Chapter 61
Chapter Sixty-One
CONFRONTING ELODY
Max
I need this breakup to be a spectacle—something that'll dominate tomorrow's headlines.
I call Bill O'Brien at Variety, offering him an exclusive.
"I'll be at the Centurion tonight at six," I tell him.
"Front row seat to the end of Hollywood's most boring power couple.
" Better Variety gets it right than let the tabloids twist everything.
I arrive early, choosing the Centurion partly for its visibility, partly for the bitter symmetry—this is where I first met Celeste.
The ma?tre d' leads me through the room where Hollywood's elite hold court.
Lauren McCall catches my eye from her corner table; her performance in Midnight Crossing has made her an Oscar frontrunner.
Her husband Silas nods coolly—still hasn't forgiven me for passing on his sci-fi project last year.
Saige Fuentes, whose adaptation of The Glass Hour is in production at my studio, is deep in conversation with Woody Bruce, the rock star she somehow snagged last month at Coachella.
Even Liberty Landry is here with Elisha Tapia—the supermodel and the indie director whose surprise romance broke Instagram last summer.
I take my seat, order a scotch, and wait for Elody to walk into my trap.
Elody sweeps in like she owns the place, her crimson crocodile Birkin bag emitting high-pitched yips.
A tiny white Maltese with kohl-rimmed eyes and a diamond-studded collar, Charlie, pokes his fluffy head out, pink tongue lolling between pearly teeth.
No gilt-framed "Dogs Prohibited" sign in Los Angeles applies to Elody Martin.
Charlie accompanies her everywhere—Michelin-starred restaurants, red-carpet premieres, probably even the marble-tiled bathroom of her Bel Air mansion.
She's wearing butter-soft leather thigh-high Louboutins and a skintight Hervé Léger fire-engine red bandage dress that clings to every curve of her impossibly toned body, her caramel-highlighted hair bouncing with each deliberate step as she drinks in the slack-jawed and appreciative stares from the other male diners.
"Max," she purrs, sliding into her seat without waiting for the ma?tre d'.
“So nice to see you. I'll have my usual.” She puts her purse with the dog in it on top of the table, violating god knows how many health codes.
“Now, about my thirtieth next month—I'm thinking my place near Cannes.
Twenty rooms right on La Guérite beach, perfect for the party of the decade.
" Her fingers brush my forearm, lingering.
"Perhaps we'll have something special to announce by then? "
I don't bother hiding my eye roll. For years she's been dropping marriage hints like breadcrumbs, convinced we're heading toward some fairy-tale ending.
"Elody," I say, catching Bill's eye at the next table. His notepad is out, pen poised. I give him a subtle nod. "There's something you should know."
She snaps her fingers at a passing waiter who practically sprints to her side. If he'd been slower, she'd have eviscerated him publicly, then slipped him a hundred to keep quiet—her standard operating procedure.
“Dirty martini. Double. Extra dirty.” She exhales a slow, rehearsed sigh and swivels to face me, every inch the poised predator. “I suspect I’ll need it.”
“No doubt,” I reply, voice cold and smooth like obsidian. “I’ll hang tight. Wouldn’t want to waste a perfect martini if you decide to fling it in my face.”
Her brow lifts, sharp as a blade. “And why on earth would I do that?”
I let my shoulders slump, muscles coiling beneath my shirt. “I’ll wait,” I repeat. Minutes later, a frosty glass of olive-studded sludge clinks onto the table. She studies me with guarded eyes as she lifts it.
“Well?” she prompts. “Still waiting for your answer.”
“Because,” I say, leaning in until my breath fans her lips, “I know exactly what you did to Celeste and my father.” My chest clenches remembering her threat—to drag my newly sober, fragile dad through the social-media muck if Celeste didn’t back off.
My gentle father, so proud of his recovery.
And she would’ve torched him to get at Celeste, which is the only reason why Celeste broke up with me.
Love doesn’t come sharper than that kind of loyalty, and Celeste has it in spades.
She flicks her hair, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Please. What did I do? I’ve never met your father.
I’ve only seen Celeste that one time—here, of all places—when she gave me a ketchup-stained napkin to autograph.
” She chuckles softly. “I’ve signed stranger things, but that napkin… that’s a new low.”
My pulse hammers as I clamp my jaw shut. Elody is so fucking stupid - she completely forgot about me running into her when she showed up at Celeste’s house out of the blue and apparently tried to pay her a million dollars to break off our engagement.
“Cut the fucking gaslighting. You know exactly what you threatened. Celeste told me herself—”
“Celeste? Your ex-wife—ex-fake-wife, really.” She leans back, smug. “Why on earth would I have anything to do with her—or your dad? I have no idea what’s going on.”
