Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
ROMAN
I couldn't help but smirk watching her and Jack flail around like it was the end of the world.
A burst pipe? Please. Try handling a celebrity overdose, a kitchen fire during peak dinner service, or that time a guest released three dozen live doves in the grand ballroom.
After running resorts for over a decade, I've developed a certain immunity to chaos—but I won't deny enjoying the chance to play hero for her tonight.
But Lilith will have to wait. Cam's called a mandatory Kensington summit for tomorrow night, and when the eldest brother summons, we all answer—unless we're looking to get disowned.
I tell myself I shouldn't give a damn what they think, but that's bullshit and I know it.
Kalen's flying in from his Australian tour, Asher's putting some royal Dutch gala on hold, and Silas is pausing his hunt for Napoleon's jewels in France.
The least I can do is drive my ass the hour from Palos Verdes to Brentwood without bitching about it.
So, the next day, I drive to Cam's relatively modest house.
And I say modest by Kensington standards—the place is a fucking palace to most of Los Angeles.
Terracotta roof tiles catch the morning sun as I pull into the circular driveway lined with fragrant orange trees.
The Mediterranean villa sprawls across the hillside, its cream-colored stucco walls punctuated by arched windows framed in wrought iron.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I glimpse the infinity pool that seems to spill right into the Pacific.
Cameron bought the place for $3 million a few years ago, it’s now worth double that.
My bleeding-heart brother might dedicate his life to the underprivileged, but his kitchen tells another story—gleaming copper pots hanging above a six-burner Viking range, marble countertops imported from Carrara, and a wine fridge stocked exclusively with bottles that never dip below three figures.
Every inch of the place bears Eli Jones's signature touch—the same designer whose work graces the centerfolds of Architectural Digest and whose waiting list is longer than the line at the DMV.
I arrive to find my brothers sprawled across the terrace, Mai Tais in hand.
Cameron stands at the grill, poking at what smells like swordfish.
He spots me and abandons his post, arms outstretched.
I return his hug stiffly. No need to make him look bad in front of the others.
Besides, Cam's the only one I can stomach for more than five minutes.
Maybe because we both never quite fit—him carrying Dad's shadow, me without a built-in buddy while the two sets of twins had each other and Max clung to Ansel.
So Cameron got my loyalty by process of elimination.
Even if he does drink these ridiculous umbrella cocktails.
"Roman! You made it!" He shoves a Mai Tai into my hand before I can protest. The smell of pineapple and rum wafts up, cloying and sweet. I grimace. I’ve never been one for sugar.
At every birthday growing up, while my brothers fought over who got the corner piece with extra frosting, I'd be quietly scraping my frosting onto Ansel's plate.
Cameron knows damn well I'd rather chew glass than drink this syrupy cocktail.
A neat Macallan is my drink. Always has been.
He's doing this on purpose—trying to force me into the "vacation spirit" like everyone else here.
My brothers rise from their seats one after another, each pulling me into a bear hug.
I haven't felt Silas's vise-grip or Asher's backslap since Max's wedding in England the December before last. Kalen's been just as scarce.
At least Connor's been around, shooting his latest film in the area.
Max barely leaves the Kensington Pictures building these days, preferring to stay local with his wife and baby girl, and Ansel's finally letting his talent scouts do the traveling while he stays local.
Between those three and Cameron, I've had some semblance of family nearby.
I take a seat as Cameron shoves a plate of seven-layer dip in front of me.
Of course he made the dip himself—probably spent hours chopping tomatoes and mashing avocados when he could've grabbed a 7-layer dip at Ralph's in five minutes. Classic Cameron. While my other brothers would’ve served duck confit or caviar-topped deviled eggs and truffle-infused whatever prepared by a personal chef, my oldest brother serves up something you'd find at a Super Bowl party.
Mr. Relatable, living in his multi-million dollar Brentwood mansion.
But, when I put some Tostitos into the dip, I have to give Cameron credit. He does make a mean seven-layer dip.
"You make this from scratch, Cam?" I ask as I cram the Tostito chip and the dip into my mouth.
"Every bit of it," he says, chest puffing slightly. "Mashed the beans, diced the avocados, chopped the tomatoes and onions by hand. Grated the cheese. Even the salsa's homemade."
