Chapter 54
Chapter Fifty-Four
THE DAY AFTER
Max
Granddad thought he was doing me a favor by orchestrating my arrangement with Celeste.
He couldn't have predicted how quickly it would unravel, leaving my world more colorless than before. I’m not angry with him, though - how could I be?
I can barely access emotion at all right now.
The numbness isn't exactly suffering. It's like watching life through an old black-and-white television set.
Remember how The Wizard of Oz begins? That sepia-toned Kansas farmhouse before the tornado hits?
I'd sit there as a kid, impatient, wondering when the promised Technicolor would arrive.
With Celeste, I finally saw those vibrant hues.
But black and white is serviceable enough. Really. Everything's perfectly fine.
Valentina, my assistant, peeks her head in. “Max! Great news!”
I swivel in my chair, leaning forward.
“Nolan just signed the contract. Kensington gets his next six films.” She sets a small bottle of champagne on my desk—our little ritual whenever something huge goes down.
This is the Oscar-winning director, the man behind Oppenheimer and a string of blockbusters and awards-season triumphs, pledging himself exclusively to my studio.
I’ve spent years schmoozing, sweetening every deal, and now it’s finally sealed—and I feel nothing.
I force a smile. Can’t let Valentina think I’m unmoved by this coup.
“That’s fantastic,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic.
I glance at the champagne. “I’ll join you later for a toast.” Without another word, I turn away, hoping she’ll take the hint, and she does.
A few seconds later, I hear the door click softly behind her.
A week passes before Gianni stops by. I’ve been ghosting his texts and skipping our gym sessions—unlike me.
Lately I’ve been chained to the office until midnight, rather than grabbing dinner at the Centurion, hitting the weights with him, then finishing work at home. I hate how fractured my days feel now.
I avoid home because every corner is haunted by Celeste.
I see her at the grand piano, plunking out Chopsticks—her only tune—while I followed with Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” just because she said it was her favorite.
I picture her in the kitchen, chopping vegetables while singing to every song she knows.
Her voice was always off-key, but goddamn, she didn’t care and that’s one of the reasons why I…
nope. Not thinking that particular l word.
I see her in the waves on that enormous surfboard, her wetsuit clinging to her curves like the wetsuit was bespoke.
I remember hunting down the biggest board I could find, knowing how new she was to the sport.
Those first few sessions, she'd hesitate at every wave, eyes wide with a fear she'd never admit to.
But that day she finally caught one clean—the look on her face—pure joy.
After that, Saturdays became our thing: me, my brothers, Gianni, and her, paddling out as the morning fog burned away.
I see her in my empire-size bed, copper hair fanned across my pillow, the tiny heart-shaped birthmark on her shoulder, the eighteen freckles dancing across her nose.
I see her in the screening room, a bowl of popcorn on her lap, snuggled under a blanket against me as we’d watch a movie together.
She’s everywhere in that house—so I hardly go there.
Gianni calls my name, and I realize I never told him what happened between Celeste and me. “What’s going on?”
I shake my head. “Just busy,” I say, picking up a pencil and studying the teeth marks on its shaft.
I don’t usually chew pencils. Somebody else?
No, probably me—just not paying attention anymore.
“Sorry.” That’s all I can manage. No apology for ghosting him, no real explanation.
If I start talking, the dam will break, so I inhale and hold it in.
“Busy?” He tilts his head. “Seriously—what’s up?” Then he sighs. “Come on, Max. It’s all over TMZ. Has been for a week.”
“Celeste filed, then,” I reply, shrugging. “Fucking TMZ. Can’t leave well enough alone.”
“It’s their business model,” Gianni says. “But that’s not the point.” His dark eyes are worried—concern, not pity, which is good, because pity and I aren’t on speaking terms. “Why?”
I shrug again. “Our partnership ended. Contractual obligations discharged. I got my CEO title and got Granddad off my back, so I was done. She was done, too. She didn’t make it a year, so no payout—but I doubt that matters anymore.
” I tap the pencil. “You ever chew your pencils? I never did—now I can’t stop. ”
“Max,” he says softly. “We’ve known each other since you were five. Don’t bullshit me. It wasn’t just business.”
I glance at the clock. “Look at the time. Shit’s piling up, as always. Anything else?”
He nods, getting the point. “Alright. I’ll be at the gym around eight. Hope you swing by.”
“You won’t see me,” I say. “Too much work. Thanks, though.”
Later that night, I do go out—dinner with Elody Martin.
She called; I thought, why not? I need someone I don’t give a damn about, and I need her spark.
We’ll be Hollywood’s golden couple—Maxody, Elomax, whatever dumb portmanteau social media comes up with.
I won’t feel a thing, which is the point: Elody never expects emotion, and she’ll never care.
So that’s exactly what happens. And for the next few weeks we become the hottest couple in Tinseltown: billionaire studio boss with the face of Chanel who happens to be the hottest actress in the world. Parties, paparazzi, breaking the internet—I knew it would. Everything’s perfect.
Except I can’t enjoy any of it.