Page 8 of The Malibu Destiny

Chapter Five

ROMAN

After the reading with the Countess, I slam through the cabana door so hard it bounces back and nearly hits me. My blood is boiling. That conniving witch Lilith is getting fired—right now. The more I think about it, the more I’m certain that she was tipped off about my father. Had to have been. There's no other explanation. The tarot spread she laid out—that "bulls-eye" reading that convinced me to hire her—was nothing but a calculated con.

My jaw clenches so tight my teeth might crack. She played me, exploiting my complete ignorance about tarot. Those cards could've meant anything—anything!—and she twisted their meanings to match information she already had. My hands are shaking. I don't know who betrayed me, who told her my secrets, but someone did. She's a fraud. A goddamn fraud. I'm going to watch her pack up every last one of those cards and escort her off my property myself.

Ms. Sydney's eyes lock with mine. "Mr. Kensington. Back so soon?"

"I'm terminating your contract," I snap, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. "You're nothing but a fraud peddling mystical bullshit to desperate people. I won't waste another cent on your little performance."

"Sit down, Mr. Kensington." Her voice remains maddeningly serene. My blood boils, yet something in her unwavering stare makes my pulse quicken. No tears. No begging. Not even a flinch. She doesn't move a single card from the table, as if my command means nothing.

"I don't want another spread," I slam my palm against the wall. “I just want you gone. Right now.”

She ignores me completely, her fingers dancing across the deck with hypnotic precision. The cards slap against each other with a rhythm that feels deliberate, taunting. She throws some cards out and her eyes suddenly widen.

"Your brothers are suffocating you," she whispers, her voice cutting through me like ice. "They're using your mother's memory as a weapon. But that's not why you're fighting them, is it? You adored her despite barely knowing her. It's him you can't forgive—your father. And there's more..." Her finger traces a card, trembling slightly. "You blame your youngest brother for everything. The same one who's now hounding you about honoring your mother. That's why you're digging your heels in until they bleed."

Despite my rage, I sit down across from her. She's somehow sensing the truth about Max—the truth I've buried so deep I barely acknowledge it myself. How can I admit I blame an innocent child? How can she see that every time I look at Max, I see the pregnancy our mother refused to end, even after her cancer diagnosis. I see seven siblings left parentless. I see our father walking away, unable to live life without his wife, our mother. My hands clench under the table. It's not fair. It's not Max’s fault. But the resentment has always been there, festering. And Lilith sees it? I rack my brain trying to figure out who could have told her, then realize: no one could have. This poison has lived only in my thoughts—never shared with my brothers, with Miranda, not even with Casp.

I shake my head, my anger draining away. “Who told you?” I ask her.

Lilith's fingers trace the edge of the Death card. "Nobody told me anything, Mr. Kensington." Her voice drops to match the hushed lighting of the reading room. "These cards speak for themselves." She meets my skeptical gaze, her shoulders tensing under my scrutiny. "Your eyes say it all—you think I Googled you before before my interview, so I can throw out some cards that turn out weirdly accurate, but are just confirming what I already learned.” She places her palm flat on the table, steadying herself. A shiver runs through her body, rippling the silver bangles on her wrist. "Some readers do that, you know. Cheat people, take their money, prey on their naïveté and desire to believe.” Her throat tightens. "Last month, a woman came to my shop after spending five thousand dollars on a 'curse removal.' Five thousand." Lilith's eyes shine with unshed tears. "She couldn't make rent that month.” She shakes her head. “I couldn’t live with myself if I did something like that. I’m not the charlatan who sells candles who allegedly removes spiritual chains from people. I don’t even try to clear chakras, not that I don’t believe in chakra cleansing but because I’m not skilled at doing it. And I would never give a false reading just to make a buck.”

“Well, somebody must’ve told you about-”

Just then, she receives a text. She looks at her phone and puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my. So sorry, Mr. Kensington, but I need to go. There’s an emergency at my shop. Excuse me.”

At that, she hurriedly packs up her cards and crystals and leaves.

I pull up her shop on my phone, jot down the address, and find myself heading there before I've even decided to go. It's not like me to chase after someone—especially not some hippie tarot reader who probably thinks crystals cure cancer. But the way she suddenly looked so panicked after showing me nothing but a calm demeanor… I can't shake it.

Plus, something about her has hooked into me, and I won't rest until I understand why.

Chapter Six

LILITH

I white-knuckle the steering wheel, screaming into my phone, "I'm coming, Jack!" His text had been three numbers that froze my blood: "911. Pipe burst. EVERYTHING FLOODING." My heart hammers against my ribs as visions flash through my mind—my precious first-edition Crowley texts dissolving into pulp, hand-painted tarot cards bleeding their colors onto the floor. Thousands of dollars. My entire life's work. Destroyed. And today—of all the cursed days—when I was reading for European royalty - oh, excuse me, peer, not royalty, right Jack?- at the Verde Resort! I slam my foot on the gas, cutting off a Lexus.

I crash through the door to find Jack frantically hauling soggy boxes, his guy-liner streaking down his cheeks. I immediately join him.

I’m elbow-deep in salvage when a shadow falls across the doorway. Roman. Towering at the threshold of the shop like some dark harbinger. Of course he'd track me down to gloat over my misfortune.

Jack's eyes widen. “Oh.my.god. Roman Kensington? Here?” He fans himself with shaking hands. His voice runs down to a whisper. “Oh, Lil, those Vanity Fair pictures don’t do him no justice, honey. He’s even more beautiful in person, as if that’s possible.”

I whirl toward Roman, my voice cracking. "Mr. Kensington, if you've come to dance on the grave of my business⁠—"

He says nothing, just rolls up his sleeves to reveal corded forearms. "That oak bookshelf—we need to get it out soon before it warps beyond repair. Just don't expose it to direct sunlight. And these Persian rugs need immediate attention." His voice is a battlefield command. He stabs at his phone. "Caspian, flooding emergency at Mystic Tides. Bring tools." He turns those steel eyes on me. "That oak display—help me move it before the water reaches the leg joints."

Just like that, the billionaire has seized control of my catastrophe—and God help me, I'm surrendering completely.

Roman's voice slices through the chaos. "Where is the water shut-off valve?"

Jack and I exchange panicked looks. "Uh…" Jack stammers while I stand paralyzed, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Goddammit," Roman growls, then vanishes out back. When he reappears, water drips from his forearms. "Found it. What do you have to patch a pipe before this place becomes Venice Beach's newest swimming pool?"