Page 2 of The Malibu Destiny

“Ah. As in Roman Kensington, who owns this resort.”

No shit, Sherlock. I resist the urge to slow-clap.

She straightens her spine. “Mr. Kensington, I sense you weren’t expecting me and have doubts about what I bring to the table.”

“Impressive deduction. What’s next—you’ll guess my zodiac sign?” The sarcasm drips from my voice before I can stop it. But Jon Bevin, the five-star chef at our flagship restaurant, just handed in his resignation for some Food Network gig, and my patience was thin to begin with. Though if I’m honest, my default setting isn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows anyway.

She smiles knowingly. “Oh, I already know your zodiac sign. You’re an Aries.”

I lean back, arms crossed. “A what?”

“An Aries. Born late March to late April. Stubborn, ambitious, fiery, natural leader.” She ticks each trait off on her fingers. “Basically, you.”

I narrow my eyes. April 15 is my birthday—she nailed it. But there’s my Wikipedia page, my Forbes profile, the Wall Street Journal piece last quarter. Any halfway competent person would’ve researched me before walking in here and would discover my birthday. This little parlor trick doesn’t prove anything except she can use Google.

She mirrors my stance, arms crossed tight against her chest. “Look, Mr. Kensington,” she says, voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck. “I battled the 405 all the way from Venice Beach because your recruiter called about a tarot position for your VIPs. That’s an hour of my life I won’t get back. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish what I started with Ms. Baudeliere.” Her eyebrow arches like a challenge. “It’s not my problem if you’re out of the loop on your own company’s hiring practices.” Something dangerous flashes in her eyes, and I return it with a glare cold enough to make hell freeze over.

I lean forward, my jaw tight. “Let me make this crystal clear. Your employment at this resort is my decision, not Ms. Baudeliere’s. I sign the checks around here. You want in? You go through me.”

“Fine,” she says, her eyes darting to Miranda like a lifeline. I catch the glance—she’s hoping I’ll walk away so she can work her mumbo-jumbo on my more susceptible employee. Fat chance.

I check my watch. The Blackstone meeting starts in fifteen minutes. Any sane CEO would delegate this tarot card situation and move on. But I’m not going to. If I leave now, Miranda might turn my five-star establishment into some New Age retreat center with incense and wind chimes. No thanks. This tarot reader either impresses me right now with something substantial, or security shows her the door.

“So,” I say, leaning forward. “Why should I let you stay five more minutes on these resort grounds?”

Without a word, she reaches into her worn canvas bag and pulls out a deck of tarot cards. The cards make a soft shuffling sound as she divides them into two neat stacks on my desk. Her gaze meets mine directly—steady, unblinking.

“Mr. Kensington,” she says, gesturing toward the twin piles. “Choose one.”

I fold my arms across my chest, jaw tightening. The last thing I need is some fortune-telling nonsense. But Miranda’s insistence echoes in my head—something about high-profile clients requesting this service. I exhale slowly. Perhaps my skepticism is limiting me. If the ultra-wealthy are paying for this, there must be some value I’m missing. The only way to know is to let her demonstrate.

She fans the cards across the table, studies them with narrowed eyes. “This is a 17 card Celtic Cross. Much more involved than the typical 10 card spread.” Her mouth twitches as she studies them. “I see a child with deep scars,” she murmurs. “Alcoholic father who vanished early. Mother has died. You’ve navigated life feeling abandoned, and now even within your own family, you stand alone.”

My gaze snaps to Miranda. That’s it—Miranda’s fired for real. If she fed this fraud my personal history, crossed that line to get her friend hired...And she must have. How else would this Lilith Sydney know about my father’s drinking, his disappearing act, my mother’s death when I was barely two? How else would she know my brothers have ostracized me because I refuse to welcome our father back with open arms?

But “child with deep scars”? I’m the fucking CEO of a $50 billion international resort. I’m thirty-three years old. Not a fucking “child with deep scars.”

I lean forward. “What in those cards tell you all that?”

She nods. “The reversed King of Cups at the center shows someone trapped by trauma, unable to move forward, emotionally unstable, unreliable, making poor decisions. That’s your father. The Devil crossing signifies an addiction or entanglement—clearly not yours but your father’s.”

“Okay,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Go on.” In spite of myself, I’m becoming intrigued.

She nods and points to some more cards. “Your foundation card—the Five of Cups—speaks of loss and disappointment. The Tower in the past confirms a sudden upheaval: his abandonment.”

I sit back in my seat and nod for her to continue.

She points to the future card: “Four of Wands—a joyful reunion waits. But your present mindset is the Five of Swords: resentment, unwilling to forgive.”

My fingers drum the polished wood. Cool blue light from the window frames her profile. I glance at Miranda. “If I find you breached my privacy—fired. Understood?”

Miranda simply nods. “On my honor.”

Lilith returns to the spread. “Eight of Cups—abandonment, walking away—surrounds the situation. Position nine: Six of Cups—longing for reunion but fearing repeated loss. Yet The Sun as the outcome promises lasting joy. So…”

“Sounds like you might have the happy reunion with your father after all,” Miranda says, clearly amused.

I lean in closer. “That thing you mentioned—about me feeling isolated in my own family. How can you tell?”