Rage thunders through me, but I swallow it down and draw a steady breath. She can play the innocent Oscar darling all she wants, but I’m not here to be toyed with.
“Elody,” I say, each word a promise of violence.
“Hand over your phone. I want that photo of Celeste and my father deleted. And hear me loud and clear: if you ever, and I mean ever mention my father, Celeste, or anyone in my family—ever—I will bury you. One call from me to any studio head, and your so-called A-list career is ashes. You’ll be lucky to get cast in an off-off-off Broadway reading. ”
I release her with a cool stare. She can keep up the act, but she knows the truth: cross me or mine, and she won't just lose a drink—she'll lose everything.
She leans in, her voice razor-sharp. "You can't fucking touch me in this town.
My last three movies combined? Over a billion dollars box office receipts.
No superheroes. No sequels. Just me. People don't stream my films—they line up around the goddamn block.
I open movies when nobody else can. Nobody buries me, Max. I'm the one who does the burying."
"Watch me," I snarl, blood pounding in my ears. "You're not that fucking special."
But Christ, she is. The air crackles between us. She's box office lightning in human form, dragging audiences away from their precious streaming services through sheer magnetic force. Critics worship her like she's cinema incarnate.
But I'm Max fucking Kensington. I don't just run this town—I own it.
Her publicist might be good, but mine is Ezrah Braun, Hollywood's personal grim reaper.
One call from me, and he'll blast every skeleton from her closet across every headline in America.
Another five calls to studio heads who owe me favors, and she'll never work again. She'll be radioactive.
She knows it too. I can see it in her eyes—the fear beneath the fury. She's holding a pair of twos and betting like she has a royal flush.
Elody narrows her eyes to slits, her hands violently trembling as she thrusts the photo at my face.
My blood freezes. There's Celeste with my father—her fingers intertwined with his, her other hand pressed against his weathered cheek, her eyes locked on his with such raw intimacy it punches the air from my lungs.
Anyone seeing this would believe they were lovers—there's no other possible interpretation.
The truth behind it doesn't matter; the image screams betrayal.
If Elody had unleashed this on Instagram, it would have been a wildfire I couldn't control.
Christ, no wonder Celeste surrendered to blackmail.
But my stomach twists with the realization that she didn't trust me enough to fight this together.
I could have destroyed Elody with a single phone call.
Instead, we both suffered while Celeste protected my father until he found the courage I've been waiting my entire life for him to discover.
Goddamn her beautiful, misguided heart—always making the wrong choices for all the right reasons.
Foolish, reckless, beautiful Celeste—breaking herself to spare others, flawed in ways that make me love her more fiercely than ever.
She deletes it, thrusting the phone at me. "There. Satisfied?"
"Not even close." My arms lock across my chest, fingers digging into my biceps.
"But I will be when you understand this: my father, Celeste, me, my brothers, Gianni, Rosa—anyone I give a damn about—their names don't exist to you anymore. Because if I ever hear any of their names coming out of your mouth…” I lean in until I can see my reflection in her pupils.
"Test me. I fucking dare you. The hell I'll rain down will make you wish you'd never learned to speak. "
She exhales, a tremor in her voice. "Jesus, Max. I really thought we'd end up married."
"Then you're not just delusional," I spit, "you're certifiably fucking insane."
I catch Bill's eye and give him the signal. My pulse quickens. I need Elody to throw that fucking drink in my face. But she's holding back. For now.
She uncrosses her legs, then recrosses them deliberately—a calculated move that sends every man in the room adjusting their collars.
Those legs could cut glass. She's sculpted herself into a weapon, and I respect the discipline.
You don't get a body like that without bleeding for it.
She leans forward, her cleavage practically daring me to look away. I don't.
"Fine, Max," she hisses through perfect teeth. "You win. Not a single word about Celeste, your father, Gianni, your brothers, Rosa, your grandparents—nobody. I'm not about to commit career suicide."
"Smart girl." I lock my arms across my chest and flick my eyes toward the dirty martini.
Her smile turns predatory. She glances at Bill, then grabs her glass and hurls the contents at me—vodka burning my eyes, olive brine soaking my $3,000 shirt.
She's on her feet in an instant, chair scraping back with a screech.
Her Maltese Charlie erupts in a frenzy of high-pitched barking as she storms toward the exit, leaving a wake of shocked faces.
Perfect. Inevitable. Elody would rather die than exit without scorching the earth. But something's off—her rage felt too precise, too controlled. Maybe that's the real performance—acting like she's fine when she's plotting my murder. With Elody, you're never safe.
One thing's certain: Elody is neutralized. Not for now. For fucking ever.