Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ROMAN
His name might be emblazoned across the building in cold, unforgiving steel, but Casp's been taking punches for me since we were five-year-old brats at Westlake Prep.
I can still see him with that stupid bowl cut, splitting his last peanut butter cracker with me after I'd gotten my ass handed to me by a third-grader.
We battled through prep school together, then conquered Harvard's cutthroat halls, demolishing bottles of Macallan and our competition with equal ferocity, forging ourselves into weapons while lesser men slept.
I duck between the ropes and into the ring where Casp is already warming up, his taped knuckles flashing as he shadowboxes. "Hey," I say, adjusting my own hand wraps. The familiar smell of sweat and disinfectant fills my nostrils—oddly comforting.
I'm training for an charity MMA match at the Rancho Palos Verdes Charity Gala this December, and Casp's gym—one of seven he owns across Southern California—has become my sanctuary.
Something about the rhythmic thud of gloves against the heavy bag, the squeak of shoes on canvas, helps unravel that perpetual knot between my shoulder blades.
My brothers call it my "Sonny Corleone complex"—this hair-trigger temper that's always simmering just below the surface.
After this, I'll head to the private Verde beach where Ansel and Max are waiting with our boards, the ocean being the only other place where that red haze truly lifts. "Let's go."
So, for the next hour, Casp and I lose ourselves in the rhythm of combat—my knuckles connecting with the dense leather of his training mitts, the sharp snap of his roundhouse kick barely missing my jaw, the grunt of his exhale as I take him down to the sweat-slick mat.
We transition seamlessly from the clinch work of Muay Thai to the ground game of Jiu-Jitsu, muscles burning with each escape from an armbar.
By the end of it, my gray shirt has turned nearly black with sweat, salt stinging the small cut above my eye, every fiber in my shoulders and core screaming in protest—but the chaos in my mind has finally, mercifully, gone quiet.
I haven't been this fucking rattled since I met my father standing in my granddad’s goddamn living room after twenty-two years of radio silence.
I’m still thinking of that tarot reading that gutted me like a fish.
How the hell did she do that? Those cards sliced through every defense I've built, exposing raw nerves I thought I'd killed years ago.
She laid out my relationship with my father, the darkness I keep chained inside me, my disappointment in myself—everything I've buried so deep I can barely acknowledge it.
And she did it with such casual precision it felt like being hit by a fucking freight train.
But Christ, it's not just the reading making my hands shake.
It's HER. That beautiful woman is a force of nature—barely 5'4" but she fills the room like a storm.
That black hair falling around her face, skin like burnished bronze, and those eyes—those goddamn topaz eyes that don't just look at me but through me, like I'm made of fucking glass. And not a single tremor of fear when I glared at her. Not one. Goddamn, that’s rare.
Even Miranda, who's been with me since day one, spent her first year flinching every time I raised my voice.
Now she's family, the only person besides my brothers and Casp who calls me on my shit.
But this woman—Lilith—she stood her ground from the first second, announcing to me that she would finish the interview-whether I liked it or not-with a confidence that made my pulse spike.
I can't stop thinking about her. I can't stop wanting her.
She's crawled under my skin in a way that terrifies me, and God help me, I want more.
Casp tosses me a towel, his eyes narrowing. "Jesus Christ, Roman. You nearly took my fucking head off in there. What the hell's going on with you?"
My knuckles are raw, blood seeping through the wraps. I don't even feel it. The rage that fueled me through three brutal rounds has burned down to embers, leaving something else smoldering in its place.
"I met someone," I say, wiping sweat from my face. "She's like nothing I've ever..." I slam my fist against the locker. "Goddamn it, she probably wants nothing to do with me."
Casp knows me better than anyone—knows how women have always clawed for a piece of me.
They smell the damage, the power, the billions, and they come hunting.
Vultures circling, thinking they'll be the one to save the “broken billionaire.” I've had stalkers, obsessed models, executives who wouldn't take no for an answer.
Even Casp's sister Serafina, also a hotel magnate—two years, a diamond ring, and I felt nothing.
Nothing. I'd stare at her sleeping beside me and feel absolutely fucking hollow.
I couldn't manufacture what wasn't there, so she cheated, which relieved me - gave me an excuse to walk away without looking like the bad guy to Casp.
