Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
LIFE WITHOUT CELESTE
Max
Six Weeks After the Breakup
Elody's manicured fingers adjust my bow tie, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light.
"Darling, you're the most handsome man at every gala we attend," she purrs, her voice practiced like her smile.
This marks our third charity function in the past three weeks—some wildlife conservation thing I've already forgotten.
I force my lips into what I hope passes for appreciation.
It’s been 43 days, 8 hours, 23 minutes and counting since Celeste left and the hole remains unfilled.
I still command boardrooms and close eight-figure deals with Korean streaming giants.
I still work fourteen-hour days and but no longer feel that familiar rush when large contracts are signed.
I no longer feel satisfaction out of all the other things that go into a typical day—the early morning calls with London investors, the tense budget meetings where careers hang in the balance, the endless script revisions with nervous writers clutching coffee cups, the lunches where I pretend to eat while negotiating sequel rights, and the late-night screenings where I force enthusiasm for mediocre films that will nevertheless make us millions.
And at night, when Elody chatters about which Kardashian is dating which celebrity, I realize I've traded Celeste's warmth for expensive emptiness in Louboutins.
Elody is a bulletproof vest. That's why I'm with her.
When she touches me, I feel nothing—no spark, no warmth, no danger.
After Celeste carved out my heart with surgical precision, I needed someone who couldn't hurt me.
Celeste's parting words—"I don't love you and you don't love me.
We both deserve something real"—left a wound that hasn't closed.
So here we stand in my living room, Elody fussing with my bow tie, me manufacturing a smile while mentally reviewing talking points for tonight's fundraiser.
Before Celeste, I'd wake up with random songs playing in my head—some Pixies track I hadn't heard since college, or maybe a Morrisey deep cut, or even one of those Billy Joel songs nobody remembers.
Those morning melodies were as reliable as sunrise.
Now my alarm clock is Celeste's voice on repeat: I don't love you and you don't love me.
The same brutal chorus, day after day, with no skip button in sight.
The latest Us Weekly sits on my coffee table, our faces splashed across the cover with the headline "HOLLYWOOD'S HOTTEST POWER COUPLE.
" I trace my finger over the glossy photo—her hand on my chest, my practiced smile never reaching my eyes. Last night at Nobu, she leaned across the table, her perfume overwhelming as she brushed her lips near my ear, paparazzi everywhere ready to snap because of course Elody tipped them off as to where we’d be that night.
Always does. "Let's give them something to talk about," she whispered, leaning in for a kiss. I turned my head and ordered another scotch. At this morning’s meeting, I nodded at appropriate intervals while scrolling through box office projections.
The numbers climb. Contracts pile up. My assistant brings coffee I don't taste.
When everyone leaves, I stand at the window, thirty floors up, pressing my forehead against cold glass, unable to feel even that.
We get to the fundraiser. At some point, I sip my third glass of champagne, nodding mechanically as Senator What's-His-Name drones on about tax incentives.
I catch the eye of Netflix's new acquisition VP, and the two of us chat for awhile.
Across the room, Variety's publisher catches my eye, raises his glass.
Two studio heads suddenly find reason to drift toward us.
Beside me, Elody laughs—that practiced, musical laugh that's made her the face of Chanel —and every photographer in the room swivels our way, flashbulbs erupting like a miniature lightning storm. I press my hand on the small of Elody’s back and give the cameras my practiced smile that never reaches my eyes anymore.
After the wildlife charity function, I loosen my bow tie and check my phone.
Ten new emails from wealthy Spaniards—each one ending with "looking forward to discussing further investment.
" My shoulders finally relax. Outside Elody's Brentwood condo, she slides her hand up my thigh, her red nails catching the streetlight.
"Just one drink," she whispers, leaning in so I can smell her Chanel No.
5. I remove her hand, gentle but firm. Her lips—the ones that smiled perfectly in every photo tonight—twist into that familiar pout.
I check my watch. "It's late." Her eyes flash, but I'm already shifting into drive, mentally reviewing Monday’s meetings while her silhouette shrinks in my rearview mirror.
After I drop Elody off, I notice a black Tesla gliding down the street, catching my eye.
Despite Elody's $20 million mansion sitting on three acres behind gates, the neighborhood isn't exactly deserted, so maybe it’s not unusual for a Tesla to be driving through Elody’s neighborhood at 2 AM. But it puts me on my guard nonetheless.
The car stops, and I freeze—Celeste emerges, wine bottle dangling from her fingers.
From my position in the shadows, tucked inside my new Rolls Cullinan that she wouldn't recognize anyway, I watch her wobble toward the Uber driver's window.
