Chapter 52
Chapter Fifty-Two
A MOST UNWELCOME SURPRISE
Celeste
Six weeks into our AA journey together, Michael calls me. "Let me take you to dinner," he says. "My treat. I've got some things I want to discuss."
I hesitate. "Michael, you don't have to spend money on me."
"Actually, I can now." His voice brightens. "Thanks to you, I landed a job at Whole Foods in Malibu. Minimum wage, but that's nearly seventeen bucks an hour. First paycheck just came through, and I want to celebrate. Plus..." He pauses. "I'm thinking it might be time to reconnect with my sons."
My pulse quickens. Could this be the breakthrough we've been waiting for? I try to keep my voice steady. "That sounds wonderful. But let's keep it reasonable—you should be saving."
We settle on Kristy's Malibu—casual enough for his budget but with those gorgeous ocean views I adore. I've already decided on one of their flatbreads—under twenty-five dollars and absolutely worth every penny, unlike that fifty-seven-dollar lobster linguini they're famous for.
So I meet him at Kristy's Malibu that Friday night.
The restaurant perches on a craggy bluff overlooking Zuma Beach, its weathered cedar shingles and white trim reminiscent of a Nantucket boathouse.
We're seated at a corner table on the intimate deck where strings of Edison bulbs sway gently in the salt-tinged breeze.
It's late May, and the evening air carries that perfect California crispness—not quite summer warmth, but far from chilly.
The hostess mentions the sun will set at 7:30, and I can't help but smile.
We've arrived at 7, giving me just enough time to order a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc before watching the Pacific swallow the molten gold disc of the sun.
When I arrive, Michael wraps me in a bear hug that nearly lifts me off my feet.
The transformation stuns me. Gone is the gaunt, disheveled man I first met.
His once-hollow cheeks now have a healthy fullness, his shoulders broader beneath a crisp button-down that he later tells me came from Goodwill.
"Got these jeans there too," he says with a hint of pride, smoothing his hands over denim that fits him perfectly.
I smile, remembering my own pre-Max days of hunting treasures at Plato's Closet and various thrift shops.
His green eyes—Max's eyes—meet mine, clear and alert where they once were bloodshot and vacant.
When he laughs at something I say, I catch myself staring.
The years seem to have fallen away from him; he could easily be mistaken for Max's older brother rather than his father.
But what strikes me most is what's missing: that sour cloud of whiskey that once surrounded him like a second skin.
We take a table on the patio, settling into wrought iron chairs. The server appears, pen poised.
"Sparkling water with lime, please," I say, my usual order when I'm out. Plain water feels too frugal, alcohol isn't what I want, and I've sworn off sodas entirely.
Michael echoes my order, then hesitates. "Unless you'd prefer wine?" He gestures toward me with an open palm. "I should practice being around temptation anyway. That's what my sponsor calls it—the dragon in the room.”
I shake my head. Michael insists I can order wine, but his sobriety ribbon is barely frayed at the edges.
Why dangle temptation? "Just Evian with lime for me," I say, squeezing his hand, then brushing my fingers against his smooth cheek. I just can’t stop looking at him. The change is just unbelievable.
Then the unmistakable click of a phone camera freezes me mid-caress. I don't need to look to know who it is.
Elody fucking Martin.
Perfect. By midnight, my innocent gesture will be the headline on TMZ.
I can already see it—the photo of my hand resting on his, my fingers grazing his stubbled cheek.
The tabloids won't care that I'm just being me, the same woman who hugs baristas and touches friends' arms mid-conversation.
They'll only see Max Kensington's “wife” with another man.
Three seconds of normal human connection, and tomorrow I'll be branded as the billionaire's unfaithful bride.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should know better by now - every innocent gesture will be misconstrued.
She flashes those bleached teeth at me—that same smile I once believed before she showed up at my condo. The woman didn't win three Teen Choice Awards for nothing; that flawless face can manufacture sincerity faster than a Chinese knockoff factory.
I flatten my palms against the table and flash her my most practiced Hollywood smile.
