Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
THE END
Max
The ink is dry. At last. Twelve months of boardroom battles, legal wrangling, and terms that ping-ponged between parties like a tennis match.
Dreamscape balked, then Kensington wavered, then back again.
The merger nearly collapsed a dozen times when someone would toss in an eleventh-hour demand.
But we survived the tightrope walk. Kensington emerged the victor in the fine print, but the real win is what we've created: Dreamscape's indie credibility that dominates Sundance and Cannes now stands alongside Kensington's Academy Award pedigree.
We've built a juggernaut. And, most important, the board members have voted me CEO of the merged company.
Time to exhale. Time to steal away with Celeste to Paris, where I'll open French doors to a terrace view of the Eiffel Tower, order champagne with our croissants, lose ourselves in each other, and ask her the question that's been burning in my pocket—to be my wife not just on paper, but in truth.
Christ, I've fallen for her completely. The old man knew what he was doing all along.
Should've trusted him from the start. The attraction hit me like lightning that first moment I saw her, but loving her?
That came later, in all the small moments.
In watching her fight like hell for her family.
In reading pages of her screenplay that left me breathless.
In tasting that pasta she makes with three kinds of exotic mushrooms. In the way her nose crinkles right before she breaks into that laugh—the same laugh that erupts when we both catch the same stupid joke no one else gets.
In how she sobbed through that children's book about the stupid giving tree, clutching it to her chest when I'd asked for a bedtime story as a joke. How she tears up watching sentimental commercials and sobs in her approximately 150th rematching of the movie Beaches - she cries every damn time she watches that movie, which amazes me, because she has the dialogue memorized so of course she knows how it’ll end.
In her refusing to give up after falling off the surfboard for the twentieth time.
In her fierce debates about wealth gaps and ocean acidification that would make my grandfather disown her if he heard.
And yes, even in those ridiculous Tarot cards she shuffles when she thinks I'm not looking.
All of it. She's going to be my wife—my real wife this time.
Valentina bursts into my office, champagne bottle in one hand, two flutes dangling from the fingers of the other.
"The votes are in, Mr. CEO," she announces, her glossy red lips spreading into a grin.
The cork pops with a satisfying thunk against the ceiling.
"I told everyone you were a lock." She fills the glasses, pushing one toward me across the desk.
“Iris can handle things for a week. When's the last time you saw a beach that wasn't through your office window? You’ve earned some time off.” Iris Dimas, CEO of Dreamscape, is the deputy CEO of the new company, which I knew she would be.
Damn right I earned this. After all those endless days hunched over contracts, the tension headaches, waking up in cold sweats thinking the whole deal was imploding.
Just thinking about escaping with Celeste makes my shoulders unknot.
Even if we only have three days, they'll be three perfect days away from everything.
I flash a cryptic smile. "Have some plans up my sleeve," I say, savoring the secret.
My penthouse in Paris...Celeste doesn't know I own it.
It'll be such a surprise when I slide the antique brass key across the table to her.
The top floor of a Pre-War Georgian building with limestone balustrades and wrought-iron detailing, a terrace that wraps around the building where potted lavender and rosemary release their scent in the morning sun.
Inside, herringbone oak floors gleam beneath crystal chandeliers, and floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the Eiffel Tower that turns golden at sunset, close enough that its twinkling lights will seem to dance just for us.
Then me, kneeling before her, holding a ring I know was made for her.
The stone catches light like nothing else—a rare pink diamond nestled in a vintage setting that reminds me of her grandmother's jewelry she once described.
I've given her diamonds before—blues, yellows, even other pinks—all beautiful, all created in labs.
But this one came from earth, from time and pressure, and is extremely rare in its perfection.
When the auctioneer at Christie's brought down the gavel at $2.
5 million, I didn't flinch. Three perfect carats that make my pulse quicken every time I imagine sliding it onto her finger.
Hours later, I'm humming in my car, picturing the look on her face when I reveal the private jet waiting to take us to Paris.
Maybe I'll even blindfold her for the big reveal.
It's cheesy, I know, but Celeste thrives on cheese.
This is the woman who marathons those Hallmark Christmas movies and still manages to sob at the predictable endings.
I've watched her wipe away tears a hundred times when the small-town baker finally kisses the big-city executive who's rediscovered the "true meaning of Christmas.
" Pure formula, but she falls for it every.single.time.
My sweet, soft-hearted Celeste deserves her own movie moment.
I push open the front door to find Celeste in the living room, surrounded by stacked cardboard boxes.
Her eyes are red-rimmed, mascara smudged at the corners.
