Chapter 11
chapter eleven
WILLOW
The camera is set up on my tarot table, angled just right so it catches the velvet cloth, the candles flickering in the corners, and my hands shuffling the deck.
I don’t need to see myself on screen to know the lighting is perfect.
I’ve been doing this long enough—I can make TikTok’s algorithm purr with a single card flip.
I can feel what’s coming with every part of my bones.
“Today’s reading,” I say, fingers trailing along the edges of the deck, “is for someone standing on the edge of something big. Money. Recognition. Power.”
I shuffle once, twice, cut the deck cleanly. The first card slides out smooth as breath—the Ten of Pentacles. “There it is,” I murmur. “Generational wealth. Security. The kind of success people don’t stumble into—they bleed for it.”
I draw the next—The Devil. My smile sharpens. “But here’s the catch. Nothing this good comes clean. Temptation hides under luxury’s skin. Someone’s pulling strings.”
The third card flicks free—Seven of Swords. “Lies,” I whisper, eyes lifting to the lens. “Someone’s playing you—or you’re about to play them.”
I tap the cards in a neat line. “So, yes, take the deal. Take the money. But lock the door behind whoever offers it.”
I pause, let the silence hum. “And maybe don’t answer unknown numbers this week.”
I end the video with a sweep of the cards.
I do thirty seconds of editing, making sure it will hit just right.
I caption the video, throw on a few hashtags, hit post, and lean back.
Sometimes I sit and wait for the views and comments to start rolling in, little dopamine bubbles fizzing through me.
But not tonight. Tonight, I finally check the thousands of comments on my latest and last Saint Shade video.
Why’d you stop the Shade series?
She figured it out, didn’t she? That’s why she went quiet.
No, Shade disappeared because she got too close to the truth…
Nah, Shade’s actually THREE people. Go frame by frame.
I snort, scrolling, half-annoyed, half-entertained. The conspiracies are always unhinged, though if anyone knew just how close I’ve gotten to Saint Shade, as in I crawled up into the man’s lap and took his mouth like I owned it, the internet would spontaneously combust.
I should be worried. Instead, I find myself smiling, because my brain isn’t stuck on Saint Shade—it’s circling not-Kade.
He didn’t look sick this morning when we went to breakfast. Whatever had him down last night when he said no to dinner didn’t last long.
And maybe I was reading too much into the situation, because I’m an obsessed, thirsty, twenty-eight-year-old, but something seemed off.
It was almost like he kept twitching, like he wanted to say something, but kept swallowing it back down.
I hate not knowing. Curiosity gnaws at me. But I know there’s a very real chance I’m reading something that wasn’t there.
But I like remembering the way he leaned in over the Formica table, his voice low, teasing, like we weren’t in some dingy Vegas diner but in our own private world.
I loved laughing with him. Teasing him. Flirting with him.
Watching his every movement, knowing what he looks like without a shirt on, what he looks like dangling thirty feet above a stage, dramatic lights highlighting every beautiful inch of him.
I shake myself. “Get a grip, Vale,” I mutter under my breath. I have work to do. The shop is waiting. Clients are waiting. And tonight, justice is waiting.
The bell over the shop door jingles as the first client of the day steps in. My little space smells like sandalwood, neroli, and dried roses—my holy trinity of vibes. Candles burn in the back room as I lead her in, where my tarot table waits like a stage.
She’s jittery, twisting her hands in her lap as I shuffle. “I just… I need to know if he’s cheating.”
Of course. Classic. My cards are probably sick of this question. Still, they never fail me. “Let’s find out, babe.” I cut the deck and draw.
The Moon. Seven of Swords. The Lovers reversed.
I bite my tongue to keep from saying, Well, that answers that. Instead, I school my face into professional compassion. “There’s deception here. Secrets being kept. And the Lovers reversed tells me the connection you thought you had—it’s broken. You’re not imagining it.”
Her eyes fill with tears. My chest tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “The cards aren’t here to devastate you, though. They’re showing you the truth so you can move forward. Staying will hurt more than leaving.”
She nods, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Inside, I’m screaming at the universe. Why are there so many dirtbags in the world? Why are so many women crying at tables like this one?
Before she leaves, she hugs me like I’m a lifeline. I’m not. I’m just the messenger. But I let her hold on anyway.
Just ten minutes later, a man in a too-tight polo, flashing a smile that’s more desperation than charm, walks in. “Business,” he says. “I need to know if I should take the deal.”
