Page 18 of The Malibu Arrangement

Joseph murmurs something I can't quite catch, and I clear my throat to let them know I'm here. Earlier, when Joseph started rattling off his guest list—Scorsese, DiCaprio, even suggesting Ed Sheeran or Olivia Rodrigo as wedding performers—my eyes must have widened to the size of dinner plates. Max noticed. He jumped in, told his grandfather we wanted something smaller, more intimate. I'd call it sweet if this weren't all pretend. My hands still tremble at the thought of Olivia Rodrigo singing while I walk down an aisle toward a man who I’m being paid to marry. Joseph missed my panic entirely, but Max caught it. Though I doubt it's about me—he's probably using my discomfort as cover for his own reluctance. What guy wants his grandfather planning his wedding, even a fake one?

Joseph smiles when I return to the terrace. Max doesn't meet my eyes, but that's fine. I'm feeling calmer now. Still, it's overwhelming—marrying a man I barely know. Even if the wedding won't be the circus Joseph envisions, I'm definitely in over my head. This marriage to Max will likely become a spectacle: my privacy invaded, paparazzi cameras thrust in my face, my name dragged through social media mud. It's inevitable when you're marrying Max Kensington—three-time People magazine "Most Beautiful" honoree, a man whose wealth and power have people either kissing his ass or scurrying away in fear. Last night's Google search confirmed he's considered the most eligible bachelor in town. I won't measure up, and the trolls will tear me apart. Yet another detail I failed to consider.

Joseph hands me and Max a glass of champagne and he raises his glass in a toast. “To my grandson Max and the beautiful Celeste. May the two of you be as happy for 60 years as Ruth and me.” Then he winks as I raise my glass with a shaking hand. I glance at Max, who’s looking uncomfortable. He’s not into this. Neither am I.

But yet, here we are.

Stuck with each other.

And now I have to break the news to the people I love.

Before social media does it for me.

Chapter Thirteen

EMERGENCY MEETING

Celeste

I text Olivia, Tally, and Lexi: "911 EMERGENCY MEETING TONIGHT. WINE REQUIRED." I need to tell them face-to-face about Max before TMZ breaks the story. We're aiming for a JFK Jr. level of secrecy for the wedding, though that comparison makes me shudder. Besides, he had it easy—no TikTok, no Instagram, no rabid comment sections dissecting his every move. Max doesn't have that luxury. Just this morning, instead of reviewing scripts, I fell down another Max Kensington hashtag rabbit hole. The fan accounts are terrifying— some women analyzing the way he dots his i's in autographs, other women creating elaborate conspiracy theories about which coffee order might indicate his relationship status. One post had 50,000 likes just because he wore navy instead of black. It's only a matter of time before some eagle-eyed superfan spots us together and the headlines start. I need my people to hear this from me, not from their phones.

The rooftop bar perches right over the Pacific, catching the last golden light of a cool September evening. My friends arrive in sequence as the clock hits six, each wrapped in those barely-there cardigans that pass for winter wear in Los Angeles. We claim a table outside—the air carries just enough bite to make the first sip of wine feel warming. Perfect backdrop for what I'm about to tell them: I'm marrying Max Kensington. The sun will sink into the ocean, and my bombshell will explode across our table.

"So," Tally says, leading the way. "Where's the fire?" Tally—short for Tallulah—carries a name inspired by Demi Moore's daughter, not Tallulah Bankhead as older people often assume. Her mother had been obsessed with the Demi Moore back in the day. Tally embodies the free spirit Bankhead was known for, minus the legendary actress's "sleep with anyone that moves" reputation. With her jet-black natural hair now streaked in vibrant colors, bright blue eyes rimmed in charcoal, and signature red lips, Tally turns heads even on her bare-faced days. A tattoo artist of remarkable talent, her beauty could easily outshine the supermodels Max typically favors.

Lexi tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "I've got a short film due tomorrow that's barely half-edited, so this better be good." Her look says it all—same face as mine, different destiny. Film school prodigy versus corporate sellout. I'll tell her about marrying Max for money, but as a sacrifice for Mom's medical bills, not the truth: I'm doing it so Lexi won't quit UCLA to manage some restaurant. Once Mom recovers enough to work, Medi-Cal disappears, and the insurance vultures circle. By then, I'll have my quarter-million.

Olivia bursts in, tossing her knockoff Louis Vuitton onto the table like it's authentic. Only I know she haggled for it from a guy in a van in Cozumel last summer. Neither of us would drop three grand on the real thing—especially not Olivia, who just invested her entire savings in her catering business. She moves with kitchen-bred grace, a woman who's been perfecting Italian recipes since kindergarten.

"What's going on?" Olivia asks, leaning across our high-top. I take a long sip of my vodka soda, stalling. How do I tell her she'll be roommate-less? Not that I'd leave her with the full mortgage, but our Wednesday wine nights with kung pao chicken and Netflix screaming sessions are over. No more coming home to her eye-rolls when producers trash my pitches. Just Max's cold shoulder in a Malibu mansion. The ice in my glass clinks as my hand trembles.

