The Arrangement

Chapter 20

The California sun, still holding onto summer's strength even with fall approaching, warmed David Silberstein's face as he stepped onto the driving range. The Santa Ana winds, thankfully absent today, often whipped through these parts, but this morning held a gentle stillness. He inhaled deeply, the air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and a faint tang of something chemical, likely the fertilizer.

David pulled a ball from the worn bucket at his feet, placed it on the tee, adjusted his stance, and gripped the driver. He swung the club, the satisfying thwack he usually craved replaced by a dull, disappointing thud. The ball dribbled pathetically off the tee, barely reaching the 100-yard marker. He swore under his breath, the sound swallowed by the vast, open space of the driving range. Usually, this was his sanctuary. The rhythmic swing, the focused concentration, the pure physics of sending a dimpled ball soaring through the air cleared his head like nothing else. Today, it was only amplifying his anxiety.

He reached for another ball, his movements jerky and frustrated. He was David Silberstein, for fuck's sake. Accomplished composer, virtuoso musician, a man who could orchestrate symphonies and craft melodies that moved millions. He could coax beauty from a piano and command an orchestra with a flick of his wrist. But he couldn't hit a damn golf ball straight, and he couldn't figure out how to tell his wife he didn't want to upend their perfectly imperfect life with a baby.

He glared at the innocent white ball, picturing Marlena's hopeful face. Marlena, with her infectious laugh and her sharp wit, was the woman who had captivated him from the moment they met. Seventeen years his junior, yes, but she had always seen past the age gap, appreciating the years of experience woven into the fabric of his being. He had promised her, hadn't he? When he knelt on one knee, the massive ring a promise of forever, he had sworn that children wouldn't be an issue.

But life, as it often did, had thrown them curveballs. Four miscarriages, each one a tiny, devastating blow. Each one chipped away at Marlena's inner light, replacing it with a quiet, aching sadness. He had watched her endure the doctor appointments, the invasive procedures, the unanswered questions, the crushing disappointment. And slowly, painfully, he had realized that maybe, just maybe, fate was telling them something. Maybe their future wasn't meant to include the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

He was content. They were content. Weren't they? Their life was a whirlwind of travel, concerts, red carpets, and quiet nights spent curled up in his studio, Marlena offering insightful critiques as he tinkered with melodies. She had always been his muse, his anchor, the steady hand guiding him through the turbulent waters of the music industry.

But now... now she had John Black. The thought sent a fresh wave of irritation coursing through him, tightening his grip on the club. John Black. Marlena's new co-host, the handsome, charismatic face of her burgeoning talk show. And, more significantly, Marlena's former lover. The one who had broken her heart into a million pieces, the one he had spent years painstakingly piecing back together.

He had been supportive, genuinely so, when Marlena landed the talk show gig. It was a fantastic opportunity, a chance for her to shine, to use her platform to advocate for the causes she believed in. He had even managed to suppress the tiny, nagging voice of insecurity that whispered in the back of his mind about her working so closely with John Black. He trusted her implicitly, of course. But he also knew the power of shared experiences, the intimacy that bloomed in the hothouse environment of television production.

He had naively hoped that Marlena's demanding new schedule would quell her desire for a child. Instead, it seemed to have intensified it. She was more eager than ever to have a baby and now, they were on the cusp of pursuing surrogacy.

He swung again, harder this time, trying to exorcise the demons swirling in his head. The ball sliced sharply to the right, disappearing into the rough. He slammed the club into the ground, the metallic clang echoing his frustration.