The deck practically sighs and rolls its nonexistent eyes as I shuffle. I flip three cards.
Ace of Pentacles. Two of Wands. Ten of Swords.
The corners of my mouth twitch. “It’ll look shiny at first,” I tell him. “Big money, big opportunity. But the Ten of Swords says betrayal, backstabbing, or collapse. You’re setting yourself up to be gutted.”
He frowns, like I’ve told him his puppy will die. “But… it’s a sure thing.”
“Sure things don’t come with knives in your back,” I counter. “You asked. The cards answered. Your call if you want to bleed for it.”
He leaves looking like I ruined his day.
Mid-afternoon, I get a college girl with a glitter phone case and nervous laughter. She wants to know if she’ll pass her nursing exams.
Shuffle, cut, pull. Seven of Pentacles. Nine of Cups. Knight of Swords.
Finally, a good one. “Yes,” I grin. “You’ve got this. But the Knight of Swords says you need to focus, no distractions. So maybe tell your boyfriend to chill while you study.”
Her jaw drops. “How did you know I have a boyfriend?!”
I don’t point out that she has his name doodled on her wrist in blue pen. I just tap the cards like it’s witchcraft. She leaves practically skipping.
By evening, the candles have burned down to wax puddles, and my throat is dry from talking. I lean back in my chair, stretching, my mind buzzing with faces and fortunes.
Every reading chips at me, leaves me a little more raw. They come in asking for hope, begging for clarity, and I give them honesty. Always honesty. Even when it hurts.
But when the light disappears and the shop empties, it’s just me and the oak table. Me and the shadows. And tonight, me and the knowledge that Dusty Crowley will be here soon.
I pull my phone from my pocket, open the folder labeled “Justice”, and scroll through the details. It just feels right to reaffirm that what I’m about to do is what’s best for the world.
Dusty Crowley is a landlord. And scum. He offers some of the lowest rent in the city.
Yet, imagine that, ninety-five percent of his tenants are young women.
Not only that, but they’re young women who haven’t been in Las Vegas very long.
They all came to the city, looking for work, desperate for somewhere affordable to live.
Well, Dusty Crowley has somewhere affordable to live. He owns one of the biggest apartment buildings east of the Strip. But he has a special “screening” process.
Who is the most desperate? Who will do what he asks and not squeal to the police? Who will break under his pressure?
There have only been three official complaints made. Each one was dismissed. But online? Online in discussion forums, people talk the real talk. They air out the dirty laundry. They try to warn others who don’t know.
What Dusty has made women do in exchange for affordable rent is disgusting.
And he’s gotten away with it for eight years. Maybe longer.
But tonight, it ends.
I’ve been posing as a potential new tenant for five days now. We’ve been messaging back and forth, and tonight, he finally asked to screen me. I’d suggested here, told him it was a quiet, private space. He’s on his way.
My blood is already simmering.
You deserve what’s coming, Dusty.
Five minutes later, I check the clock and head toward the front door. But as my focus shifts to the glass, my heart drops, and panic rips through me.
No. Not now.
Dusty steps inside, a wary look in his eyes as he tugs his grease-stained shirt down over his belly. But fate clearly hates me—because not-Kade slips in right behind him.
“Oh shit,” I whisper under my breath.
Kade seems surprised, and maybe a little bit concerned to see Dusty here.
“Sorry,” he says, sounding disappointed.
“I thought you’d be done working by now.
” His voice is soft, apologetic—but his eyes flick to the room in the back.
I know what he sees: an oak table without a tablecloth, the cards laid out, and instantly he knows exactly why I’m not quite done working.
Dusty bristles like a dog seeing another male in his yard. “The fuck is this?” His lip curls. “You running a two-for-one special tonight?”
Heat crawls up my neck, panic buzzing so loud I can barely think.
“It’s nothing,” I rush out, forcing a smile so brittle it might snap my face in half.
“This guy just forgot his…” my eyes rip around the lobby, searching for anything believable that he could have forgotten earlier.
I snatch a selenite tower off the counter and shove it at not-Kade. “Cleansing crystal.”
Kade takes the crystal, nearly dropping it because I shove it at him so roughly. His eyes cut to me, then to Dusty, then back to me again. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but I can feel the weight of him watching. Evaluating.
I fix him with a sharp, desperate look: Let me handle this.