"What, no homemade sour cream created from the cow you milked yourself?” Ansel quips. Cam responds with a playful shove.
"Just because you barbarians can't boil water doesn't make me Gordon Ramsay," Cameron says. "Though I did sign up for those Sur La Table workshops. Learning Korean BBQ techniques next week."
Connor wiggles his eyebrows. "Got someone special to cook for?"
"Not anymore," Cameron says, his smile fading as he looks down at his plate.
The brothers go quiet. We all remember the memorial service—Alecia's photo holding the tiny baby Stephanie.
Over two years since the drunk driver took them both while they were on a grocery run in the middle of the night - Cam had the flu and they had run out of NyQuil, so Alecia went to get the cold medicine, taking the baby with her.
The drunk driver ran a stop light, plowing into them at 70 MPH.
Now Cam still keeps her favorite coffee mug in his cabinet. Still wears his wedding ring.
Out of all of us Kensington brothers, he's the one who deserved that family the most—the one who remembers birthdays and asks how your day was and actually listens to the answer. The one learning to make bulgogi for nobody in particular.
Cameron wipes away a tear, then straightens.
"Let's talk about the Kensington Foundation fundraiser.
It's happening this month, and with Ash organizing, you know it'll be spectacular.
We've landed Chris McKenna as host—yes, the Oscar front-runner everyone's talking about.
" He ticks off on his fingers. "For once, all eight of us will actually be here.
Kalen's between tour dates, Asher's in town for the Vanity Fair and LACMA events, and even Silas is here to stay for awhile as he works with the Natural History Museum on their Napoleonic diamond collection.
" He smiles. "When Ash and I realized we had a chance to get all the Kensington brothers in one place—well, that's rarer than a planet alignment.
We had to seize the moment." He points at Asher. “Take it away, Ash.”
Asher's hazel eyes dance as he leans forward.
"We're calling it 'Masterpieces in Motion,'" he announces, fingers fluttering like paintbrushes in the air.
"The Patrician's ballroom will become a living canvas.
" His voice drops conspiratorially. "Imagine—Degas ballerinas posed in blue tulle, frozen mid-pirouette.
Renoir's boating party brought to life—straw hats, champagne coupes, that golden afternoon light.
We'll have Las Meninas with every ruffle and royal glance recreated, and Hopper’s Nighthawks with that eerie diner glow.
All of those masterpieces recreated with actors, costumes, sets, lighting, the works. "
He speaks faster now, practically vibrating.
"Each tableau shifts every half hour. Connor's donated one of his portraits for the auction—they've been impossible to get since Vanity Fair spotlighted him.
Plus all the usual extravagances—dawn balloon rides over vineyards, those exclusive spa packages, private dinners with chefs who have three-year waiting lists. "
Leave it to Asher to break the mold. Why the hell hadn't we tapped him for our event planning before?
Right—he was always jet-setting across the globe, orchestrating galas for Saudi princes, Hollywood A-listers, and tech billionaires who'd pay six figures just for his table arrangements.
The man could transform a paper clip and some twine into something worthy of a museum.
I sigh, torn between anticipation and dread. It looks like the event might not be so stale after all—I admit it, part of me actually looks forward to seeing these tableaus come to life. And yet, the knot in my stomach reminds me there’s just one question hanging over it all…
“Dad coming?” I ask, more sharply than I intend.
“Yes,” Cameron says, hesitating as if he can sense my tension. “He’s bringing Patricia Jenkins as his date—Max’s mother-in-law.”
My chest tightens. Relief and fury war inside me. “Then I’m not coming,” I blurt, crossing my arms as though I can barricade my heart.
Silas leans forward, his expression soft but firm.
“Rome, I know you’re angry with him. I am too.
” He sweeps his arm around to include the rest of the brothers, most of whom are staring at me like they’re trying to bore right through my skin.
“I’m still angry, but I want to slowly let our father back into my life.
The Kensington Gala feels perfect for that.
You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to—no pressure.
But maybe it’s good to see him, even if it’s from across the room. ”
I swallow, torn. Part of me resents the idea and part of me—God, I hate to admit it—wants that tentative reunion. But my anger burns louder. Fuck them. I don’t want to be around my father.