Game on, bitch. "Elody," I say, then glance at Michael, my stomach knotting.
If his connection to Max gets out, he'll be trending by dinner.
I've been through that meat grinder—the comments sections, the think pieces, the memes.
Michael's only six weeks sober. He wouldn't survive it.
"Well," she coos, dropping the phony Cajun drawl she tried on me last time. "Look at you!" Her violet eyes—colored contacts, I'd bet my next royalty check on it—dart between Michael and me and then back again. "Celeste, aren't you going to introduce me?"
Shit. "Elody," I say, catching Michael's eye. Recognition flickers there; of course he knows who she is. The world’s biggest actress and entertainment's most notorious gossip vulture.
"Why don't you and I step outside for a minute?
" I arch one eyebrow to Michael, trying to telegraph my desperation.
I need five minutes alone with her to negotiate, bribe, whatever it takes.
One viral photo, and Michael's name would be everywhere by nightfall.
The tabloids would have his backstory before breakfast, and he'd be reaching for a bottle before the first comment calling him "deadbeat dad" hit the internet.
And Elody's Instagram following is practically its own country—half a billion people who hang on her every post. One tap of her perfectly manicured finger, and that photo goes live. Five minutes later, Michael and I might as well be trending on every gossip site from here to Tokyo. The photo wouldn’t have the proper context, of course.
This bitch would supply the context, and it’ll be whatever she makes up in her head.
She tilts her head like a predator who's just spotted a limping gazelle.
My thoughts scatter in panic. Shit. Shit.
Shit. Michael deserves to reunite with his sons on his terms, not because some viral photo forced his hand.
I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine tomorrow's headlines if Elody releases that picture—me holding Michael's weathered hand, my fingers gentle against his cheek, my expression so tender anyone would assume we're lovers.
The truth is simpler and more complicated: I've watched this broken man fight for sobriety day by day, victory by painful victory.
I've become his cheerleader, yes, but not for my own ego. This is the one gift I can offer Max after everything he’s done for me—the experimental treatment that saved my mother, the connections that launched my writing career.
Why must I justify this one act of gratitude to Elody and her vulture audience?
I catch Michael's eye and tilt my head slightly. "Would you mind if Elody and I had a moment?"
Michael reads my expression and backs away with an understanding smile.
"Elody, shall we take a walk down to the shore?"
She glances at her feet, where four-inch Prada heels gleam in the patio lights. "These cost more than your Prius," she says with a grimace. "The parking lot works just fine. My car’s parked out there."
I nod silently and trail behind her to the parking lot.
She stops beside a gleaming silver Aston Martin Vantage convertible, the price tag of which probably exceeds 10 years of my annual salary at Dreamscape.
When she swings the passenger door open, her "Get in" sounds less like an invitation and more like a command from the mob princess character she played in Scorsese's latest film.
As I slide into the buttery leather seat, I can't help but wonder if this ride ends with me wearing concrete footwear at the bottom of the Pacific. Better keep that thought to yourself.
I meet her gaze. "Is there any possibility you might keep that photo to yourself instead of blasting it across every tabloid website and to your Insta followers?”
"None whatsoever," she says, her eyes becoming slits. "You're cheating on Max Kensington—the man I've worshipped since day one in this city—and you honestly believe I'd pass up this opportunity?" A bitter laugh escapes her. "If that's what you think, then you clearly don't understand who I am."
My voice drops to a whisper. "Name your price. What would it take to keep that photo private?"
She examines her French manicure, tilting her hand to catch the light.
"I've uncovered your little secret." Her eyes flick up to mine.
"Do you have any idea how many nights I spent trying to understand? Max—brilliant, gorgeous Max, the man I’m absolutely in love with—choosing someone like you?
" She gestures at me with a dismissive flick of her wrist, her lip curling.
"Then I discovered the truth. Your marriage is nothing but theater.
Old Joe blackmailed his own grandson with his livelihood.
One word from Grandpa to those ancient board members he plays golf with every Sunday, and Max loses everything.
Just—" She snaps her fingers inches from my face. "Like that."