Page 5 of The Malibu Arrangement

“They rubber-stamped it, you mean.”

“No, they approved it. I passionately pitched it to senior leadership and the project was approved.” I take a sip of the water. “So, why am I on the hot-seat here? I didn’t make the final approval. Lots of people were involved in developing it.”

He closes his eyes and then, when he opens them again, they’re almost a different color. The green has turned almost amber and I see fury behind them. I’m automatically chilled to the bone.

“Ms. Jenkins,” he begins in an even voice. “Development executives are the gatekeepers. A development executive at Kensington Pictures can't afford to hemorrhage millions on every unvetted memoir that lands in their inbox. I need someone who can recognize garbage before it costs us. And frankly, after this disaster, I'm not merely questioning your instincts—I'm having nightmares about what you might do to my bottom line if I let you anywhere near acquisition decisions."

I blink fast, trying not to cry. His words hurt more than just criticism—they tear open old wounds I've covered up with excuses. All those rejection letters for my screenplays are saved in a folder on my laptop, like a cemetery filled with "sorry" and "not for us." I've told myself it's okay because I'm good at finding other people's talent, even if no one sees mine. But now Max makes me doubt the one thing I thought I was good at. If I can't write and I can't do my job, what's left? My whole career feels like it's built on sand, sinking under me.

"So, you're concerned about my judgment. Couldn't this have been an email?" I bite my tongue because I really want to ask him if it could've been a fucking email. But Elaine would absolutely murder me if I tanked this meeting. Like, literal murder. Body in the Pacific Ocean, sharks having Celeste tartare for dinner.

"I just got off the phone with Iris about that memoir debacle. Two million dollars down the drain." His jaw tightened. "We need to address this now, and I want you to deliver a message back to your studio: pull something like this again, and heads will roll."

"Heads will roll? Everyone at Dreamscape is flesh and blood, just like the people who work for you. We slip up sometimes. I regret how the Nora Davis situation unraveled, but that's the nature of this business. You start axing staff over one error, and by Christmas, you'll be running the studio without any help.”

He leans forward, his green eyes flashing like polished stone. "In the future, people will lose their jobs over mistakes like this," he says, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "That's the only reason you're sitting here. Not for the wine list or the view—just so I can make something perfectly clear. When $2 million disappears because someone wasn't paying attention, I don't just shrug it off. You might not be scared now, but wait until the papers are signed and your entire studio answers to me. I want you to spread the word. Make sure everyone understands exactly what's coming."

“Oh, I see,” I say. “I’m the sole survivor.” That makes sense, actually.

“Excuse me?”

“The sole survivor. The one gangster they leave breathing after the bloodbath, just so he can stagger back to the neighborhood and spread the word.” I puff out my cheeks, drop my voice to a gravelly whisper, and stroke my jawline with my knuckles. "Joey got what was coming to him. Nobody betrays the family and lives to tell about it," I rasp in my best Marlon Brando as Don Corleone, though I'm pretty sure I sound more like someone choking on a fishbone. “That's your play here—send me crawling back to Dreamscape with your boot print still visible on my ass."

“You get it then,” Max says.

I take a deep breath. "I get it then? I get it then?" I bite my lower lip as realization washes over me. This meeting wasn't just a power play—it was a calculated humiliation. An hour in bumper-to-bumper traffic, my canceled Pilates class, sixty dollars wasted on parking and Uber, the stares when I clomped into Patrician, a five-star fine-dining restaurant, in my rainbow boots. All of it orchestrated by him. And Mom... her voice on the phone last night had that papery quality it gets before a bad spell. I should be at her apartment right now with soup from that deli she likes, not sitting here while this asshat makes his point.

I push back from the table, my chair legs scraping against the floor. The urge to stand and storm out burns in my chest, but I remain seated, watching him through narrowed eyes. He's picked me to humiliate, turning me into his cautionary tale. Each word he speaks, each gesture he makes, screams control. The message is clear: he commands, we obey. Just pieces on his board, to be sacrificed when convenient.

