Chapter 52 #2
My stomach drops like an elevator with cut cables.
Of course Elody wouldn't let this go—she's like a terrier with a bone.
Plus, someone talked. Max swore the board members all knew but signed those ironclad NDAs—breach one and kiss a few million goodbye.
Still, money talks, but secrets walk. I rack my brain for who else might have spilled.
Whoever it was, I've got to admit—Elody nailed us dead to rights.
I decide honesty is my only option. "Fine," I say, crossing my arms. "You clearly know something. What's your price for keeping that photo off social media?"
"That man," she says, leaning forward. "He's practically Max's twin, just older." Her eyes narrow to slits. "Are you sleeping with your husband's father behind his back?"
Shit. This woman misses nothing. "Max hasn't seen or spoken to his father in over twenty years." Technically true. The complete story? Hardly. But I haven't actually lied to her face.
She taps her foot impatiently. "I'm well-versed in the saga of Max and his runaway dad. But that man? He's Max in three decades. The resemblance is... striking."
My throat constricts. I picture Michael being thrust into a reunion he never planned for, or fleeing back to his uncle's farm to escape the tabloid frenzy.
I barely survived the media circus myself—Michael wouldn't stand a chance.
The careful reunion I've been orchestrating between him and his sons dissolves before my eyes.
Elody's no fool. Without the truth from me, she'll unearth it herself and plaster it across every headline.
Michael's newfound sobriety hangs by a thread too delicate for this kind of exposure.
What demons lurk in Michael's past across the pond?
Two decades drowning in whiskey doesn't leave clean hands.
I imagine hotel rooms he can't remember leaving, names forgotten by morning, maybe visits to sex workers, perhaps nights in holding cells—all waiting to become tomorrow's headlines.
I'm not privy to his specific sins, but we all have chapters we'd rather keep unread.
Michael likely has volumes, and Elody won't stop until she's devoured every word.
Her network stretches into corners I didn't know existed.
He's never whispered his worst moments to me between sobriety chips.
Of course he hasn't. We all build walls around our darkest selves.
But if those walls come crashing down...
I exhale slowly. "Name your price."
She leans forward. "You know the Dreamscape-Kensington merger is almost finalized, right?" Her eyes narrow to slits. "Ever wonder why I haven't leaked your little arrangement to Page Six?"
The thought hadn't crossed my mind until now. But now that she mentions it - why would someone like her—who clearly despises me—sit on Hollywood's juiciest scandal of the year?
"No," I say quietly. "Why?"
"Max." Her voice softens for the first time.
"If this got out—the real reason behind your marriage—those shareholders would pull support faster than you can say 'unfit for leadership.
' They'd never let someone so..." she pauses, searching for the word, "...
impulsive take the helm of a billion-dollar company.
He'd lose everything." She taps her designer purse.
"So I've kept your dirty little secret. For him. "
“Thank you,” I say, bowing my head.
She leans in close, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
"Trust me, I've lost sleep thinking about exposing your little charade.
You know those gossip sites that publish anonymous celebrity dirt, blind items they call them?
Crazy Days and Nights would have eaten this up.
One email from me, and your precious arrangement would've been the biggest blind item of all time and trust me, the sleuths on that site would’ve figured it out in no time.
But I restrained myself. Aren't you lucky? "
I lean forward, my knuckles white against the edge of the table. "Let's not waste time here. Name your price."
She taps her phone screen with a crimson fingernail, the photo of Michael and me glowing between us. Her lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile.
"I want to see moving trucks at that Malibu house the day after the merger closes.
" She examines her manicure, tilting her hand to catch the light.
"TMZ will need those divorce papers by the following Monday.
" The phone disappears into her Hermès bag.
"Nothing messy until after Max gets that CEO title, of course. The board hates... instability."
She looks away from me. Maybe she secretly feels bad about what she’s doing.
Probably not. But I use her moment to look away as a chance to snatch her wallet from her purse.
I need her address for future reference.
Don’t ask me why I want her address, but it’s just something I think I might need.
So I nervously look at her driver’s license and commit the address to memory before slipping the wallet back in her purse.
Then I take out my phone and I hurriedly put her address into my contacts.
She finally looks back at me, not suspecting what I did, and I swallow hard. “And if I don’t divorce Max?”
Her eyes narrow to slits. "Cross me at your own risk.
" She gives a dismissive head shake. "That man with you?
Max's father—no question about it. Same eyes.
Same smile that pulls you in. Same way of standing like he owns the room.
" She leans closer. "His sudden reappearance? That's headline material. And you’re desperate to protect him. Makes me wonder why.” Her gaze sharpens, calculating.
"Whatever it is, I'll uncover it. By next week, his face will be splashed across every gossip site from here to New York.
" She taps a manicured nail against her temple.
"Screenwriting isn't just about dialogue—it's about spotting the story nobody else sees.
Finding the soft underbelly." Her lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer. "I'm exceptionally good at that part."
I shake my head. She’s a screenwriter on top of everything else?
No wonder she pieced together Michael's identity so quickly.
It takes a certain kind of person to notice the small details that make characters feel real—the slight tremor in someone's hand, the way they avoid eye contact when lying.
She has that gift. Too bad she's using it like a weapon.
I can see it in the calculated stillness of her expression—she'll tear Michael apart piece by piece if I don't give her exactly what she wants.
Her eyes narrow as she leans in. "And Celeste?
That man's secrets won't stay buried for long.
I'll dig them up, or if I come up empty...
" She taps a manicured nail against the table.
"Well, I've always had quite the imagination.
" The corner of her mouth lifts in a self-satisfied smirk.
"Remember that little story about you and the varsity team after homecoming? Creative, wasn't it?"
My eyes burn as I blink back tears. God, Michael doesn't deserve this.
When those vicious rumors about me spread online last year, I spent three sleepless nights staring at my balcony railing, wondering how much it would hurt if I jumped.
But I survived. Hannah—Max's miracle-working PR specialist—systematically dismantled each lie until my name was cleared.
I weathered the storm. Michael, though? His sobriety hangs by a thread, his gentle spirit already so damaged.
I remember Michael's trembling voice at the AA meeting, how he admitted that without the numbing fog of whiskey, the thoughts of ending it all became too clear, too possible.
The gun in his nightstand drawer had called to him every sober night.
One public humiliation could shatter the fragile peace he's built, brick by painful brick.