Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
LILITH
I catch sight of him across the room and my heart skips.
"Blake Walsh!” His name escapes my lips before I can stop it.
Those summers when we were kids feel both like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
Now his face beams down from billboards, his voice fills stadiums worldwide, and I've got every album he's ever released.
I've watched his journey from those early days—just a kid shuttling between worlds, spending summers with his dad in L.A.
while his mother raised him the rest of the year in Dublin—to the global phenomenon he's become today.
The boy who once carried a backpack through LAX three months each year now has his name on billboards in every major city.
I used to beg him for stories about his Irish village—tales of emerald hills rolling into the wild Atlantic, morning mist hanging over ancient stone walls.
Our Venice beaches have their own beauty, but they’re sun-scorched, drought-stricken.
In my imagination, Ireland was everything Los Angeles wasn't—verdant, rain-kissed, a place where the earth itself seems more alive.
He bursts into my cabana and wraps me in a bear hug that smells of expensive cologne and jet fuel. "My lass! When I heard you were here, I couldn't stay away. Always told you you'd make it big someday, didn't I? Look at you now—reading fortunes for the elite!"
I snort. Blake's idea of "making it big" is relative. This from the man whose face is plastered across Times Square billboards, who’s sold 100 million records, whose last world tour grossed a billion dollars, whose trophy room needs its own zip code to house all his Grammys.
Meanwhile, my "empire" consists of a drafty shop on Venice Beach where I sell crystals to sunburned tourists, and now this—a part-time gig shuffling cards for bored socialites. The closest I've come to fame is standing three feet away from someone who's been on a Variety cover—him.
Blake plops into the chair across from me, his face flushed and sporting that trademark grin that never quite reaches his bloodshot eyes today. I've always adored his Irish charm, but something's definitely amiss.
"Come on then, deal those cards and read my future. And honestly, Lilith? You're missing a marketing opportunity with your name. Something flashy like 'Madame Moonbeam' would bring in the big spenders."
I snort while shuffling. "Please. Lilith was literally Adam's first wife who told the Almighty to shove it, then spent eternity seducing men and stealing babies. Not to mention being the lead succubus - you know, the demons who have sex with men in their sleep. I’d say that's sufficiently on-brand.
" I study him while cutting the deck. "You're looking rough around the edges.
Your aura's practically the color of wet cement. "
Blake winces. "Had a wee disagreement with a bottle of Jameson last night.
Apparently I threatened the koi pond's dignity in ways I won't repeat.
The video's making rounds, but my publicist is handling damage control.” He shrugs.
“Ah, I’ve seen worse than this mess. You know it's been a proper night when your morning begins with a mental list of apologies.
The resort staff received either premium flower arrangements or top-shelf whiskey, depending on gender and severity of my offenses. "
I can only smile sympathetically. Show me someone who claims they've never made an absolute fool of themselves after too many drinks, and I'll show you a teetotaler or a liar. We've all been there—myself definitely included.
I shuffle the cards, their worn edges catching as I separate them into two stacks on the velvet cloth.
My bangles clink against the table. Blake hesitates, then chooses the left deck.
I lay out the Celtic cross, each card landing with a soft thump.
The reversed Queen of Swords appears next to the Tower card. Someone broke his heart—badly.
I tap the card with my turquoise ring. "The cards don't lie, Blake.
See this King of Wands here? That's you.
" I point to the next card. "And the Fool—that's your path. You’ll be embarking on a new journey soon.
With the Queen of Cups right here." I slide my finger to the center where a darker card lies.
"But the Devil crosses you." I look up, meeting his bloodshot eyes.
"Your liver could use a break from all that Jameson. "
Blake's laugh is warm but hollow, his bloodshot eyes crinkling at the corners. "Christ, wish I would’ve seen you yesterday - I wouldn’t have gotten into that bloody fight with Jameson, a fight I clearly lost, judging by this hangover.
Now tell me. You mentioned the Queen of Cups. What does that mean?”
I smile. "Ah, the Queen of Cups." I tap the card where a robed woman holds a chalice. "She represents compassion, and she's facing your future position." I glance up at Blake across my small table. "Something's coming for you soon."
