Page 13 of The Malibu Arrangement

"Fine," I say, crossing my arms. "Just tell me why you're here, and I'll point you to your helicopter." My pulse throbs in my throat. Something in his words—something I don't want to acknowledge—makes me brace myself for impact. The realization that his words could hurt me comes as an unwelcome surprise. When did I start caring what this arrogant man thinks? One minute I want to slap him, the next I'm fighting the urge to remember how his cologne smelled last night at dinner. I need space to untangle whatever this is.

His words hit me like a physical blow. "Don't take my granddad's offer. Please." He runs a hand through his thick dark hair, not meeting my eyes. "I came here thinking we could talk this through, but I just—I can't right now." His voice drops. "I needed to make sure you understood. Under no circumstances should you accept what he's proposing." Then he delivers the final cut, each word measured and cool. "I think we both know that we’re like two cats in a bag and should avoid each other from now on.” The air between us seems to solidify, pressing down on my lungs until I can barely breathe.

I lift my chin, the sting of rejection catching me off guard. Hours ago, I would have laughed at the mere suggestion of seeing Max again. Then his fingers circled my wrist as I reached for the light switch, and something shifted. A current ran from that point of contact straight to my chest, leaving a trail of warmth I can still feel. Now his insistence that we never cross paths again feels like a slap—unexpected and far more painful than it should be.

"Don't worry," I say, steadying my voice. "That offer was so absurd I nearly choked laughing when Iris mentioned it." The space between us feels like winter. I force myself to ask, "Is that why you're here?" I swallow the hope rising in my throat—the childish wish that he came to apologize, to make things right. But I see the truth in his eyes. Max Kensington dragged himself here in agony when he should be in a hospital bed, just to ensure I wouldn't accept his grandfather's proposal. As if I would marry him for any amount. Still, something in my chest tightens at how desperately he wants to avoid me.

"Yes," he says. "What other reason would I have for being here?" The words hit me like a physical blow. He's struggling to breathe, each exhale a pained hiss between clenched teeth, his features twisted into something I barely recognize. "I need to get to your roof. My helicopter's coming to take me to the hospital. I appreciate you crushing my grandfather's hopes, by the way."

He struggles out of the office and I flick the light back on. I should be relieved. This morning I'd been mentally rehearsing my exit speech, imagining my career obituary spreading across Hollywood in hushed whispers. Now I've dodged that particular bullet.

Yet as I trace my finger over the spot on my arm where Max touched me, the victory feels strangely empty. My pulse quickens at the memory. I shake my head. I'll return to my routine, my sensible life. Marry Max? Ridiculous. Not for all the beachfront property in Malibu. Still, as I sit down to catch up on my projects, I find myself wondering what his kitchen looks like in the morning light, how his voice might sound in the morning, sleepy and unguarded. The man's impossible—arrogant, demanding, cold. Yet something about him lingers on my skin like expensive cologne.

I wish I could wash it away.

I can't.

Chapter Ten

A MOMENT OF DOUBT

Celeste

Joseph got the message that I would not be marrying his grandson Max, not for $250,000, not for a million, not for all the tea in China.

But things change when I see my mother. She resides in a modest two-bedroom apartment in Palm, a working-class area of Los Angeles, with my sister, Lexi, a sophomore at UCLA. Lex has just been accepted into the Film and Television BA program at UCLA, with the ambitious goal of pursuing a master’s degree. Her ultimate aspiration is to become the fourth woman to win an Oscar for directing, following in the footsteps of her idols, Kathryn Bigelow, Chloé Zhao, and Jane Campion. Throughout the history of the Academy Awards, it was striking that only three women had ever won the prestigious directing award.

And I’m certain that Lex would one day join that elite group.

“Hey, Mom,” I say as I enter the dingy apartment with the worn carpeting and moldy ceilings, which is all she can afford, especially right now. She’s sitting in her easy chair in the living room, sleeping in front of the TV. I join her, placing my hand on hers. Her skin feels cold to the touch, as if her circulation isn’t working properly. She’s lost a significant amount of weight, possibly around 20 pounds or more, weight she can’t afford to lose. Her scalp is now completely bald, and she wears a scarf to cover it up.