My fingers dig into the chair's armrests until my knuckles bleach bone-white. I've endured enough. He wants me to break, to send me crawling back to Dreamscape as his cautionary tale—the development exec who faced the wrath of our new corporate master. Not today. Let him find someone else to terrorize.

"You know what?" My chair scrapes against marble as I stand. "I'm done. Take my carrots home in a brown paper bag—oh wait, The Centurion doesn't do takeout for the ruling class, does it? What a waste." I grab my purse, knuckles white around the strap. "I won't be your verbal punching bag another minute. I'm a person, not some pawn you can push around your little corporate chessboard. Game over."

I slam my napkin onto the table, nearly knocking over my water glass, and wrench myself out of the chair. The legs screech against the floor as I storm out, my heels stabbing the polished wood with each step. Every instinct screams to look back—is he already calling Iris? Is he watching me leave with that cold, calculating stare? My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Jesus Christ, what have I done? Three years at Dreamscape—three years of late nights and weekends sacrificed—all of it incinerated in ten seconds of stupidity. My throat tightens as I push through the door. By tomorrow morning, my keycard probably won't even work.

I stumble out of the club, vision blurred from crying, and fumble with my phone to summon an Uber. Tomorrow's first task: dusting off that resumé.

Chapter Four

SPARRING SESSION

Max

After Celeste stormed out of the restaurant, I stared at the empty chair across from me, my knuckles white around my phone. My thumb hovered over Iris's contact. One call and Celeste would be packing her desk by morning. The waiter approaches with a hesitant smile, refilling my water glass that I hadn't touched. I straighten my tie and force my shoulders back. Employees don't walk away from Max Kensington. Not if they want to keep their jobs. Not if they want to stay in this industry at all.

I change after dinner and go to the Patrician gym. I check my phone. 7:58 PM. Two minutes until Gianni shows up. My hands already itch for the cold metal of the barbell. I picture myself under the bench press, Gianni's steady hands hovering just inches above the bar as I push through that final rep, his voice counting down—"three, two, one"—until I can finally exhale. My jaw unclenches just thinking about it. The vein that's been throbbing at my temple since Celeste stormed off might finally stop pulsing.

Gianni and I have been inseparable since Malibu Montessori at five—navy uniforms with dolphin logos—through Harvard-Westlake prep's calculus hell. We split for college; I chose USC for film while he went to Harvard. But he's always been there when it mattered. Like when I was seven, hiding in the garage that rainy February afternoon my father loaded his Porsche and drove away forever, leaving only the echo of a slammed door and my grandparents sobbing on the porch. Gianni found me there, my world shattered.

While I wait for him in the gym, I slam my fist into the speed bag until the chain rattles. Then I destroy Steve, my sparring mannequin. I lunge, vision narrowing as I drive my knee into his gut. My split knuckles leave blood on the vinyl. I can't stop. Something feral claws inside me. Is it because Celeste walked away like I was nothing? Or because she made me feel alive? Those emerald eyes cutting through my bullshit. Her copper hair falling across ivory skin. The freckles I wanted to trace. My chest seized when she spoke, and I hated it. Hated how much I needed her next words.

Gianni materializes beside me, palms raised in mock surrender. "Hey now, let's not traumatize Steve for life." His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as his arm settles across my shoulders. "I haven't seen those worry lines since the Paramount pitch. What's up?”

I shrug. As much as I want to spill my guts to my best friend, the guy who’s seen me through some of the worst times of my life, I can’t quite articulate exactly why I’m feeling so pissed. “Nothing, man. Let’s go.”

For the next hour, we pump iron. I grunt through squats until my quads scream, metal bar digging into my trapezius. I load another plate onto the leg press, determined to crush my fury beneath 300 pounds of steel. My goal: exhaust myself enough to finish work tonight with a clear head. But even after this punishment—shirt soaked, hair plastered to my forehead, salt on my lip—the tightness in my jaw remains. My gaze finds Steve, the sparring mannequin in the corner, his blank face begging for the beat-down I still crave.

Gianni just shakes his head as he sees me eyeing Steve. “Max, you pounded Steve enough. I know you have a lot of merger reports you need to get to at home but maybe it all can wait. Let’s get a drink. You look like you need it.”