They say when you settle, The One appears just to torture you. Maybe that's why I've burned every relationship to the ground. All these women, and I've never once felt anything real. Until Lilith. And it's tearing me up inside.
Casp glances at his watch. “You still meeting Ansel and Max for surfing?"
"Of course," I say. "Saturday surf is sacred to Max."
The thought of hitting the waves with my brothers loosens the knot in my chest. We're all expert surfers—Dad's doing. He insisted we start at four, same as he did with all eight Kensington boys. I remember my first time at Big Sur, ten-foot swells on what Dad called "a calm day."
Lance Williams—the five-time world champion—steadied my board while I trembled in my custom wetsuit.
I bawled the entire six-hour drive home, soaking the leather seats of Dad's VW Bus.
Strange to think about it now—how gentle he was that day, how he never once snapped at me despite my hysteria.
Just kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back to squeeze my knee whenever the sobs got too violent.
I close my eyes. Before Dad left, he'd kneel down to my height when I'd break something in one of my rages. He'd place his hands on my shoulders, not to restrain but to steady. "Roman," he'd say, his voice low and even, "breathe with me." And I would. He saw the storm in me and never feared it.
Then one morning, his side of the bathroom counter was empty—aftershave, razor, toothbrush, all gone. Seven brothers looking to me, to each other, for answers none of us had. I shake my head. Twenty-two years later, and my jaw still clenches at the memory. No. Some absences can't be forgiven.
“Anyhow, gotta go,” I say. “Meeting Ansel and Max at the resort’s private beach to surf, like you said. Want to join?”
Casp handles himself on a board like he was born on one, though he doesn't always join us.
Sometimes Max brings Gianni, or Ansel drags Finn along.
Then there's Celeste, Max's wife. I wince every time I see her pink beginner board strapped to the roof of Max's Jeep.
She's been at it less than a year, and it shows—paddling too early, missing perfect swells, face-planting into the whitewash.
Max hovers around her like she's made of glass, holding her hand through the basics while we carve up the good breaks without him.
I can't fault her—she seems decent enough—but Christ, the way my baby brother follows her around with those puppy dog eyes. Whatever. His life, his choices.
Caspian shakes his head. "Rain check. Swamped at work.
" He tosses me a towel. "Your offense was solid today, though.
Next session we'll drill defense." He takes a swig from his water bottle, then points it at me.
"You've got the fire, man—that temper works when you're throwing punches.
But you're telegraphing your moves when you get emotional.
Gotta keep that brain engaged while the heart's pumping.
" He taps his temple. "Balance, brother. "
I nod, acknowledging his point. My MMA technique needs refinement—more strategy, less raw emotion. But I'm off my game today, thanks to Lilith's damn tarot reading. The cards shouldn't have rattled me, yet here I am, unsettled by how accurately she pegged me.
I'm already at my resort's private beach when Max shows up solo.
"Hey, Rome," he calls out. "Just us today. Ansel bailed, and Connor's stuck filming again. I swear we'll drag him out here someday."
I snort. "When pigs fly." Connor wouldn't be caught dead on a surfboard.
Too busy collecting awards and magazine covers to get his perfect hair wet.
Three-time "Most Beautiful" in People, Time's 100 Most Influential—my brother's come a long way from the kid who couldn't look anyone in the eye after Dad split.
I still remember Granddad dragging him to that middle school audition.
Connor was so terrified he threw up backstage, then walked out and nailed the lead role.
Now he's Hollywood royalty, though he still blushes and stares at his shoes during interviews. Some things never change.
“And Celeste?”
“Home with Violet,” Max says. I smile. I’m surprised he didn’t want to also stay home with his little girl, but I’m grateful for his company today.
Max and I paddle out past the break. Between waiting for decent swells, he brings up Mom’s memorial service again.
Thirty years in the ground, and suddenly we need a do-over because Dad finally decided to grace us with his presence.
Cameron’s organizing the whole thing—says it’ll be “more meaningful” now that none of us are snot-nosed kids who barely understood what was happening the first time around.
The Catherine Kensington remembrance ceremony, with the complete Kensington collection in attendance.
I’ve made my position clear to everyone: as long as Dad shows his face, mine won’t be there.