Chapter 2
Chapter Two
LILITH
I can’t stop grinning as I drive home from Verde resort, my cheeks actually aching.
The job is mine! God knows I need the money with how Mystic Tides has been performing lately.
Summer brings the sunburned tourists flooding into my little psychic shop on Venice Beach, wallets open after a day riding waves or baking on towels.
But winter? The boardwalk empties out, and so does my bank account.
This Verde gig couldn’t have come at a better time.
Just imagine—me, reading tarot for actual royalty and A-listers! That’s who stays at Verde, after all. The elite. The one-percenters who’ll pay triple what my regular clients shell out for a glimpse of their gilded futures.
The Verde will only see me twice a week, with all my tarot readings crammed into those days, but oh my God—the space they’ve given me there!
Picture this: a private luxury beach cabana with cream-colored canvas walls that billow like sails in the ocean breeze, teak floors polished to a honey-gold sheen, and a ceiling fan spinning lazily above a white linen chaise lounge.
Floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean, a mini fridge stocked with San Pellegrino, and an actual assistant who brings fresh fruit every hour.
The only problem? Roman Kensington, the owner of this resort.
Every time he looked at me, his eyes narrowed like he’s spotted a counterfeit bill.
I could practically hear his thoughts: “Fraud. Con artist.” And sure, I’ve seen the type—psychics who charge $1500 for “blessed” candles that supposedly break spiritual chains, or sell $1000 crystals with promises of instant wealth.
The ones who whisper “You’re cursed” just to charge thousands more to lift that imaginary hex.
But my shop? The price tags match what you’d find at any retail store.
My readings cost forty bucks for half an hour—peanuts in this industry.
When Mrs. Abernathy came in last week convinced she needed some kind of super-expensive “ultimate spiritual package,” I sent her home with a $15 journal and told her to write down her dreams instead.
I’ve built my business on helping people find clarity, not emptying their wallets.
In a world where everyone seems to be chasing the next dollar, my little corner operates differently. If only Roman could see that.
I get to my shop, the little bell clinking as I walk in and see Jack, my roommate, my partner in crime (and in this shop) ringing up a sunburned blonde who looks like she needs aloe much more than she needs crystals, poor thing.
Jack sees me and his eyes light up. “Lil! Spill the tea, girly. How did it go?”
“I’m in!” I grab a chunk of rose quartz from the display, rubbing my thumb over its smooth surface.
Rose quartz is the stone of gratitude, and I always try to be grateful for all the abundance that comes my way, like this new gig.
“Can you believe it? Me, reading cards at Verde! A-Listers, billionaires, royalty - those are the only people who could afford to stay at Verde, so those will be my clients there.”
Jack finishes with the sunburned girl before turning to me. “Slow your roll, psychic woman. You’re acting like the Harry and Meghan will be on your client list.”
“Why not?” I toss my hair. “Meghan would totally get a reading.”
“Girl, please.” Jack rolls his eyes dramatically. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re besties with Oprah.”
“You laugh, but Angie Banicki reads for Gwyneth Paltrow and Emma Roberts. Not to mention Usher. That could be me someday!” I frame an imaginary marquee with my hands. “Lilith Sydney: Tarot Reader to the Stars!”
Jack leans across the counter. “Forget celebrities. Tell me about those gorgeous men serving drinks poolside.”
Typical Jack—I’m living my dream and he’s thinking about eye candy. “Oh, I’m sure the cabana boys will be just as polished as everything else at that place. It’s where the beautiful people play, after all.”
Speaking of beautiful people...Roman Kensington is walking perfection. The resort is like a living Vogue magazine, but that makes sense when the owner himself belongs on GQ’s cover. He probably has a “gorgeous people only” hiring policy. Shame he seems to despise me...
Jack narrows his eyes at me. “Lil,” he says, catching me mid-daydream. “I know that face. Which ridiculously hot resort person has you all flustered?”
I can’t help but sigh. Roman’s dark waves that he tries—and fails—to tame with expensive product.
Those obsidian eyes that see right through you.
The way his Tom Ford suit stretches across shoulders that could carry the weight of the world.
Beneath that polished - and heartbreakingly beautiful - exterior lurks something untamed.
I saw it in his eyes, and the cards confirmed it.
Turbulence swirls beneath his surface, and God help me, that only makes him more attractive.
