The Billionaire's Malibu Destiny

Chapter 1

Chapter One

ROMAN

I prowl through my exclusive oceanfront resort in Palos Verdes, each step of my custom Ferragamos echoing off Italian marble like a warning shot.

Imperfections assault me from every angle—the Rothko that maintenance can't seem to level in the east wing feels like sandpaper against my nerves, some brat's sticky handprint desecrating my twenty-foot glass walls has my teeth grinding until my skull throbs, and Christ, those peonies—edges already curling brown barely a day after I ordered fresh ones.

This isn't merely a resort; it's meant to be my bulwark against the world's endless tide of mediocrity, my testament to the standards everyone else has abandoned.

I storm across the marble lobby, my voice bouncing off the twenty-foot ceilings.

"Marcus!" The concierge's shoulders hunch as if bracing for impact.

Charlie should be here taking this heat, but the maintenance manager conveniently vanished the moment I spotted the disaster.

"That Rothko is crooked enough to fall off the damn wall, and those peonies look like they died last week.

" I jab my finger toward the smudged window.

"Find Charlie. I want him here with cleaning supplies in five minutes.

Call Nicolle's for fresh arrangements—I don't care if you have to drive there yourself.

" My fingers snap toward the massive canvas that would require a construction crew to adjust. "And get that painting straightened.

Everything fixed by the time I circle back. Understand?"

Marcus lowers his head. "Yes, sir." He's barely old enough to drink—some USC hospitality program kid with big dreams of running his own hotel someday.

His shoulders slump under my criticism. Too bad.

The real world won't coddle him like his professors do.

If anything, I'm preparing him for the shitstorm that is hotel management.

His eyes might be all wounded right now, but he'll thank me later when some entitled guest is screaming about thread counts at 3 AM.

I glance at my Patek Philippe and curse.

Three minutes behind schedule for the marketing meeting.

Unacceptable. I stride faster through the lobby, my jaw clenching at the sight of a crumpled brochure on an otherwise immaculate marble side table.

Someone's getting written up. When I push through the conference room doors, eight faces snap to attention.

Good. They're all here. They should be. Anyone walking in after me wouldn't just be late—they'd be unemployed.

Not that I'm looking to fire anyone today, but rules are rules.

The Verde Resort didn't become what it is by tolerating mediocrity.

Two hours later, the marketing meeting wraps up, but my day’s marathon has barely hit mile one.

My schedule knows no mercy—Dubai’s on the line at dawn, Tokyo keeps me up past midnight.

Between reviewing the Milan property blueprints, analyzing quarterly projections, and playing referee between our temperamental executive chef and some Saudi prince demanding white truffles in August, there’s no pause button in the luxury hospitality game.

By noon, I’ve personally escorted the Crown Prince of Abu Dhabi and his twenty-person entourage to their presidential suite and prepped the staff for tomorrow’s Danish royal arrival when my phone buzzes.

Miranda, my luxury services director, has apparently green-lit a new “exclusive experience” without my approval—a tarot reader.

A what? I nearly choke on my espresso. A tarot fucking reader? I can already see it: some crystal-clutching charlatan in flowing scarves charging our billionaire guests two grand to light “cleansing candles” and babble about mercury retrograde.

Absolutely not. This five-star property isn’t transforming into some incense-soaked retreat center on my watch.

We cater to people who run countries and corporations, not consciousness workshops.

Next thing you know, we’ll have barefoot “spiritual guides” wandering the marble lobby, offering chakra alignments between spa treatments.

I sprint down to Miranda’s office, skidding to a halt at the sight of her visitor.

The woman perched on the edge of the chair can’t be a day over thirty—all tumbling dark hair and honey-gold eyes that catch the light like expensive whiskey.

But what is she wearing? Some Eileen Fisher knockoff draped over premium denim, paired with scuffed Pradas that have seen better days.

I feel my lip curl. This is the Verde, for Christ’s sake.

We have sheiks dropping fifty grand on champagne towers and A-listers booking entire wings.

Our helicopter pad has a waiting list. Our yachts don’t even dock—they hover.