When she looks up at me, her shoulders slump forward like she's carrying something too heavy.
"So," she whispers, voice cracking slightly, "congratulations on the CEO position.
Heard about the merger going through today.
" She forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Guess that means our arrangement is complete. "
I blink, stunned. "Wait—you think this is over now that the board voted me in?
" The weight in my chest drops straight to the floor.
I search her face, desperate for some sign I've misunderstood.
But of course she'd think that. Our arrangement had a clear endpoint: merger complete, CEO position secured.
I'd never once told her I wanted more. We'd never discussed what comes after.
But did we need to discuss it? All these months of morning coffee, dancing in our kitchen and late-night script readings, of her falling asleep against my shoulder—I'd just assumed she felt what I felt.
That she knew I couldn't imagine my life without her now.
She shakes her head, eyes cast downward. "Max. We're kidding ourselves here. People like you don't end up with people like me. Not in real life."
"Stop." I place my hands on her shoulders. "Don't you dare finish that thought. I won't let you stand there telling me what I deserve, when what I want—what I need—is standing right in front of me."
Celeste's eyes drops to her hands. "Max, I'm begging you.
Don't drag this out." Her voice catches.
"These months with you... I never expected...
" She swallows hard. "But we're kidding ourselves.
Out there—" she gestures towards the window, towards the world beyond my house, "—out there, someone is waiting for you.
Someone who makes sense." Her lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
"You'll forget all about this by Christmas." Then she looks down at the floor. “I can’t stay married to you, Max. I don’t love you and you don’t love me. We both deserve something real.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Her words—I don't love you and you don't love me.
We both deserve something real—cuts through me like shrapnel.
The old nightmare returns, the one I've dreaded since this began.
Just a business arrangement after all. A marriage as counterfeit as a Rolex being sold out of a back-alley van in Tijuana.
She's leaving, just like my father did, tearing open wounds I'd convinced myself had scarred over.
I thought she was different. What a fool.
My ribs seem to cave in on themselves as I'm dragged back to that seven-year-old boy, nose pressed to the windowpane, breath clouding glass, waiting for someone who never returned.
I clawed my way out of that abyss once. I can't do it again.
Ice spreads through my veins, hardening around what's left of my heart.
Thicker armor this time. Impenetrable. Let her go.
I won't become the shadow chasing her car down the driveway.
I refuse to mirror my grandparents, pleading on their knees for someone whose mind is already made up.
I snap my eyes open, my vision tunneling to pinpoints.
"Get. The. FUCK. Out." My voice is a razor.
"Take those boxes if you want, but touch one goddamn thing I bought you and I'll destroy you.
I'm going through every inch of that closet—every thread, every heel, every diamond—and if anything's missing, I swear to God I will bury you in legal fees until you're living in your car.
Everything in those pathetic little boxes better be only the things you dragged into this nightmare of a marriage, or you'll see exactly what I'm capable of. "
"Max, I-"
"OUT!" My voice shatters against the walls.
Blood rushes to my face as I slam my fist into the doorframe, splintering the wood.
"I can't stand the fucking sight of you.
" My chest heaves, lungs burning with each breath.
I step toward her, trembling with restraint.
"Take your goddamn boxes and get out before I throw them into the ocean myself.
Tomorrow I'll have movers collect whatever shit you've left behind.
But so help me God, if I ever see your face again—" I choke on the words, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight I taste metal.
Her tears fall faster now, and I have to look away.
Each sob feels like a knife between my ribs.
I can almost hear the wet thud of my heart hitting the floor, can almost see her heel grinding what's left into dust. I built walls.
I kept my distance. What was the point when she scaled them anyway?
The man I was before her is gone. Granddad, you bastard.
You pushed me into this marriage knowing exactly what would happen.
You knew she'd break me open, and Christ, she has.
Celeste's eyes flicker toward the door. "Goodbye, Max."
The doorbell rings. Tally and Olivia stand on the threshold, avoiding my gaze.
My stomach drops. How long has she been orchestrating this exit?
The silent parade begins—box after box is carried past me to the U-Haul parked in my driveway.
Celeste remains outside, a shadow I glimpse through the window with each trip her friends make.
When the last cardboard corner disappears from my house, Tally returns alone.
Her hand extends toward mine, cool and formal.
"I'm sorry, Max," she says, her voice soft. "She loves you, you know. She's grateful for everything. She just doesn't believe you two fit together anymore."
By now, I'm numb, like I've taken a right hook to the jaw and the adrenaline's worn off. The anger that kept me standing has drained away, leaving me hollow as a spent shotgun shell.