Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
THE RIDE TO THE RECEPTION
Celeste
The leather seat of the limo sticks to my dress as I shift away from Max—my husband as of twenty minutes ago.
God, that word feels wrong in my mouth. He's staring out his window, jaw clenched, a good foot of empty seat between us despite the champagne flutes knocking together with every turn.
During the ceremony, his eyes fixed somewhere above my left shoulder, as if meeting my gaze might turn him to stone.
I even ran my tongue over my teeth twice, checking for lipstick smears or bits of food.
Nothing there. Just me, apparently, that he can't stomach looking at.
I white-knuckled through the ceremony, sweat trickling down my spine as my mind screamed for escape.
The bishop's voice droned on like a death knell while my pulse hammered in my ears.
Every fiber of my being vibrated with the urge to bolt—to rip off this suffocating veil and sprint down the aisle, kicking off these torture-device heels as I went.
But the headlines flashed before my eyes like neon warnings: "KENSINGTON brIDE FLEES ALTAR!
" I could already see the vultures circling—TMZ, Page Six, every bottom-feeding tabloid salivating over my public execution.
The past weeks have been a special kind of hell—faceless trolls dissecting my appearance, deep-fakes of me in compromising positions flooding the internet, my phone buzzing with death threats.
All of it endured for Mom and Lexi. If I run now, all that would’ve been all for naught and I wouldn't just be unemployed—I'd be unemployable.
Max Kensington would crush me like an insect, and his Granddad would sue me into oblivion.
Lexi would be forced out of UCLA, and Mom—God, Mom would have to watch her daughter become a national joke while battling cancer.
Her voice echoes in my head: "Celeste, we always finish what we start.
" So I stand there, a prisoner at my own wedding, and smiled through clenched teeth because the alternative wasn't just humiliation—it was annihilation.
Max stares out the window, jaw clenched, teeth grinding.
At the altar, he'd looked everywhere but at me.
Now, trapped in this limo for an hour, he's pressed against the door like I'm diseased.
He disappeared for five weeks while I planned this wedding alone.
Walking down the aisle past Hollywood royalty, his hand hung limp, broadcasting his disgust to everyone.
The hatred coming off him tastes metallic.
I want to find a lawyer tomorrow and end this sham.
If Mom and Lexi weren't depending on this arrangement, I'd throw this ring out the window and watch my future go up in flames.
After about an hour—was it really only an hour, not an entire geological epoch as our limo inched through LA's gridlock, the leather seats squeaking with every shift of my weight, Max's jaw clenched so tight I could trace the outline of every muscle while he stared out the tinted window like a man contemplating which freeway overpass would provide the cleanest exit strategy (join the club)—we arrive at his compound.
Holy shit. This isn't a house—it's a compound, just like Tally warned.
Three stories of white stucco and terra cotta tile cascade down the cliff like a wedding cake for giants.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the sunset in blinding gold sheets.
A circular drive surrounds a limestone fountain with mermaids.
Mediterranean palace? Try billionaire fever dream: infinity pool suspended over the Pacific, private beach access carved into the cliff, even a helipad on the far wing—the whole thing perched above the ocean like an architect with a God complex went wild.
The Malibu property sprawls across what must be six acres—worth more than my lifetime earnings multiplied tenfold.
My new home? The electric meter probably spins like a carnival ride just to cool this glass-and-concrete monument.
That infinity pool alone could power my entire apartment building.
Classic Max—taking without considering consequences.
While wildfire ash still hung in the air, he built this: the mansion, the cars, the jet always captured in those glossy magazines.
One man's carbon footprint, crushing everything beneath it.
"Come on, time for pictures,” Max says, motioning to an enormous three-tiered fountain where water cascades over hand-carved marble dolphins.
It stands majestically in the center of a garden bursting with star-shaped jasmine blossoms, their heady perfume hanging in the crisp November air.
The impossible flowers glow alabaster white against glossy dark leaves, as if winter doesn't apply to Max Kensington's world.
I want to meet the gardener that makes sorcery like late-fall/early-winter jasmine blooms possible.
