Page 43 of The Malibu Destiny

Of course there's a formal agenda; there always is with us Kensingtons. We're not the type to spontaneously grab beers and pizza on a Tuesday, save for birthdays or holidays when obligation dictates. No, when all eight of us are commanded to appear, something significant is brewing. And as I flip open the leather folio with "RK" gleaming on its cover, I finally understand why we've been summoned today.

And there's Serafina, perched at the table like she belongs here. I shake my head. Of course she'd show up—minority shareholder on Granddad's Kensington International board and never one to miss flaunting it. No one bothered to mention this was a goddamn boardroom ambush rather than the casual sit-down I'd been promised.

Goddamn it. This little meeting is a set up, plain as day. I suspect this when I see Sera. My suspicion is confirmed when my father's weathered face appears in the doorway of Max's mahogany-paneled office, those familiar crow's feet crinkling around eyes that mirror my own.

I shake my head, my fingers curling into fists against the polished conference table. How dare they? Cameron invited me with his usual cryptic text—just a time and place, no details—and sure, with eight Kensington brothers under one roof, shit always goes down. But this? This crosses a line.

My jaw locks tight enough to crack a walnut, teeth grinding as I stare at the man who walked out twenty-two years ago. The familiar rage bubbles up like lava, hot and destructive.

I'm going to need Lilith's cool hands on my temples tonight, her lavender scent washing over me as she whispers ridiculous affirmations that always seem to work. And Caspian—I'll text him for an emergency session at the gym, where I can pummel the heavy bag until my knuckles bleed through the wraps. We've been sparring twice weekly, but with the tournament looming, I'll need more mat time anyway.

Still, I plant my Italian leather shoes firmly on Max's herringbone floor. The old Roman would've already slammed the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. But after those magical nights with Lilith, something shifted. I'm still seething, but I remain seated, white-knuckling my way through civility.

I shoot a death glare at Cameron, who shifts uncomfortably in his Italian leather chair, his tanned face flushing. His eyes drop to the polished mahogany table between us. He knows exactly what he did.

Cameron clears his throat, the sound echoing in our father's cavernous study. "We all know why we're here. Everybody but Roman anyways."

Everybody but Roman? The familiar acid burn of betrayal rises in my chest. This just gets worse by the second, like watching a five-star resort crumble in slow motion.

So, the rest of my brothers—all seven of them sitting around me with their identical Kensington jawlines—have been privy to information I haven't. And of course I'm the last to know. Way to go guys, make me feel like I'm even more on a deserted island. I cross my arms over my chest, the fabric of my shirt pulling tight across my shoulders, and continue drilling holes into Cameron with my glare.

Cameron leans forward in his leather chair, fingers steepled under his chin. "Roman," he says in that practiced compassionate voice—the one with the slight vocal fry at the end that makes my jaw clench and my temples throb. "The reason why you have not been in the loop on this is because all of us brothers have been trying to get something together before including you, because we know that you're going to be a hold out. We didn't want you to get in on the ground floor of this, because..." His voice trails off, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

Connor jumps in, his square jaw set with determination. "What Cameron's trying to say is that we all knew that you would try to sabotage it from the beginning, so we wanted to get the details worked out before we included you in it."

My fingers curl into fists against the mahogany table, knuckles whitening. I can't wait to find out what they're talking about. Whatever it is, it's clearly something that's going to make me want to flip this entire conference table and pummel all of them with my bare hands until their designer clothes are stained with blood.

I level a gaze at them that could freeze hellfire. "Go on," I say, my voice dangerously quiet. Everyone except my father. Him, I refuse to acknowledge. One glance in his direction and I might snap completely. The Verde board of directors wouldn't appreciate having to explain a homicide to their shareholders, so I keep my eyes fixed elsewhere, jaw clenched so tight my teeth might crack.

Cameron clears his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously beneath his crisp collar. "As you know, Roman, our father has been recovering from a decades-long alcohol addiction and has been stocking organic produce at Whole Foods while he tries to rebuild his shattered life. And our father now considers himself fully recovered—he still attends his twice-weekly meetings in that dingy church basement, but swears the burning urge to drink has finally subsided. He's practically glowing with Patricia Jenkins, and there might even be wedding bells on the horizon. He's currently occupying the poolside guest house at Max's Malibu estate..."

Oh, really? Dad is lounging at Max's oceanfront paradise now, is he? Complete fucking news to me. Then again, anything involving Dad would be news to me considering my brothers tiptoe around the subject like it's a sleeping bear with a hangover.

"Well," Cameron continues, fidgeting with his platinum wedding band that he still wears years after his wife was killed in that car accident, "Max thought it would be healing for Dad to bond with his first grandchild,” which explains the guest house situation. “The point is, Dad is finally stable, sober, and eager to channel his energy into a meaningful project." Cameron's steel-blue eyes lock onto mine with laser focus, and suddenly I feel seven pairs of Kensington eyes burning into me from around the table. They're all holding their breath, waiting to see if Mount Roman will erupt or stay dormant. And, truth be told, I'm wondering the same fucking thing.

