Page 76 of The Malibu Destiny

My fingers tap a staccato rhythm against the glass tabletop. I need leverage. Something concrete that would hold up in court—federal court—or she'll dismiss this entire situation with that infuriating laugh of hers.

"This information is promising, but insufficient. I need to establish a timeline for the insider trading. Dates, specifics. Then I'll have Sven breach her email server, search for correspondence with this contact. If we find evidence of a tip-off, she'll have no choice but to back down."

But even as I say it, I know we're grasping at straws. What are the odds she'd leave such an obvious digital trail?

Caspian's jaw tightens. "I have the dates," he says, pulling a crumpled paper from his pocket. "Been carrying this around like a fucking grenade with the pin half-pulled. Every day I wake up thinking today's the day I call the feds. But she's my blood. My goddamn sister."

I slam my fist on the table, making the glasses jump. "I don't need her in handcuffs. Yet. I need a sword hanging over her neck." I lean in, voice dropping to a razor's edge. "Because if she gets these investors whispering about my father's drinking, or breathes one syllable about Lilith being a witch, I will personally escort her through the gates of hell. Twenty years in federal prison will feel like a spa retreat compared to what I'll do. I'll take everything—her money, her reputation, her future—until she's begging for those prison bars to protect her from me. So I get those dates, and that beautiful mouth of hers stays permanently shut."

He gives me the dates and I text Sven.

Got a job. Meet me at the resort tomorrow at 10.

Got it.

I smile. It’s a long-shot, but if it works…Lilith will be mine, with no threat hanging over her head. Or my head, for that matter. My father’s secrets will be safe.

God, I hope there’s some kind of trail…

Chapter Forty-Five

LILITH

I have to admit, I'm falling for Carmel-by-the-Sea, with its cypress-lined streets and cottages that look plucked from storybooks. This morning, I spread my turquoise mat on sand that felt like crushed velvet between my toes, the misty air clinging to my skin as I flowed through my Vinyasas.

Just four miles south is a dense forest where I go to clear my head. The Japanese call it shinrin-yoku—forest bathing. I sit on pine needles and just listen: wind in the trees, birds, the smell of moss and earth. It’s where I can finally breathe.

Further south stretches Big Sur, where ancient redwoods at Pfeiffer State Park thrust upward like nature's skyscrapers, their cinnamon-colored trunks wider than my arms could ever encircle.

Venice Beach has its charms—the people-watching, the energy—but here, nature takes over. Last night, I drove the coastal highway to Big Sur, turned off my headlights, and looked up at more stars than I'd ever seen. The Milky Way was clearly visible, something impossible through LA's light pollution. My new shop is in a little Tudor cottage with leaded windows and a curved roof.

Can this paradise replace Roman? No. My heart still aches for him like a phantom limb—for his stormy dark eyes that soften only for me, for the sandalwood scent of his skin. But I can't risk Sera poisoning what Roman and Michael have painstakingly rebuilt. Their relationship is like a bonsai tree—meticulously tended, beautiful in its fragility. The resort they're creating together is the soil in which their reconciliation grows stronger each day. So I'll stay here instead, letting the waves and trees calm me down when I start to ache for him again.

And I’ll be going soon for my chakra balancing with Raven. That’ll help me so much, along with meditating, crystal healing and the forest bathing.

This morning, after my sunrise Vinyasas on the beach—sand still clinging to my ankles, hair smelling of salt—I step into Raven's incense-hazed shop. She presses her cool palms against my shoulders, her bangles jingling softly as her amber eyes narrow in concentration.

"Oh, Lilith," she whispers, her voice honeyed with concern, "every one of your chakras are blocked tight as seashells. But your heart chakra is practically pulsing with dark energy. We'll start there, unravel that knot first, then work through the others in the coming days."

So, for three hours this morning, we work on opening my heart chakra. Raven burns sage and palo santo, the smoke curling around us as we sit cross-legged on embroidered floor pillows. She places a rose quartz crystal between my breasts, its cool weight centering me, while smaller pieces of green aventurine form a circle around us.

"Visualize emerald light," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the singing bowl she occasionally strikes. "See it pulsing outward from your chest, dissolving any walls you've built." I try, I really do, breathing in lavender oil and breathing out the name of everyone who'd ever hurt me.

By the time the heart chakra ritual is over, I feel lighter, as if someone has lifted a granite slab from my chest. The emerald-green candles are burned down to nubs, their melted wax forming tiny crystalline pools on the meditation mat.

Tomorrow, we will work with my root chakra, grounding me to the earth again, and then the day after, the solar plexus chakra, which Raven says is a sickly yellow instead of the vibrant gold it should be. All of these energy centers clogged with the debris of memories—Roman's calloused fingertips brushing my cheek, the scent of his sandalwood cologne, the way his voice would drop to a whisper when he told me he loved me.

I text Jack.

Loving it up here! I can’t wait for you to join me.

I also text him pictures: of the forest with its towering redwoods dappled in golden afternoon light, the beach where foam-tipped waves crash against pristine sand, and the weathered cedar cottage with its peeling blue trim and charming bay windows—the place where Mystic Tides will soon find its new home.

Three gray dots appear on my screen, pulsing hypnotically. They linger there, second after excruciating second, like the pendulum of some invisible clock counting down to an unknown revelation. My stomach tightens. Jack never writes novels unless something's seriously wrong.

I finally get it.

LILITH SYDNEY! Honey-bunny-sugar-plum! Fab to hear you're thriving in your little hideaway, but RED ALERT Roman knows you've flown the coop and WHY. Oopsie-daisy! But like, don't give me those judgy eyes through the phone—you KNOW my mouth is like a broken piñata around him. Secrets just fall out! He hasn't pinpointed your exact coordinates yet, but that man's brain is like a sexy GPS system. Tick-tock! Spilled ALL the tea about Shady Barbie and her diabolical shenanigans. Sooooo... don't be shocked when Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Temperamental comes storming up your driveway like a romance novel cover come to life. XOXO with sprinkles on top! ~Jack