Pictures. Right. Forgot about that. Annie Leibowitz herself was approached for this job, but apparently even a Kensington wedding couldn't tempt her from her no-weddings policy.
So we "settled" for Alicia Crawford, the razor-thin, silver-haired photograph editor-in-chief for Vogue, who will be documenting our charade for the Vanity Fair exclusive that will run in next month's glossy issue.
The Condé Nast empire, which owns both magazines and many others, ensures such convenient arrangements.
Alicia's portfolio reads like a Hollywood A-list roster.
Her signature black and white and full color portraits—Ryan Reynolds' half-smirk captured in dramatic shadow; Cillian Murphy's ice-blue eyes piercing through the frame; Benedict Cumberbatch's angular face transformed into living sculpture; Zendaya's elegant silhouette backlit to perfection—hang in galleries worldwide.
And now she circles us like a meticulous hawk, her Hasselblad camera clicking rhythmically.
For a torturous hour, we pose like mannequins beneath Alicia's exacting direction.
"Chin down," she commands. "Hand on his chest." "Look at each other, not the camera.
" I force my lips into a crescent moon smile while Max's arm circles my waist, his cologne—something expensive with notes of cedar and bergamot—making my head swim.
We twirl on cue, laugh on command, press foreheads together while gazing into each other's eyes.
Every artificial moment captured in perfect resolution for a wedding album I'll stuff into the darkest corner of some forgotten closet.
After the torture of picture-taking with a man who clearly despises me is over, I follow Max through mahogany double doors inlaid with gold filigree that could swallow my entire condo building - not my condo, but the building itself - whole.
My four-inch Louboutins, bought as part of my unlimited wedding wardrobe budget, click-clack against Italian Carrara marble floors that stretch so far I feel like I'm crossing state lines into another tax bracket.
“The ballroom," Max announces with casual indifference.
I stare at the Corinthian columns, the crystal chandeliers dripping from painted ceilings, the spiral staircase leading to a velvet-roped catwalk.
Through the windows, white-gloved waiters move between tables on a terrace that costs more than my life.
Beyond them, the Pacific gleams like something the wealthy have purchased along with everything else. My wedding reception. Fucking right.
"What do you think?" Max asks as I peer through the French doors.
Guests file in across the marble terrace—women in Louboutins, men in Tom Ford, all with the bored expressions of people who've seen it all before.
Then there's my crew: Mom in her JCPenney dress, Olivia with her knockoff handbag, Lexi wearing Claire's Boutique jewelry, Tally wearing a necklace she bought on sale at Marshall’s.
They'll stare at the chandeliers, the gold moldings, the ice sculpture dripping onto seafood worth more than my Prius.
Mom will touch the silk wallpaper, wondering how a man who drinks from Baccarat could want someone who considers Lucky Charms a splurge.
I blurt out, "So do you actually pay taxes, or do you have some fancy accountant hiding your money in the Caymans while your yacht guzzles fuel that costs more than my mortgage payment?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
My eyes dart around the marble countertops that probably cost more than my car.
Great. I'm legally bound to one of those billionaires I've spent years ranting about on Twitter, and now everyone will think I've sold out too.
He smiles, and something shifts in that face of his—like watching a marble statue suddenly come alive.
Those teeth could be in a Colgate commercial.
I wonder if he went through that awkward metal-mouth phase like the rest of us mortals, or if the Kensington fortune just bought him a shortcut to dental perfection.
Probably the latter. It's like those before-and-after Hollywood transformations—one minute they're in some indie film with crooked teeth, next thing you know they're flashing million-dollar smiles on red carpets. Money doesn't just talk; it gleams.
His eyes light up. "There she is. The real Celeste, the one who gave me that lecture about abalone that first night.
I've missed her." He cocks an eyebrow. "And for the record, I pay what I owe in taxes.
No creative accounting, no loopholes, no paying a lower rate than the people who clean my office.
This country runs on revenue, and I'm not about to make everyone else cover what should be my share.
" He holds my gaze. "Ask my accountant if you don't believe me—though I'm guessing you won't."