My beautiful mother has transformed into a shadow of her former self. Seeing her shatters my heart. However, I remain steadfast in my belief that she will overcome this challenge. Her cancer was diagnosed in Stage 3, which is not the most best stage, but it’s not the worst either. She has a good chance of survival, with a 80% chance of recovery. I was determined that my mother wouldn’t be one of the 20% who don’t make it through at this stage of cancer.

She smiles weakly. “Celeste,” she says. “I’m so glad to see you.” Then, she closes her eyes, wraps her blanket tighter around her, and drifts back to sleep.

Lexi emerges from her room. “Hey, Celeste,” she says to me. Then, she gestures towards Mom. “She can’t go back to work,” she explains. “She wants to, but she can’t. Her doctors have advised her to rest as much as possible to allow her body to heal.”

“I understand,” I reply. “I’ll just keep giving you money every month like I’ve been doing and you and Mom will be fine.” Since Mom fell ill and lost her job, things have been really tight. She lacked savings, and the rent for this apartment is $2,500 per month. Although it’s an extremely modest two-bedroom apartment that has lots of issues, this is Los Angeles, and $2,500 per month doesn’t go far. I’ve been struggling to help them cover rent, utilities and food, in addition to my own mortgage and expenses. However, if I have to do it, I will.

Lexi shakes her head. “Sis, we genuinely appreciate your help. Believe me, we do. But I need to drop out of UCLA.” She lowers her head. “My job has offered me a position in their restaurant management program. I can go into management training, earning $25 per hour while in training instead of my current $18 per hour. And I’ll be working full-time instead of part-time. Then I can jump into management, starting out at $70,000 a year. I need to take this opportunity, Celeste.” She motions to Mom. “We can’t afford for me not to.”

Lexi currently works as a hostess at the Mastro’s Ocean Club, a renowned fine-dining restaurant located on the beach in Malibu. While she’s in school, she works part-time. This job enables her to contribute to the cost of rent, food, and utilities, but it barely makes a dent in her tuition, which stands at $13,000 annually. While it may not be astronomical, it certainly isn’t affordable. Fortunately, Lex has always been a driven student and has qualified for numerous scholarships.

I blink in disbelief. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Lex, you can’t do that,” I say. “You have big dreams and goals. You’ve wanted to be a movie director since you were five years old.”

I recall the days when she was a young child, directing our parents and me in her own self-written plays. Even then, she displayed exceptional talent. Being a movie director was her sole aspiration from the time she was a kid, and now she’s telling me she wants to abandon film school for a restaurant management program?

“I understand, Celeste, but UCLA is a luxury we can’t afford. I need a full-time income, not a part-time one, and we simply can’t afford my school expenses anymore. I know I’m on scholarship, but-“

“But what? You know how competitive film school is. You’ll want to get back in, and they won’t save a place for you,” I shake my head. “I can’t let you do this, Lex. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Every time the Oscars comes on in the future, your heart will break because you’re not up there yourself accepting that statuette.”

“Celeste, we have to be realistic,” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with restaurant management, especially for a place like Mastro’s. It’s a beautiful place, and when I become a manager, I can make six figures.”

I sigh. “Lexi, there’s nothing wrong with managing a restaurant. I mean, I hear it’s a beyond-stressful job with long hours, lots of people complaining, and you have to know numbers and be able to be firm but fair with all your staff. Running a restaurant doesn’t look like fun when I watch Kitchen Nightmares. It looks like a nightmare just like the title says. But none of that is the point. The point is, you’re turning your back on your dream.”

I know about dreams dying. God, do I know. But I can't think about that now. This isn't about me. It's about Lexi and Mom. Lexi still has a chance. Me? Every rejection letter is another shovelful of dirt on the grave of my screenwriting career. But Lexi is ALIVE with possibility. She HAS to make it. If I have to bleed myself dry, if I have to marry the devil himself, if I have to sacrifice every last thing I am—she will get what I couldn't. She has to. She HAS to.

Lexi takes a deep breath. “Celeste, I didn’t want to tell you this. I didn’t want to worry you, but-“