Page 68 of The Malibu Destiny

Part of me wishes I could have sat beside him in that sterile waiting room, but what comfort could I really offer? Something tells me he and Michael needed that time alone anyway. As I unlock my townhouse door, a warm certainty fills me—father and son have crossed some invisible threshold today. I can't explain how I know, but I do. The fortress around Roman's heart has been developing tiny fissures for months now, barely visible but significant. Like cracks in a dam that start as whisper-thin lines before the whole structure gives way to the pressure behind it.

The doorbell chimes at 8 sharp. Roman stands in the doorway, all six-foot-four of him filling the frame. Jack circles him like a hummingbird to nectar, his attention to Seth apparently forgotten. I can't blame him—Roman draws people in without even trying, something magnetic in the way he holds himself.

"You made it," I say, ushering him toward the kitchen where the scent of melted mozzarella and marinara hangs in the air. My chicken parm isn't fancy—just breaded cutlets, jarred sauce, and cheese that bubbles golden at the edges—but it's honest comfort food, paired with asparagus spears and a simple salad.

His lips brush my cheek, but his eyes are somewhere else entirely. After we eat, instead of joining Jack for movie night on the sofa—tempting as that sounds—I lead Roman to the balcony. We stand side by side under the night sky, his silence a tangible thing between us. I let it be.

Roman's eyes lock with mine, his voice raw. "Lilith, my father's heart stopped today. For three minutes, he was gone." His fingers tremble slightly. "If Whole Foods hadn't had that defibrillator..." He trails off, jaw clenching. "When I was thirteen, my swim teammate Dave just... collapsed after a meet. Perfect health, stronger than me even." Roman's voice catches. "Long QT Syndrome—his heart couldn't recharge between beats. That school had no equipment. Nothing." He shakes his head. “Goddamn school, not having basic life-saving equipment. Our school had one, of course, but not this Holy Cross school who hosted our meet. If our meet was at home, he would’ve lived a long life.”

"What kind of equipment?" I ask softly.

"AED. Automated external defibrillator." His eyes darken with memory. "One shock could have saved Dave. Given him a chance at a pacemaker, medication, a future." Roman's knuckles whiten. "My father got that chance today. But for those three minutes..."

I reach for his hand, my stomach plummeting. His text had only said his father was in the hospital—not that Michael's heart had stopped beating before doctors brought him back.

"Oh, Roman...how terrifying."

"Yeah." His voice catches. “Knowing your dad flatlined, even for a few minutes..." He shakes his head. "Changes how you see everything." He squeezes my fingers. "I'm not saying all is forgiven. But I'm ready to let him back in."

"I know," I whisper. The investor's meeting for Michael's resort project had already told me that much, but hearing Roman say it aloud makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

Roman's eyes meet mine, vulnerable in a way I've rarely seen. "But I realized something. I'm still waiting for him to disappear again. And that's why—" he swallows hard, "—why I've tried to keep you at arm's length too. Once you've been blindsided like that...you start expecting everyone to vanish. You build walls. Prepare for the worst. Because nothing hurts more than being caught completely off guard by someone walking away."

I nod. "Since we're sharing our deepest fears, I should probably tell you mine."

"I'm listening."

"I worry about what happens when the fairy tale ends. Right now, everything's magical—the way you look at me, the electricity when we touch, those late-nights where we're discovering each other. But someday the magic fades." I pause, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve. "On nights I'm alone in my bed, I stare at the ceiling thinking about the moment you'll finally see the reality—a billionaire hotel king and a woman who reads tarot cards for a living. When that day comes, what's stopping you from walking away?"

His smile vanishes, replaced by a look of raw hunger. "Lilith." Her name sounds like a prayer on his lips. "When the honeymoon ends—when we're stripped bare of pretense—I'll still be here, clawing my way back to you every damn day." He grips the edge of the table until his knuckles whiten. "My entire life has been warfare inside my skull. A fucking bloodbath. I've channeled it—through the hotels, through beating Caspian to a pulp in the ring, through pushing my body until it breaks." His voice drops to a growl. "But the chaos always returns. Always. Except with you." He reaches for my hand, his touch desperate. "You silence the screaming. You're not just a want, Lilith. You're oxygen. You're salvation. And I will burn this world to ashes before I let you go."