I tilt my head back, staring at the ornate crown molding of the ceiling, and Lilith's face materializes in my mind—those topaz eyes, that crooked smile. Yes. The tightness in my chest loosens, like a fist unclenching. When I lower my gaze back to my brothers, they're frozen in a tableau of caution—Cameron's jaw clenched, Ansel's fingers drumming silently on his thigh, Max shifting his weight from one Italian leather shoe to the other.

"Go on," I say, my voice deceptively calm. Then I lock eyes with Cameron, my stare as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. "And if you want me to say yes to any fool thing you're going to present to me, you better not have him present it." No need to specify who "him" is. The temperature in the room drops five degrees at the mere suggestion of our father.

Cameron's shoulders tense as he inhales deeply, his knuckles whitening as he nervously clenches his fists. "Now, as you probably know, Roman, our father has been living for years on Uncle Thomas' farm in England—that sprawling estate with the stone cottage and rolling green pastures. What you don't know," he continues, voice dropping to nearly a whisper, "is that between milking Holsteins and tending those prized heirloom tomatoes, Dad's been obsessing over blueprints for a chain of eco-friendly hotels. Twenty years he's hunched over Thomas’ antique oak desk, sketching solar panels and rainwater collection systems. Thomas—with his Greenpeace t-shirts and that compost heap bigger than my first apartment—sparked something in Dad. It started as late-night conversations over home-brewed ale, but now?" Cameron's eyes meet Roman's. "Dad's got detailed renderings that would make your architects weep."

I can feel my jaws clenching so hard my molars might crack. The vein in my temple throbs like a countdown timer. "Let me fucking guess." My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You want to brand this chain of eco-friendly resorts as Kensington Properties, so that Dad's concept can capitalize on the Kensington name. So that people will flock to his resorts thinking that I'm behind it."

Heat crawls up my neck, my skin tight as a drum. "Absolutely fucking not. No fucking way." I finally look at my father, whose watery green eyes dart away like frightened fish. "Dad, how dare you? How fucking dare you?" My fist comes down on the mahogany table, rattling the crystal water glasses. "You leave us for over two decades, no word, now you're here and you want to ask me to help you launch a resort chain? Goddamn, that's probably the richest thing I've ever heard."

I slam back into my chair, knuckles white against the armrests. Cameron's lost his goddamn mind. He knows—KNOWS—how I feel about that bastard who calls himself my father. Twenty-two years. Twenty-two FUCKING years he was gone, and now he wants to ride my coattails?

My blood is practically boiling under my skin. They're trying to hijack everything I've built, every sleepless night, every deal I clawed my way through. The Kensington name on my resorts means something because I MADE it mean something. And they want to slap that prestige onto his properties? I'd sooner burn my entire empire to the ground. Cameron, my brothers, my father—they can all go to hell if they think I wouldn't see through this pathetic scheme.

Cameron leans forward in his leather chair, his expensive watch catching the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max’s office. "Now, Roman," he says, his voice taking on that placating tone he's used since we were kids. "Hear me out. You have a name in the resort business. One of the most prestigious names, if not the most prestigious. The guests you host are royalty with their private jets and entourages, business titans who close billion-dollar deals in your conference rooms, A-list celebrities hiding behind designer sunglasses. They'll still flock to your marble-floored lobbies.”

I narrow my eyes. "Cut the crap, Cam. I can see right through your sweet talk. Whatever bad news you're about to drop, no amount of flattery is gonna soften the blow. Just saying."

He nods. “Noted.” And then goes on with his fool idea. “Dad's new concept won't interfere with your brand at all. He'll be chasing a completely different clientele—the kind of wealthy eco-conscious elites who glide through Malibu in matte-black Teslas and custom Lucid Airs with sustainably harvested walnut dashboards. The type who host charity galas for endangered butterflies while wearing vintage Rolexes, who demand their five-star luxury be wrapped in reclaimed bamboo and organic linen. They'll pay triple for bedding hand-stuffed with ethically sourced Mongolian cashmere, expect their heated infinity pools to run on rooftop solar arrays, and won't touch a morsel unless the menu specifies which local farm grew each microgreen garnishing their plates. And we’d like to fold it into your Verde resorts, so it could be a subsidiary or an off-shoot of the Verde name. It’ll be called ‘Sunstone by Kensington.’”

I narrow my eyes, feeling the muscle in my jaw twitch the way it always does when Dad comes up. "So, Dad will steal Leonardo DiCaprio from me, then." My fingers tighten around my water glass. "Because Leo's passion is saving the planet. Right now, he stays in my presidential suites when he visits overseas. But Dad will snag him right out from under my nose, along with his Hollywood entourage and all that influence."

I slam the glass down, clear liquid sloshing over the rim. "No. I won't have Dad riding my coattails after twenty-two years of nothing. Dad can build his eco-resort empire, but the Kensington name stays with me. If he tries to use it, I swear to God, I'll drain every account I have fighting him in court. And as for this concept being folded into Kensington Properties as an off-shoot of Verde, cold day in hell comes to mind.”