Page 19 of The Malibu Destiny

"So you've got your eye on Roman Kensington." Her tone drips with condescension. "Just so we're clear—he and I were engaged. I'm only telling you this because, well, a psychic should know these things, right? Though I'm surprised you're not working one of those late-night hotlines. The pay must be better than this... quaint setup. Roman would never take someone like you seriously anyway."

I curl my fingers into tight fists. Everything in me wants to barge in there and drag Sera out by her designer heels, but I hold back. Wait. Breathe. How the hell did she find out about Lilith? Oh, right. Casp let it slip. I should be pissed, but even my best friend screws up sometimes. I'll let this one slide.

"You've misunderstood," Lilith replies calmly. I hear cards sliding against each other. "I have zero romantic interest in Mr. Kensington. He's my employer, nothing more. I'm certain someone of your... caliber would have much better chances with him. You have nothing to worry about from me."

That's it. I'm ending this bullshit now. I storm into the doorway of the cabana, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth might shatter. "A reading, Sera? Bullshit." My voice cuts through the air like a blade. I shoot a glance at Lilith, who's staring at the floor as if her life depends on it.

My blood is boiling, pounding in my ears, but I can't pin down which part of this clusterfuck is making me want to put my fist through a wall. Is it Serafina's transparent lies? Her goddamn audacity to think she can snap her fingers and I'll come running back? Hell would freeze over first. Or is it that Lilith's denial felt like a knife to my gut? The way she spoke to Sera sounded so convincing—too convincing. Like there wasn't a single spark between us. Like I've been drowning in feelings for a woman who feels absolutely nothing in return. I'm marooned on an island again, just like with my brothers. And goddamn it, I’m tired of feeling like I’m on a deserted island.

Sera's voice slithers through the room like a viper. "Roman," she says, her red lips curling into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I was just explaining to your little card-reader that she's swimming in waters too deep for her. Your world devours hers. Different planets entirely. When people cross those lines, someone always ends up destroyed. But she already knows this, don't you, darling?"

Lilith sits frozen, her fingers motionless on her deck, all color drained from her face. Of course Serafina terrifies her—Sera's presence is a fucking hurricane in human form. Six feet of runway perfection with a bloodline so blue it makes royalty look common. Vanderbilts and Rockefellers in her family tree. The kind of woman who's never heard the word "no" and wouldn't recognize it if she did.

My chest constricts watching Lilith shrink under Sera's gaze, cornered like prey. But the knife twists deeper knowing Lilith just denied everything to Sera—denied us. Oh, what am I thinking, “us.” There is no “us.” That’s the whole fucking problem. I swallow the words rising in my throat. I won't chase. I won't make myself pathetic trying to extract feelings Lilith doesn't have. She's made it crystal fucking clear: whatever I thought was between us exists only in my goddamn imagination.

I pin Serafina with a steely glare and jerk my head toward Lilith, who still won’t meet my eyes. “Sera,” I spit out, voice low and raw. “Let’s go.”

Serafina’s lips curl into that victory grin—she’s rattled Lilith to her core. As we back away, I spot a line of gleaming VIPs queued outside Lilith’s cabana, guests clamoring for her tarot readings. It’s absurd how these high-rollers—people who make more before breakfast than most people make in five years—flock to have their futures divined. Maybe I should put a tarot deck into every resort’s gift shop. But Lilith’s gift goes deeper: rumors say her predictions actually come true. Could she really be the genuine article? I’ve always mocked psychics, but damn if my skepticism isn’t wobbling.

We hit the lobby and I’m ready to blast Serafina off my property like a pigeon. “Get the hell out,” I growl, finger aiming at the front doors where her black Jag—she parks it smack in my loading circle—gleams like a trophy. “And don’t fucking come back.”

She only smirks. “Rome,” she purrs, stepping closer, “hate and love are two sides of the same coin, remember?” Her fingertip drifts to my lips. Cold and feather-light. “We’ve always been fire.”

My jaw clenches so hard I can taste blood. Fire—yeah, that scorching agony that burned me alive the last time we tangled. We were wildcats, slashing at each other, claws sunk into flesh we both refused to surrender. I won’t let her venom seep into me again. She might’ve forgotten those nights of raw lust and ruthless fights, but I replay every scar in brutal detail. She needs off my turf, now.