I’ve always had this self-destructive thing for complicated men, and Roman is a beautiful, tangled knot of complications.
Not that it matters. He exists in a stratosphere I’ll never reach. I can’t seriously consider him—but that won’t stop me from dreaming. Who could blame me?
“Why do you say that I’m daydreaming?”
“Oh, puleeze,” Jack says, slapping his hand on the counter hard enough to make the crystals jump. “When you said ‘beautiful people,’ your eyes practically rolled back in your head. Now spill it before I die of suspense.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, my cheeks burning as I imagine Roman’s razor-sharp jawline, those piercing dark eyes that could melt steel. God, I’m pathetic—like some teenager fantasizing about a celebrity she’ll never meet. “It’s just—“
“It’s just WHAT?” Jack leans in so close I can smell his cinnamon gum.
I take a deep breath. “Well, the owner of this place, Roman Kensington,” I begin.
“Roman Kensington? The Roman Kensington? Holy mother of—”Jack clutches his chest and collapses against the booth.
“That man is walking sex. I literally had to fan myself through that twelve-page Vanity Fair spread where he was wearing that charcoal Armani suit with no tie. Annie Leibovitz should’ve been arrested for what she did with that camera. ”
“I forgot about your Vanity Fair obsession,” I mutter, suddenly desperate to see these photos.
“Well, right. He’s been in that magazine twice. Once was a profile of him and his brothers, and once a profile of just him. And oh my God…” He grabs my wrist. “You’re going to be working for an absolute adonis, Lilith. I would kill—KILL—to be in your second-hand Pradas now!”
Oh great - now I’m really intimidated. Vanity Fair.
Twice. Once just him—all chiseled jawline and brooding stare, no doubt—and once with the whole Kensington dynasty.
I flip through the mental images: Roman in Tom Ford, lounging on some mid-century furniture worth more than my car, while Annie Leibovitz adjusts the lighting.
Of course the glossy magazine crowd can’t get enough of guys like him.
Rich, gorgeous, powerful—he’s like catnip sprinkled with cocaine for that set. And his brothers...
“Why did Vanity Fair feature his brothers too?”
Jack’s eyes widen as he slams his palm on the counter again. “Are you kidding me right now? You don’t know about the fabulous Kensingtons? Jesus Christ, what planet have you been living on?”
My face burns. “Sorry, I—“
“Listen,” Jack leans in, voice dropping to an urgent whisper.
“Roman is just the tip of the iceberg. That family is like some genetic experiment gone perfectly right. Eight brothers—all of them walking gods with bank accounts that could bail out small countries. Connor’s got three Oscars on his mantel and makes grown men weep with his performances.
Kalen sells out Madison Square Garden in four minutes flat. ”
“Wait. Connor and Kalen Kensington are his brothers?” My stomach drops as the realization hits me like a freight train. “Holy shit.”
“And that’s not all.” Jack’s fingers grip my wrist. “Max runs Kensington Pictures with an iron fist. Ansel dominates the music industry. Silas has half the celebrities in Hollywood dripping in his jewels. Asher throws parties that make the Met Gala look like a backyard barbecue. And then there’s Cameron—“ Jack laughs bitterly, “—poor Cameron only saves lives as an ER doc at Cedars.”
I feel dizzy. But then again, I saw in those tarot cards the truth about Roman and his family.
In those cards, I saw the absolute tragedy that befell that family - the alcoholic father who left when they were young, the mother who died when they were even younger.
The turbulent relationship Roman has with his brothers.
Those beautiful, powerful men were forged in the same hellfire that created Roman—abandoned by their broken father, never really knowing their mother.
The glittering Kensington empire was built on a foundation of absolute devastation.
Talk about a beautiful house built on a foundation of sand…
I clear my throat, desperate to change the subject. “Well. Looks like I’ll be gone two days a week at Verde. Think you can survive without me?”
Jack’s eyes flash playfully. “Oh, I’ll survive just fine,” he says, voice dropping lower.
“Picture it—me trapped here with the unwashed masses pawing through crystals while you’re down there with the gods and goddesses of Verde.
” He leans in, close enough I can smell his cologne.
“And Roman Kensington, who makes mere mortals weep with his perfection. Maybe light a black candle for me while I’m rotting away in your absence. ”
“I’ll do that.”
Then I exhale slowly. This position could be everything I’ve wanted.
If only Roman Kensington didn’t look at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his Italian leather shoe.