Page 13 of The Malibu Destiny

Still, as I make the long drive to the resort, I'm feeling a pang. And, even though I don't want to think about it, I do – what would Lilith say about my inability to forgive my father? And what would she say about my inability to forgive my own brother? She was the one who understood that I have harbored resentment for Max. Latent feelings that I had never been able to acknowledge before she drew it out. What would she say?

More importantly, why do I care what Lilith would say?

I get to the resort and immediately find Miranda. “What's going on?”

“Blake Walsh is here, and he's on a rampage. He demanded the presidential suite—which is already occupied—then tried to bribe the concierge with a handful of crumpled hundreds. When that didn't work, he threw a martini at a pool attendant for bringing him regular water instead of Fiji, called the female bartender a vulgar name when she cut him off, and is now threatening to urinate in the koi pond. Three guests are livestreaming it, and TMZ just called the front desk."

I roll my eyes. Blake Walsh might have five platinum records hanging on his wall, but the guy's ego is bigger than his discography. Even Ansel wouldn't touch him with his label, and my brother signs almost anyone with a pulse and decent pipes.

I find myself smirking despite the headache brewing. Hotel drama like this barely registers on my crisis meter—though watching guests hold up their phones to capture his meltdown means I'll be putting out social media fires until dawn. Whatever. The Verde Resort thrives on buzz, good or bad. Besides, Blake's tantrum gave me the perfect excuse to bail on another excruciating family dinner, so I can't complain too much.

"I'll handle Walsh personally," I tell her, already loosening my tie. "And I'll make damn sure those same phones capture every second of it. Might as well turn his PR nightmare into our marketing dream.”

I slam the mic button on my walkie-talkie, hunting for the pool attendant who’s been tailing Blake’s every move. I almost feel sorry for the guy—rumors are that Walsh has bipolar disorder. Whatever’s going on upstairs, the elevator’s stuck, so I’ll have to talk him down. If talking fails, my MMA background’s there as Plan B.

“Marcus,” I snap. “Where is he?”

“Heading for the koi pond—he’s about to piss in it.”

My heart pounds. Those koi aren’t decorations—they’re alive. I rush to the pond, grab Blake from behind, and lock my arm around his throat. He gasps and struggles as I hold him—tight enough to stop him, not hurt him. Guests circle us with phones raised, recording everything. I see their shocked faces and ease my grip slightly. I want them to understand I’m restraining him, not attacking him.

“Back off!” Blake rasps, alcohol burning his breath.

“I’m calling the cops,” I growl, voice cold. “This is private property. You try to drag my resort through the mud online, you’ll regret the day you were born. I have fixers who will obliterate your reputation—no blood, just ruin you so completely you vanish from every directory.”

I release him. Blake whirls, tears glimmering in his Irish accent. “You’re Roman Kensington. You own this place.” His voice cracks. “My Sheila… she’s gone. She left me.” He trembles, grief raw.

Not a crisis after all, then - he’s grieving, not vindictive. He won’t unleash an online assault come dawn. So I make a snap decision—get him to bed, post a guard, let Miranda soothe him tomorrow.

“Alexander,” I key up the walkie talkie, “meet me at the koi pond.”

Moments later, Alexander Papadopoulos glides in—my in-house diplomat for celebrity meltdowns. I gesture sharply: “Get him upstairs. Station yourself at his door all night.”

Alexander eases to Blake’s side, words soft but firm. Blake nods, defeated, and they melt into the crowd. Phones drop. The onlookers break into spontaneous applause. I acknowledge them with a slight nod.

Just another night at the resort: a viral meltdown that’ll light up TikTok, free publicity I can’t buy. And bonus—I dodge a tense dinner with my brothers.

Win–win.

Chapter Nine

ROMAN

The next day, I slam through the gym doors twenty minutes before Caspian. My veins are electric with leftover adrenaline from Blake's bullshit and that disaster dinner. I tape my knuckles so tight my fingertips throb, then attack the speed bag like it owes me money.

The rhythm builds until the bag's a blur, my fists connecting with machine-gun precision. I switch to the mannequin, driving my knee into its gut so hard the whole apparatus rocks backward. Sweat stings my eyes. Every punch carries the weight of my brothers' judgment, every kick fueled by self-loathing over Max. Fuck. The kid's carried enough on his shoulders—the family implosion after his birth wasn't his goddamn fault. I land a hook that would've shattered a real jaw, disgusted with myself for adding to his burden.

Caspian arrives at the gym. "You ready?"

I nod and say nothing. I just put up my fists and Caspian smiles.

"Today we're working on your Muay Thai. Your teeps need work."

For the next 45 minutes, we drill until rivulets of sweat cascade down my forehead, stinging my eyes. My knees slam into his black leather pads with a thunderous crack that echoes through the gym. My roundhouses connect with his padded ribs, the impact reverberating up my shin bone. In the clinch, my forearms tremble against his iron grip, muscles burning as if dipped in acid. I throw elbow strikes with such precision they whistle through the air—strikes that would split a man's temple like ripe fruit if they connected.

Between combinations, Caspian's voice cuts through the haze of my exhaustion, barking "Again!" and I summon what's left of my strength to deliver another blistering flurry of sok, te, kao, and tad until my lungs feel like they're filled with broken glass.

“Okay, I think that’s enough training for today.” Caspian tosses me a towel. “But you’re still letting your emotions drive you instead of your brain. Emotions are vital—you have to dig into your pain and use it—but you also need logic. So what’s really going on?”