And this woman thinks she can waltz in here dressed for a Target run and land a job?

She smiles at me and Miranda stands up. “Mr. Kensington, this is-”

I lock eyes with this woman and keep them there as I address my resort manager. “Ms. Baudelaire. A word.” My glare at this woman could turn the Caribbean to ice as Miranda glides to my side and follows me out of her bungalow office.

Once outside, I hiss, “Who exactly is that woman?” I can’t believe this.

Miranda has been my right hand since I leveraged Grandfather’s $40 million loan into what’s now a $50 billion luxury empire.

Through every punishing 18-hour day that built this place, she’s been there.

Yet here I am, contemplating her termination because she’s interviewing... what? A fortune teller?

“Roman,” she responds, her British accent precise as a surgeon’s knife.

Miranda embodies everything this resort stands for—aristocratic pedigree (her father’s an Earl), Oxford polish, and a willowy six-foot frame crowned with that immaculate blonde bob.

Her makeup never smudges, her diplomacy never wavers.

She’s the perfect concierge to the elite, solving their problems before they know they have them.

“I anticipated you might resist adding tarot readings to our luxury experiences.”

“Damn right I’m fighting this. What is she, some kind of fortune teller?” My fingers rake through my hair, pulling it tight against my scalp. “If she’s so good at predicting the future, she should’ve seen security escorting her off the property. Which is happening in about five seconds.”

Miranda folds her arms across her chest, her eyebrows arching in that way that silently calls me out for being a complete jerk. Which—fair enough.

“Finished with your tantrum?” she asks, voice clipped.

I exhale slowly. “The floor is yours.”

“Right. So I was at the Kimpton Fitzroy last month—“

“That old Victorian palace where royalty stays when they’re slumming it in London?” I interrupt, unable to help myself.

She ignores my commentary. “They’ve added tarot readings to their amenities.

I tried it on a whim, and it was... illuminating.

Turns out, it’s becoming quite the trend.

I’ve looked into it—luxury hotels worldwide are adding metaphysical services to their concierge offerings. The demand is significant.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Tarot readings? At The Verde? Since when?”

“Since the data supported it,” Miranda says, not missing a beat.

She ticks off points on her manicured fingers.

“Client surveys, focus groups, the works. Turns out our VIPs are desperate for someone to tell their fortune between spa treatments.” She shrugs.

“Ms. Sydney comes highly recommended. Has her own shop on Venice Beach. They say she’s the real deal. ”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I mutter. “And if she starts waving crystals around or communing with dead relatives, you’re fired.”

Miranda just smiles that knowing smile of hers. We both know my threats are empty. I’ve been “firing” her for years. But good help—especially help that calls me on my crap—is harder to find than an honest psychic.

I slam the door behind me as I re-enter Miranda’s office and drop into the chair across from Ms. Sydney. Her resumé crinkles in my grip. “So. Why Verde?”

She tilts her head. “I’m sorry, you are...?”

“Kensington,” I snap.

“Ah. As in Roman Kensington, who owns this resort.”

No shit, Sherlock. I resist the urge to slow-clap.

She straightens her spine. “Mr. Kensington, I sense you weren’t expecting me and have doubts about what I bring to the table.”

“Impressive deduction. What’s next—you’ll guess my zodiac sign?

” The sarcasm drips from my voice before I can stop it.

But Jon Bevin, the five-star chef at our flagship restaurant, just handed in his resignation for some Food Network gig, and my patience was thin to begin with.

Though if I’m honest, my default setting isn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows anyway.

She smiles knowingly. “Oh, I already know your zodiac sign. You’re an Aries.”

I lean back, arms crossed. “A what?”

“An Aries. Born late March to late April. Stubborn, ambitious, fiery, natural leader.” She ticks each trait off on her fingers. “Basically, you.”

I narrow my eyes. April 15 is my birthday—she nailed it.

But there’s my Wikipedia page, my Forbes profile, the Wall Street Journal piece last quarter.

Any halfway competent person would’ve researched me before walking in here and would discover my birthday.

This little parlor trick doesn’t prove anything except she can use Google.