Blake's cards show his journey: the reversed Queen of Swords retreating into shadow while the Queen of Cups rises, bringing her intuition and compassion into his future. The symmetry of these twin journeys from criticism to care makes me smile.
Blake's eyes light up. "New love. How exciting." His smile widens. "Speaking of which, are you free Saturday? The Kensington fundraiser is happening, and I thought—"
A shadow falls across the cabana entrance. Roman stands there, jaw tight. "Lilith. A word?"
My heart skips. First-name basis now. Progress. "Mr. Kensington," I chirp, voice unnaturally bright. "Have you had the pleasure of meeting—"
"We've met," Roman cuts in, his gaze boring into Blake with laser precision.
Blake straightens, recognition dawning. "Roman Kensington. Your brother's label passed on me. Said I was 'difficult.' Bet he's kicking himself now, huh?"
Roman's expression doesn't flicker. "Fascinating. You clearly don't remember our encounter last night. Lilith, I need to speak with you. Privately."
I lift my chin. "Whatever you need to say can be said in front of Blake. We've known each other since we were kids." I pause deliberately. "And apparently, we're attending your family's fundraiser together."
My pulse races as Roman's eyes darken. Am I deliberately provoking him?
Absolutely. Why? Because admitting I'm falling for this impossible man feels too vulnerable.
He's Mount Olympus, I'm merely mortal. Besides, Blake is safe—practically a brother.
His cards showed the Queen of Cups awaiting him, and while I embody some of those qualities—empathy, intuition—the energy of that card doesn't feel like me.
My Virgo earth-sign self aligns more with the Queen of Pentacles anyway.
Roman’s eyes—dark as polished obsidian—flare the moment I mention that Blake and I will be attending the Kensington fundraiser together.
He’s leaning against the marble post, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
“Lilith,” he says, his voice low and precise, “this resort has a policy: staff aren’t supposed to mingle socially with guests. It’s right there in your handbook.”
I tilt my head, surprised. I’m notorious for reading every word of any handbook handed to me—fine print included—and I never saw a clause like that.
Besides, I’m not technically “staff.” I’m an independent contractor.
I keep my posture casual, letting my confidence show.
“I read that book cover to cover,” I tell him.
“No such rule. And anyway, I’m not on payroll. I’m a contractor.”
Blake—short in stature but sun-kissed and effortlessly charming—leans in from behind me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Come on, lad,” he says, voice warm as summer air. “Employees forbidden to date guests? Sounds like a relic of Victorian propriety.”
I nod in agreement, brushing back my hair. “Exactly. And you gave me the manual yourself. Not a word about it. Blake’s right—it’s about as modern as corsets and curtseys.”
Roman’s expression hardens. He crosses his arms, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt stretching across his biceps.
His gaze locks onto mine—and I feel that familiar spark, like I’m being scorched from within.
Then, abruptly, he looks away, jaw clenched.
“Fine,” he says, voice quiet but resolute.
“There’s no such ban. But there will be. ”
Blake reaches out with a grin and clasps Roman’s hand.
“In that case, I’ll see you at the Kensington function—seeing as you’re a Kensington.
” He nods toward the polished letters of the resort’s crest behind Roman.
“And your brothers, Ansel and Kalen. I know Kalen too—our world tours keep crossing paths. We’ve been duking it out at the top of Spotify for years. Friendly rivalry, I call it.”
Blake strides away, golden light spilling across his retreating silhouette.
Roman remains, rooted by the desk, his gaze sliding back to me.
The hush of the terrace about 100 feet from the cabana presses in around us: distant laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the faint tinkle of a piano from the outdoor lounge.
“Can I help you with something else?” I ask, indicating the silver tray of hors d’oeuvres—smoked salmon rosettes, delicate cheese towers.
He inhales, slow and steady. “I don’t want another spread. I want you to skip that fundraiser with him. I don’t trust Blake—he stirred up more drama here last night than anyone should.”
I arch an eyebrow, the corners of my mouth curving upward. “Mr. Kensington—”
“Call me Roman,” he interrupts softly.