“Out,” I bark, jabbing again at the Jag. The nerve of her—treating my circle drive like her personal valet zone. She could’ve handed the keys over, let my valet park it, but of course that would be an inconvenience. And inconvenience is a sin I know Serafina never commits.

She glides to her Jaguar, smooth and infuriating. “See you Saturday night,” she calls over her shoulder. “At your gala.”

Fuck. Who the hell put her on the guest list? Oh right—she’s on the Kensington International board, having seduced granddad with her beauty and charm, so she’s untouchable. Thanks, Granddad. I’m stuck with her forever.

I steel myself—yes, I’ll go to the gala. My brothers have been hammering me with messages in our group chat at three in the fucking morning—Kalen’s insomnia has him pinging everyone at ungodly hours. Every new message ping fuels my urge to tell them all to shove it. But there’s a reason I’ll drag my ass to that ballroom: Lilith will be there with Blake Walsh strutting by her side, and I’m not about to let them slip under my nose. That’s the only reason.

Pathetic.

Chapter Thirteen

LILITH

That Serafina…now that was some bad energy. Not the dark, heavy vibe Roman gives off, and not unresolved trauma, either. Her aura was a slimy green—pure jealousy—and it was so strong it felt almost tangible. After she left my cabana, I burned sage, but her energy stayed stubbornly in the air.

My next client is the wife of a U.S. Senator. She’s caught in a personal crisis over rumors that her husband, Senator Williams of Kentucky, is having an affair. With talk swirling that he’s planning a presidential run, this scandal could be disastrous.

Kelly Williams is polite but guarded. The spread I lay out for her isn’t catastrophic—it showed the scandal fading after a few news cycles and the mistress disappearing—but it did warn of some bumpy months ahead. Exactly the sort of balanced reading I like: not relentlessly dark, but not sugarcoated either—an opportunity for growth.

Once all the readings are done, I can’t wait to get home. I’ve been spending every spare minute sewing my gala dress. I grabbed that bolt of fabric yesterday after the shop closed, right after the courier delivered that rare, stunning crystal necklace, and I’ve barely put my sewing machine needle down since. I even have jeweled trim for the neckline. The design is simple—a scoop neck, sleeveless bodice, flowing skirt—but with that jeweled edging and the crystal resting at my throat, I just might blend in with the A-listers.

I find myself in the lobby, where Roman hunches over a stack of paperwork at the front desk. His eyes lift to mine, and something flutters beneath my ribs. My feet carry me toward him before I can think twice. "Rome," I say, my lips curving upward of their own accord, "that crystal you sent me... it's beyond perfect. I'm completely speechless."

He shrugs. “I saw it in the resort jewelry store and thought of you. I thought you’d like it. I read about it later—people say it’s a powerful stone that opens all your chakras and aligns your energy centers. I don’t really know what any of that means, but it sounded good.”

Hmmm…resort jewelry store? Nope. That crystal is too rare and perfect to just be hanging around in a random jewelry store, even a random jewelry store in a place like this. He had to have had a supplier get it for him. So I wonder why he’s lying about that? Why he’s trying to make it seem so casual when he obviously put a ton of thought into it? Intriguing…

“Well,” I say, “I love it.” I don’t ask the price tag, but a Painite of that quality—shipped by courier—could easily run a quarter-million dollars, plus thousands more for the platinum rope chain. I tell myself it’s pocket change for him, but even so…such an extravagant, thoughtful gift.

He smiles. "Good. I hope you wear it to the gala." He clears his throat. "I'm really glad I ran into you. Serafina. She wasn't bothering you, was she?"

I replay her words in my mind. The warning about swimming in waters too deep for me. The snide suggestion I belonged on a late-night psychic hotline—which honestly wasn’t the dig she intended, since those folks often have genuine gifts. Her casual mention of their former engagement, the implication they'd reunite. Her certainty that Roman could never truly see me, that our worlds colliding would leave someone—me—in ruins. Yet none of it landed where she aimed. Her venom revealed her fears, not my reality.