Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
A CHANGE IN ATTITUDE
Max
I was definitely content before. I had Gianni and my brothers, and loving grandparents who raised me like a son.
I've always had a stunning woman on my arm—supermodels with legs for days and actresses with porcelain skin who looked perfect in every paparazzi shot.
I had my career as the youngest CEO of a movie studio in the history of Hollywood, corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Los Angeles skyline, name etched in glass on the building.
The A-List parties with champagne fountains and caviar stations, the red carpet walks past screaming fans, the front-row Oscars seats where legends leaned over to whisper in my ear, the glossy magazine covers where my jawline looked chiseled from marble.
The billion-dollar superhero franchises with merchandise in every Target across America, the prestige biopics that critics called "transcendent," the satisfaction of having Scorsese and Spielberg on speed dial—these are all things that I thought made me happy but I now know only made me content.
But this feeling, after a night with Celeste where we made love under Egyptian cotton sheets until dawn, her jasmine perfume still clinging to my skin—this must be what true happiness feels like.
My face muscles ache from smiling, an unfamiliar sensation that pulls at the corners of my mouth and crinkles the skin around my eyes.
Even Valentina, my usually unflappable secretary who's seen me through 18-hour days without so much as a raised eyebrow, did a double-take this morning when she walked into my office at precisely 7 a.m., her coffee-brown eyes widening at the sight of me.
Valentina breezes into my office, her dark bob swinging, iPad clutched to her chest like a shield.
"Hey, Max," she says, sliding my printed agenda across the polished mahogany desk.
“Lunch today with the head of Paramount, then that investors call with Tokyo today at 4—the Nakamura Group.
Sean Winter wants to discuss his Oscar follow-up at 5:30 at Nobu, you have three pitch meetings and your development team needs thirty minutes on the Netflix psychological thriller series...
" Her voice rises and falls in that familiar singsong pattern while I nod, watching steam curl from my hand-thrown ceramic mug.
The rich Kona blend—flown in weekly—coats my tongue as I let her meticulous recitation wash over me.
I've had today memorized since last Thursday, but her earnest blue eyes and careful note-taking deserve my patience.
Valentina taps her manicured fingernail against the meeting agenda.
"And you should pay special attention to the Holloway pitch at two o'clock—you know, the psychological thriller based on that best-selling novel everyone's mother has been reading in their book clubs.
The one with the unreliable narrator and the twist ending.
That one could be our next prestige project if we play our cards right. "
She finally looks at me. “What?” she asks. “What’s that smile about?”
I swivel in my leather chair, gazing at the Los Angeles skyline that stretches before me like my own personal kingdom.
The thought flickers through my mind—what if I just disappeared for the day?
But no. Kensington Pictures would grind to a halt without me at the helm.
Still, I can't shake the image of showing up at Claremont unannounced, whisking Celeste into my Rolls, and catching the next flight to Paris or Rome—just because I can, just because I want her with me.
“Am I not entitled to smile?” I ask her. “Perhaps I’m happy today.” Then I start to laugh. “Actually happy.”
“Okay,” she says, her eyebrows knitted and then she shakes her head. “You’re acting weird.”
After she's gone, I find myself thinking about sending Celeste some flowers.
Cliché? Absolutely. Do I care? Not in the slightest. Paris would be better—I could fly us there Friday after work, show her the city, be back by Sunday night.
Her first trip overseas. But for now, flowers will have to do.
Not ordinary roses though. Celeste deserves something as unique as she is.
I click on a variety I've never seen before: hybrid roses with pale pink petals rimmed in midnight purple.
They remind me of her—soft but with unexpected edges.
I place the order with Antoine, the florist who handles all my events, wondering if he'll notice these aren't for some corporate gathering but something far more personal.
Then, for the rest of the day, my events blur past like scenes from a fast-cut montage.
I approve three pitches for theatrical releases—a gritty crime drama set in 1970s Detroit, a coming-of-age story about synchronized swimmers, and a sci-fi thriller that made even my jaded heart race.
On the 405, I belt out "Purple Rain" with the windows down, my tie flapping in the wind as I weave through traffic toward Century City to meet Brian, the silver-haired head of Paramount.
Later, I lean forward in my ergonomic chair during my meeting with hot Oscar-winning director Sean Winter as we discuss his latest movie.
As evening falls, I loosen my collar for the Zoom call with the Tokyo investors, their faces illuminated by distant dawn light.
By this time, my thoughts have already escaped the glass tower, racing home to Celeste.
And race home I do.
The aroma hits me before I even close the front door—garlic, herbs, something rich and savory that makes my stomach growl.
I follow the scent to find Celeste at the range, lost in whatever she's stirring, humming a tune I don't recognize.
Her copper hair is twisted up in a messy knot, wisps escaping around her temples.
The Kansas City Chiefs logo stretches across her apron, faded from too many washes.
Chiefs fan? That's unexpected. Or maybe just a thrift store find.
I realize how little I actually know about the woman who's now my wife—and how much I suddenly want to learn.
She whirls around, spatula in hand, her eyes widening like she's been caught stealing.
A smile flickers across her face, but her fingers twist nervously around the utensil.
"Hey," she says, her voice barely audible over the sizzling pan.
"I—I didn't—" She takes a breath that catches halfway.
"Your kitchen. I'm in your kitchen." Her free hand flutters between us, leaving flour trails in the air.
"Rosa mentioned you live on takeout, or your chef makes something, because of course you don’t have time to cook, and I thought—" The spatula trembles slightly.
"Maybe real food? Home-cooked?" The last words come out as a question.
She bites her lower lip, watching my face for disapproval, while behind her, whatever she's cooking releases a scent that makes my stomach growl in unmistakable approval.
I step behind her, sliding my arms around her waist. Her hair smells like vanilla and salt air—enough to make me consider skipping straight to dessert, though my empty stomach protests.
"Celeste," I murmur against her neck, "I want you to think of this as our home now.
I meant every word earlier. That guest wing isn't where you belong anymore.
Tomorrow I'll have everything moved for you.
" My lips brush her ear. "And if you thought that closet was impressive, wait until you see what's waiting for you in the master suite.
It was built for a queen." I nip gently at her earlobe, feeling her pulse quicken against my lips. “What you making?”
She shrugs, tipping olive oil into a sizzling pan before crushing garlic cloves between her palms and tossing them in with diced onions.
The kitchen fills with a fragrant cloud as she crumbles Italian sausage into the mix, adds tomatoes, and seasons with practiced flicks of her wrist. Water boils furiously in another pot, waiting for pasta.
"Nothing fancy," she says, stirring the sauce.
"Just a basic ragu I can make with my eyes closed.
When I actually have time to plan, I promise I can do much better than this thrown-together weeknight dinner. "
I inhale the rich aroma of the pasta and ragu, but the hunger gnawing at me isn't for food. "When will dinner be ready?" I ask, turning her to face me. Her lips part slightly before I capture them with mine, drawing a soft sound from her throat.
"About fifteen minutes," she murmurs against my mouth. "I just started the pasta."
"And the sauce is just simmering now?" My hands find her waist.
"Yes."
"Perfect timing," I say, lifting her onto the counter.
She extends her legs as I trail kisses up her inner thighs.
The pasta timer creates a deadline, but I can't wait another moment to taste her.
This—her skin against my lips in our kitchen—is what occupied my thoughts all day.
I pause only to send Rosa a quick message; she typically joins me for dinner when I'm home early, and some interruptions I'd rather avoid.