"Don't leave, ‘kay? I’ll be just a minute," she slurs, pinching her index finger and thumb together in the universal symbol for small. “Just a second. Don’t leave!” She pounds on the roof of the car with her open hand and then stumbles away.
Of course the driver pulls away immediately, while Celeste lurches toward Elody's gate and begins screaming at the top of her lungs.
I almost laugh. In her state, she clearly doesn't understand the difference between a waiting taxi and a rideshare that's already hunting for its next fare. Not that she seems to care.
My hands shake as I watch her stumble down the sidewalk.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, my breath fogging the window in quick, shallow bursts.
Forty-three days since she walked out. Forty-three days of sleepless nights and tasteless food.
Forty-three days of numbness. I hate how my throat tightens at the sight of her, how I can't swallow past it.
Christ, my body ignites at the sight of her—my skin burning, my blood surging, my lungs forgetting how to function.
I'm drowning in oxygen. Alive. After forty-three days of sleepwalking through a fog so thick I'd forgotten what color looked like, what hunger felt like.
What wanting something—someone—so badly it physically hurts could do to a man.
She’s stumbling around, looking like she might fall in the ground, that loose curl falling across her forehead the way it did when she told me we were done.
I start to open the car door, then freeze.
Even with my Rolls gleaming under the streetlight, she'd look right through me, her glassy eyes already fixed on something—someone—else.
She's yanking at Elody's gate, her knuckles white with fury.
"YOU BACKSTABBING BITCH!" Her scream tears through the night.
"I'LL DESTROY YOU! EVERYONE WILL KNOW WHAT A MANIPULATIVE, SOUL-SUCKING PARASITE YOU REALLY ARE!
" She's bellowing into the gate keypad, her fingers randomly punching numbers as if she thought she might eventually guess the 6-digit code, spittle flying.
"I HATE YOU! I FUCKING HATE YOU! I SWEAR TO GOD I'D BLOW YOUR GODDAMN CAR TO PIECES IF I COULD! "
Jesus Christ. Death threats. My stomach drops.
Any second now someone could hear her—some neighbor walking their prissy dog or some fitness freak on a 2 AM jog.
One call to the police and she's done. I lunge from the shadows toward her.
"CELESTE!" I grab her arm. She needs to get out of here now, but her Uber's long gone. "What the hell are you doing?"
She blinks at me, her pupils blown so wide her eyes look black, like twin abysses.
"Max." My name slithers from her mouth like venom.
"Of course you'd be here. At Elody's goddamn MANSION.
" She practically screams the last word, spittle flying.
"Maxody, I mean. The two-headed publicity BEAST." She violently jerks her head side to side, her hair whipping across her face as she sings with manic intensity: "MAX AND ELODY, SITTING IN A TREE.
K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" Her face contorts into something feral.
"Power. Couple." Each word punctuated like a knife thrust. "HOW COULD YOU?
!" Then her gaze snaps to the empty curb, panic flooding her features.
"My ride... where'd he—" She stumbles forward, nearly collapsing.
"I told him wait." The words slur together, drowning in whatever she drank.
"Celeste, rideshare drivers don't wait. They take the next fare and move on." It's basic knowledge she'd understand sober, but alcohol has clearly short-circuited that part of her brain.
"Right." She sways slightly before lowering herself to the curb in front of Elody's imposing gate.
"Guess I'm stranded. Can't even... my fingers won't... app's too complicated now.
Everything's too complicated." Then she lays down on the ground in front of Elody’s gate, hugging her wine bottle to her chest like a stuffed animal.
I scoop Celeste off the curb and hoist her over my shoulder like a fireman. "Let's get you home."
Her only response is a soft snore that makes me smile despite everything. Classic Celeste.
The roads are nearly empty at 2 AM, and I make good time to her place. When we arrive, I carry her limp form up to the door and lean on the doorbell. After what feels like an eternity of ringing, Olivia appears, hair mussed and eyes squinting against the porch light.
"What's going on?" Her gaze lands on Celeste draped over my shoulder. "I had no idea she went out. Where'd you find her?"
"At Elody's. Don't ask me how she knew her address."
Olivia rubs her forehead. "God knows. Can you take her up to bed?"
I navigate the stairs and ease Celeste onto her mattress, but something stops me from leaving.
What if she gets sick in her sleep? People choke that way.
At least that's the excuse I give myself as I slide in beside her, drawing her against me.
With her warm weight in my arms, I sink into the first real sleep I've had since everything fell apart over six weeks ago.