perfume—something floral and expensive.
Am I being an asshole again? Absolutely.
But it's either this silence or my reaching for that privacy partition switch, pressing her against these pristine cream seats, and making her forget her own name.
I make the fatal mistake of looking down.
Her white satin Louboutins might as well be weapons—$3,000 stilettos slicing through my resolve.
Her toes, painted the exact shade of sin, peek out like a promise.
The slit in her dress isn't just revealing a leg; it's an invitation I can't accept, the lace garter a boundary I'm forbidden to cross.
When my gaze betrays me, traveling to where silk meets skin, my throat closes.
I slam my attention back to the window, jaw clenched so hard my teeth might crack.
The migraine I'd feared hasn't arrived—this is infinitely worse.
Twenty-seven miles. Sixty minutes of exquisite torture.
I don't count the minutes to scotch anymore; I count heartbeats, each one hammering with the knowledge that I can memorize but never map the geography of her body.
Never trace the curve of her calf with my fingertips, never follow the arch of her foot with my tongue, never explore the shadows between her breasts.
Never know how her skin would taste beneath my teeth.
All those things can never, ever happen, because if they ever did, I'd be obliterated.
Annihilated. She'd consume me whole, leaving nothing but ashes where a man once stood.
I'd crawl across broken glass just to watch her sleep.
I'd forget my own name, my empire, my goddamn reason for existing.
One taste and I'd become her slave, her addict, her willing sacrifice.
She has no idea she's a loaded gun pressed against my temple, and I'm keeping it that way.