I nod, relieved. “Well, since you put it that way….”

His eyes lock with mine, burning with raw intensity. "You don't have to worry about me leaving. But you—" his voice breaks, "if you bolt when things get tough..." He grabs my hands so tightly it almost hurts. "I'm not there yet, but goddammit, I'm trying. Because losing you would destroy me. I'd shatter like my father did."

His breath catches as realization floods his face. "My father—" he whispers, voice ragged. "My mother wasn't just someone he loved. She was his fucking oxygen. Just like you're mine." His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "That's why he broke. He couldn't breathe anymore."

A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows hard. I grip his arm, feeling the tension vibrating through him. He's finally seeing the truth about his father. About why his father left. And when he fully understands, fully absorbs it, that forgiveness will break like a dam.

I can already feel the flood coming.

Chapter Forty

ROMAN

Fight day. My heart hammers against my ribs as I stare down Phoenix Fraser across the locker room. Bastard's built like a brick shithouse—same height, same reach, but his eyes are dead cold. Silicon Valley hedge fund prick with something to prove. I catch him looking at the ALS Research logo on his shorts—his father withered away from it. I touch the pink ribbon on my own gear, feeling Mom's absence like a phantom limb. Fraser wants this win? He'll have to pry it from my bloody hands.

The arena for our charity match gleams under spotlights that catch on the eight-sided cage, its black padding worn at the corners from previous fighters' grips. The canvas floor, stretched taut and painted with sponsor logos, gives slightly under my feet as I pace the perimeter. Around us, tiered seating climbs toward a ceiling hung with banners from past tournaments—almost indistinguishable from the professional octagon where I've watched countless UFC championships.

Caspian is talking to me, making sure I have the Eye of the Tiger out there in that ring. “You’ve been more focused lately than I’ve seen you. Remember your arsenal—those lightning jabs that come out of nowhere, that vicious leg sweep that took down Dominguez last month, and especially that guillotine choke that makes even the veterans tap out in seconds. You've got the killer instinct of a shark that smells blood in the water. You got this."

The crowd blurs until I spot my family—all seven brothers, Dad, even my grandparents. Nana's going to clutch her pearls when Phoenix and I start throwing hands in the cage. My gaze finds Lilith, leaning toward Max, her hands animated as they talk. Max has my face plastered across his chest, my tournament number bold beneath it. On his other side, Celeste—Max's wife—shadow-boxes with surprising intensity, jabbing and hooking at invisible opponents. I've never given her much time, writing her off as bland after a few polite conversations. Watching her now, mimicking fight moves with such enthusiasm, I feel a twinge of regret for keeping her at arm's length.

The referee goes through the rules, raises his hand, and the match is on. I feel a focus I haven't felt before as I circle Phoenix, gauging distance. When he telegraphs a jab, I slip left, countering with a leg kick that connects with a satisfying thud against his calf. He winces but recovers, pressing forward. I sprawl instinctively when he shoots for a double-leg takedown, driving my hips down and framing his head with my forearm, the charity match crowd roaring their approval.

Phoenix's right hook catches me square in the jaw. My vision blurs as I stumble backward, my gloves instinctively rising to protect my face. The canvas shifts under my feet. Sweat and blood sting my eyes. Through the chain-link fence of the octagon, I glimpse Lilith's face among the crowd—her hands pressed against her mouth, eyes wide—flanked by Max, Celeste, and my brothers. The ref hovers nearby, watching for signs to call it. I spit my mouthguard into my glove, reposition it, and nod at Phoenix. The buzzer marks the end of round two. In my corner, Caspian whispers urgently as he presses ice against my swelling eye. "He's dominating the ground game. Keep it standing."

The first two rounds are a brutal dance of near-misses. His jab grazes my chin; my hook catches nothing but air. Sweat stings my eyes as we circle each other under the glaring lights. By the end of round two, the electronic scoreboard flashes his advantage: 5-4. The crowd's roar fades to white noise. Three rounds is all we get in these charity amateur matches—one last chance.