"Well..." Three pairs of eyes lock onto me—Lexi's sapphire, Tally's electric blue, Olivia's warm chocolate. "Christ, there's no cute way to package this." I inhale sharply. "I'm marrying Max Kensington next month. Moving in next week." I scan their stunned faces as moonlight dances on waves calmer than the storm I just unleashed.

At first, nobody speaks. They're all just staring at me. And then Tally bursts out laughing and Olivia and Lexi follow suit. "Oh, god," Tally says. "Is this payback for when I convinced you that Chris Pine was staying at the chalet and you spent three hours in the lobby with that ridiculous autograph book? Your timing is off, girl, but I guess you just really wanted us to get together. I mean, if you're going to play a prank on us, you can think of something more realistic than telling us you're marrying the hottest man on the planet."

Tally's specialty is off-season April Fool's pranks. Like at Mammoth in February, when she convinced me Chris Pine was staying at our Groupon chalet. I spent twenty minutes stalking the lobby with my autograph book before trudging back to find them doubled over laughing.

"Is this about Chris Pine?" Olivia asks. "Or your birthday last year?" I groan, remembering the six-foot singing chicken that burst into my pitch meeting, hip-thrusting to "My Ding-A-Ling" while my potential client watched in horror. I nearly strangled Olivia that night—would have if I hadn't somehow still signed the writer.

This makes telling them harder. They think I'm pranking them back, and I desperately wish I was. I want to yell "GOTCHA!" and laugh it off, but I can't. I have to convince them I'm serious, then weather their reactions. They'll want me committed—hell, I want me committed. A padded cell sounds better than what's coming.

I clear my throat, stare at the my wine glass and open my mouth. But Tally jumps in before I can say anything. “Oh my fucking god. You’re serious. What the hell?”

Tally's known me since we shared a sandbox at Westlake Preschool. Twenty-some years of friendship means she can read my face like a book she's dog-eared too many times. The skeptical arch of her eyebrow softens as she realizes I'm not joking. There it is—that flicker of recognition. She believes me now.

Olivia's eyebrows are still raised in skepticism, and Lexi's lips have pressed into that thin line she gets whenever she's torn between calling me out and feeling guilty. I've seen that exact expression since we were kids—it's the same face she made when she accidentally broke my science project in fifth grade and tried to convince me I'd built it wrong.

“Oh, god,” I say. “I’m so sorry, guys. You all will think I’m nuts and if you don’t, you should. But I’m marrying Max Kensington-”

Lexi's eyes narrow to slits. "Wait a minute. You and Max Kensington? No way. I've shown you, what, fifty magazine spreads of him? All those yacht photos? And you never once mentioned knowing him." She taps her fingernails against the table. "So either you just met him, or you're lying. And now you're marrying him?" Her face hardens as she leans forward. "This is a money thing, isn't it? He's paying you. You're selling yourself for me and Mom." Her voice breaks on the last word, tears spilling over. I watch recognition dawn across her features—that same look she gets when she figures out a film's twist twenty minutes before everyone else, the way she called every turn in that Nolan thriller. Those filmmaker instincts I've always admired are now dismantling my charade in real time. Even as my stomach drops, I feel an unexpected flicker of pride.

She's right about her Max obsession, too. Her bedroom wall is practically wallpapered with Variety covers featuring his face. She's spent countless dinners describing how Kensington Pictures will someday bid on her first film. But Lexi's just one devotee in a global phenomenon. From New York happy hours to European cafés, women analyze the angles of his jawline, scroll through stolen beach photos during their commutes, and debate the authenticity of each rare smile he gives photographers. The billionaire has cultivated an unwitting fan club spanning continents, and my sister's just another card-carrying member.

“Lexi,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, which is turning very dark, as dark as the sky is right now. All three ladies are now staring at me with a mixture of confusion, sadness, more confusion, and even a hint of anger. Of course they’ll be mad at me, the same way I’d be mad at them if I thought they were making a really, really, really batshitty mistake that they’ll regret for the rest of their lives. I’d want to shake some fucking sense into any friend telling me news like mine, so I don’t blame them if they’re feeling hostile. “You really hit the nail on the head. I’m impressed.”

"This isn’t funny," Lexi says, her voice tight. She crosses her arms over her chest. "This whole thing is bullshit, Celeste. You promised you'd handle our money problems, and this is your solution? Selling yourself like some—" She stops, shaking her head. "If I'd known this was your plan all along—keeping Mom in the condo, keeping me in school—I would've shut it down immediately. I told you I was ready to quit UCLA and manage the restaurant. That was a real plan. Not this." Her eyes flash. "I never asked you to sacrifice yourself for us."

My vision blurs with unshed tears as Olivia recovers from her initial shock. She leans forward, her brow furrowed with the practical concerns I can see mirrored on Lexi and Tally's faces. "Hold up," she says, hands raised. "You're telling me Max Kensington—THE Max Kensington—is paying you to be his wife? That's... I mean... The man has women throwing themselves at him daily. He could snap his fingers and have a supermodel bride by sunset." She presses a hand to her chest dramatically. "Hell, I'd volunteer as tribute and he wouldn’t even have to pay me. Where do I sign up for that?"