Chapter 21 #2
I narrow my eyes but decide to trust him, though every instinct warns me not to.
Men with private jets and multiple luxury cars don't exactly have stellar track records for keeping their word, or paying taxes for that matter.
And regardless of how his smile makes my stomach flip or how that jawline could cut glass, his carbon footprint alone is probably visible from space, which automatically makes him a jerk in my book.
He cocks his head towards me, suddenly deciding to become human. “Well,” he says. “Everybody seems to be in their places. Guess they’re expecting us to have our first dance.”
I frown at Max. "Wait, shouldn't we be standing somewhere, shaking hands with people?
You know, like a receiving line?" I glance around at the glittering crowd, suddenly unsure of myself.
Maybe that's just something normal people do at normal weddings, not at whatever this is.
For all I know, reception lines went out with disposable cameras on tables, the Electric Slide and the Macarena.
He laughs, and I realize I've never heard that sound from him before—it's even more startling than that unexpected smile earlier.
"Receiving lines went out with dial-up internet, Celeste." He gestures toward the ballroom where an L.A. DJ - probably somebody famous, not that I would know, as I don’t know which DJs are famous and which ones aren’t - is getting ready to spin some tunes.
“God knows what song Granddad picked for our first dance.”
So his grandfather selected our first dance song?
Figures. Max's entire contribution to our wedding was showing up.
I handled everything else while he just materialized in that perfectly tailored Tom Ford tuxedo, black tie knotted with mathematical precision.
Now he's scanning the reception with those infuriating eyes—green with that ring of deep blue around the pupil—barely acknowledging the event I spent weeks orchestrating.
Just more proof I'm nothing but an inconvenience, a blip in his schedule between business calls and weekend jaunts to Catalina on whatever absurdly named yacht he probably owns.
He shrugs. "I'm not good at..." His eyes dart away from mine, then back, his usual confidence wavering. Wait—is Max Kensington actually being shy? Impossible. "Well, I just didn't want you reading into whatever song I picked. Like it meant something. I’m not good at…”
He trails off again, leaving that sentence fragment hanging between us.
The unspoken part is clear enough: he's terrible at vulnerability. Choosing our first dance would mean admitting he has feelings about this marriage, about me. For a second I wonder if letting his grandfather handle it might be his way of still making it special without exposing himself. Then reality crashes back. Occam’s Razor - the simplest explanation fits best: he couldn't be bothered to spend ten minutes picking a song because that would suggest he cared about our wedding. And clearly, he doesn't.
I wave my hand dismissively. "You should’ve let me pick the first dance song. I'm thinking Taylor Swift's 'I Knew You Were Trouble.’”
"What about 'We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together'?" Max's eyes crinkle at the corners.
I tilt my head. "That doesn't quite work, does it? We'd need to actually be together before we could get back together."
He nods and smiles. “True enough. Let's head inside.
" His fingers close around mine, and a jolt races up my arm.
I inhale sharply, fighting against the heat blooming in my stomach and spreading outward like wildfire.
My pulse quickens traitorously. Every casual brush of his skin shouldn't leave me this undone, yet here I am.
Living under the same roof with this constant awareness of him will be torture—though I suspect I'll barely see him in a house this size.
He'll probably stash me in some distant corner of his mansion, like Mary Queen of Scots locked away in a tower before being executed for treason.
We walk into the ballroom and the room erupts in applause as everyone rises to their feet.
Their eyes shine with what looks like genuine belief in our whirlwind romance—as if Max and I simply collided one day and couldn't help but marry months later.
I scan the faces of the Hollywood and Fortune 500 elite and wonder: are they truly this romantic at heart, or have years in this town perfected their performance of sincerity?
I suspect it's the latter, though something warms inside me at the thought of the former—that beneath the designer suits and power plays, these titans of industry might just be hopeless romantics who believe in love stories like the fiction Max and I are selling.
Cameras flash around us as we step onto the dance floor.
My heart hammers against my ribs, my fingers trembling as the first notes of "Baby, I'm Yours" drift through the room—the Arctic Monkeys cover, not the original.
I glance at Max, suddenly suspicious. His grandfather chose this?
An 84-year-old man selecting a track from a British indie post-punk rock band?
The song itself is beautiful, a faithful rendition of the classic ‘60s era Barbara Lewis song that stands apart from their usual sound, but Joseph Kensington knowing about them seems...
unlikely. Which means Max probably selected it himself.
I'm not sure what to make of that—this unexpected gesture from a man who's barely acknowledged me for weeks.
Max's hand presses firmly against the small of my back, his other hand gripping mine as we sway.
I rest my head against his chest—partly for show, of course.
Can't have the gossip sites buzzing tomorrow.
But then something shifts. Heat spreads through me, electricity running up my spine like lightning finding ground after a storm.
My knees nearly buckle. His fingers thread gently through my hair as I lean against him, and a sigh escapes before I can catch it.
Damn. Why does this charade feel so real?
As we turn slowly across the floor, my eyes drift closed, his steady heartbeat against my ear.
For a moment, I let myself wonder if this thing between us might be...
No. I shut that thought down immediately. That path only leads to madness.
The singer's voice wraps around us, promising devotion until stars plummet and mountains dissolve into the sea.
My heart skips. If Max selected this, what does it mean?
I press my cheek against his starched shirt, inhaling his cologne, a warm blend of sandalwood and citrus that seems to wrap around me like an invisible embrace, both comforting and dangerously intoxicating.
No—this is just theater for our audience.
Perfect theater. Around us, Hollywood's elite exchange knowing glances.
The studio head to my left leans toward her husband, nodding approvingly.
The Netflix VP smiles. They're all buying it.
My fingers curl slightly against Max's shoulder as I savor these final measures. I’m willing this song to never end.
When the music stops, he'll remember I'm just a contract, just a favor to his grandfather.
His hand rests warm against my lower back now, but soon he'll drift away, finding someone more important to speak with.
I hate how much I want him to stay. I hate how my body betrays me, leaning into his.
Enough. I straighten my spine slightly. This isn't real. I'm just another acquisition.
The song ends. Max's smile doesn't reach his eyes as he nods, squeezes my shoulders like I'm his basketball buddy, and says, "Okay, that's out of the way.
If you'll excuse me, I need to make the rounds.
" Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd while Dua Lipa's bass thumps through the speakers.
No one even glances my way. I stand frozen on the dance floor, watching diamond bracelets catch the light as women throw back champagne, men in bespoke suits laugh too loudly at each other's jokes.
This is their tribe—sleek, moneyed, connected—and I'm the anthropologist who accidentally went native by marrying into it.
These people wouldn't remember my face if I weren't wearing Max's last name like a VIP pass.
I scan the room for familiar faces—Olivia, Tally, Lexi, Mom—my real people.
I spot them at the bar, Mom throwing her head back with that throaty laugh I haven't heard in months.
Tally leans in, whispering something that sends Mom into another fit of giggles.
This is the woman I remember—the one who'd swagger into a Vegas poker room at midnight and leave with everyone's chips and phone numbers.
The woman who orders whiskey neat without blinking and curses so creatively that sailors take notes.
When I think about Thanksgiving without that laugh, or no more “surprise” roses appearing on Valentine's Day (her annual reminder that I don't need a man to feel special, though she'd never say it that way), something cold settles in my chest. But tonight, watching her eyes crinkle at the corners, I can breathe again.
Max and his cold shoulder suddenly seem very small.