Page 6 of The Malibu Arrangement

I nod, remembering the Cabernet with dinner. No more drinks tonight. Still, the thought of Neon and Noir beckons—that speakeasy tucked behind the Orpheum where Gianni and I have spent countless nights. Those reports can wait. Tomorrow I'll power through them twice as fast, but tonight I need to untangle the Celeste situation before it consumes me entirely.

"See you there," I tell him, ducking into the locker room. After a quick shower, I swap the suit for dark Ferragamos, Seven jeans, and a gray cashmere V-neck that cost more than most people’s first car. The valet brings my Bugatti around, its engine purring like a predator. Sliding behind the wheel, I force myself to ease onto Mulholland rather than tearing down toward the Arts District at 120, though God knows the car could handle it.

I duck through the unmarked door behind the Orpheum, past the hostess who recognizes me with a discreet nod, and into the amber-lit sanctuary where crystal decanters catch the light from Edison bulbs. Gianni is already perched at the copper bar, one Italian leather loafer hooked on the brass rail, swirling what is presumably a thirty-year-old Macallan in a hand-cut crystal tumbler, his go-to drink.

I join him at the oak-stained bar, with the mirror behind it and crystal glasses lined up overhead, sinking into the red leather bar stool and order a tonic water over ice. I’m sticking to my no-drinking pledge, only because the wine from earlier makes alcohol here seem redundant, and face Gianni, his dark eyes looking at me with worry. Of course Gianni would know when there’s something wrong with me. He’s known me my entire life. Literally.

He puts one tan hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Out with it,” he says, raising one dark eyebrow.

I shake my head. “You know about the meeting I scheduled tonight with Celeste Jenkins.” I shake my head. “Didn’t go well.”

"Ah, Celeste Jenkins," Gianni says, his lips curving into a knowing smile. "Your randomly selected sacrificial lamb from Dreamscape. The one you planned to humiliate as a warning to the others." He tilts his head, studying Max's expression. "But she didn't play along with your little power game, did she?" One eyebrow arches perfectly. "Am I getting warm?"

“Goddamn you,” I say. “How can you see through me like I’m made of glass?”

Gianni just grins and shakes his head. “I knew when you told me about your little plan that it would backfire, my friend. And I told you that, too. So not surprised it didn’t go well. But what happened?”

I tell him the story and Gianni just nods along. He takes a sip of his scotch, the ice clinking against the crystal, before he lays into me. "Max," he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Look, I get it. The Nora Davis memoir was a shit show that needed handling. And yeah, Celeste fucked up by not vetting it properly before sending it upstairs. But Christ, man—you could've shot her an email instead of summoning her like some medieval king. I know you're trying to establish dominance with the Dreamscape people, but this alpha male bullshit? Sometimes it just makes you look like a dick."

I say nothing and he stares at me. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

I shrug, but my jaw clenches until I taste blood. Celeste. Her name burns like acid. Gianni's seen everything—the nightmares at seven, the bloody knuckles at twelve, me staring at my father's empty chair until Grandpa had to shake me back. When I learned how my mother died, I understood why I felt like an outcast. Everybody knows that I’m responsible for her death. I've kept women at arm's length since, letting them touch my body but never what's broken inside. But Celeste? One look and something cracked open in me, something I've spent twenty-two years sealing shut. That terrifies me more than anything my father did.

"I'm talking to Iris tomorrow about letting her go," I mutter. I pretend it's about her mistake, but the truth is simpler. I can't bear to see her again. Something in those flashing blue eyes and that wild red hair makes my chest tighten. She looked at me like she could see straight through me, and I felt naked. Exposed. If she peered any deeper into the cracks, she might actually make me believe she'd stay. And then she'd walk away, just like my father did.

"You're firing her? Over one mistake?" Gianni's eyes narrow as he leans forward. "Must be nice being infallible. The rest of us mere mortals have to live with our flaws." He drums his fingers on the desk. "Look, she pushed for that script, sure. But she didn't sign the check. That disaster had signatures all over it—development, legal, finance. If you're hunting for sacrificial lambs, why stop with her? Hell, might as well clean house entirely. A train wreck that spectacular requires multiple conductors."

I just shake my head. Celeste needs to go. My decision is final. Gianni called her a sacrificial lamb—he doesn't know the half of it. Her presence in Los Angeles is too much. Despite my CEO role keeping me away from development, I'd eventually manufacture reasons to see her. I'd feign interest in projects just to be near her. That's exactly why she has to leave. She’ll make me forget quarterly projections in board meetings. Pure kryptonite.

“So, what’s going on with you these days?” I ask him, changing the subject. “It’s been awhile since we’ve hung out like this.” And that’s true - we meet at the gym four evenings a week, as our schedules allow, but we don’t usually hang afterwards and catch up like we’re doing now.

His eyes flick down to his beer when I glare at him. The name "Celeste" hangs in the air between us for a moment, then dissolves. He clears his throat. "Lakers looked good last night." I nod, grateful that he can always pick up what I’m putting down - I don’t feel like talking about Celeste anymore. We drift through the safety of box scores and quarterly projections until, inevitably, we're laughing about Master Dawkins' econ final from senior year. The bartender rings the bell for last call. I check my watch: 1:15 AM. The Kensington merger folder sits unopened in my briefcase, sticky tabs marking twenty pages I need to memorize before 7 AM. My temples throb at the thought of it.

But thank God I have work to drown in when I get home. I need something—anything—to obliterate the memory of Celeste's hair, that untamed flame that haunts me even with my eyes closed, and those blue eyes that cut through my defenses like they were nothing, leaving me exposed, vulnerable, terrified of what she might have seen inside me.

Chapter Five

ROSA

Max

I push through the heavy mahogany front door of my Malibu estate at 3 AM to find my housekeeper Rosa still awake, the woman who bandaged my skinned knees and packed my school lunches after my father vanished and my grandparents retreated into their social obligations. The warm yellow light from the Tiffany lamp casts a halo around her as she sits in the breakfast nook, her weathered hands cupping a steaming mug of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee—the only brand she'll drink. The scent of it mingles with the faint coconut oil she's used in her hair since I was seven.

"It's 3 in the morning," I say, loosening my Italian silk tie. "What's going on?" The worry lines etched around her mouth tell me something's wrong before she speaks. I slide into the hand-carved chair across from her, the cool marble tabletop against my forearms as I pour myself coffee from the silver carafe.

She shakes her head, the gold hoops in her ears catching the light. "My father's not well. I just got a call from my sister in Kingston." Tears glisten in her eyes, turning them obsidian in the dim light.

I reach across, covering her cocoa-butter-soft hand with mine. "How not well?"

"She doesn't think he'll make it." Her voice cracks like thin ice.

"I'll send you down there on my jet." I raise my palms when her expressive eyes widen in protest. "No argument. You need to get down there as soon as you can, and you don't need the added stress of navigating TSA and cramped economy seats."

"Max, that's too much." Her Jamaican accent thickens with emotion.

"Well, I don't need the Gulfstream right now and I won't for the next few months as I'm chained to my desk here in LA, so go. I'll call Thomas tomorrow and arrange it and I'll get Ross to bring the Bentley around first thing."

Rosa shakes her head, the silver strands in her dark hair catching the light. "You are too good to me, Max," she says, my name rolling off her tongue with the familiarity of thirty years—not "Mr. Kensington," never that.