Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
LILITH
"Guess what?" I say to Jack, practically vibrating with excitement. My silver bangles jingle as I grab his arm.
Then his father remarried that horrible woman with the pinched face who treated Blake like an inconvenient houseplant. After that, he stayed in Ireland year-round, sending me postcards of rolling green hills that made my heart ache with missing him.
But there was never that spark between us. Zero chemistry. Just friendship.
No, I’m not excited because I’ll be going with Blake, exactly.
I'm actually excited because Roman will be there - brooding Roman with his black aura so dense I can practically see it swirling around him like storm clouds.
When I did his reading last week, the cards practically trembled with the weight of his blocked emotions.
My fingers tingled when they brushed his, sensing layers of trauma wrapped around his spirit like thorny vines.
Meanwhile, Blake's aura glows the most beautiful shade of rose-pink I've ever seen - the hallmark of artistic souls, compassionate and open.
But of course I'd be magnetically drawn to the complicated man whose energy feels like a thunderstorm about to break, the man carrying around a lifetime of trauma like a second skin.
"What, love?" Jack asks, looking up from his phone.
"I'm going to the Kensington Gala with Blake Walsh!"
"Get out!" Jack shoves me back so hard my crystal necklace swings wildly. "Shut your actual mouth!"
I giggle. "I really am. I told you I know him, right?"
"You did, but I thought you were full of it, sorry!
But, oh my god, Lilith. Blake Walsh?" Jack clutches his heart dramatically before breaking into the chorus of "Butterfly Effect," complete with the little shoulder shimmy that made the music video go viral.
"But I'll believe it when he picks you up in his chariot, love. "
“Well, you’ll believe it soon, then.”
Jack's perfectly groomed eyebrows arch mischievously. "And will the Roman god himself be there, per chance?" His voice lilts on the word "god," drawing it out with dramatic flair.
I shrug, fidgeting with a strand of my wavy hair. "Don't know."
Jack's eyes roll so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck in the back of his head. "Sweetie-pie-sugar-dumpling, it's the KENSINGTON Gala. The man's last name is literally on the invitation in gold leaf. He'll be there, front and center, looking like sex on a stick."
He leans in, bathing me in a cloud of his signature scent—Bergamot Billionaire or whatever ridiculous name they've slapped on a $400 bottle of eau de show-off.
"Every A-lister with a pulse and a publicist will be there, darling.
It's basically the Super Bowl of schmoozing, but with better shoes.
" He flutters his fingers like butterflies having seizures.
"I'm positively green with envy. Speaking of green—" he jabs a perfectly manicured finger at me, his nail polish matching his statement earrings, "—that credit card of yours needs CPR.
Nieman Marcus. Tomorrow. We need to find you something that'll make Roman's eyeballs pop like champagne corks! "
“Nieman Marcus?” I wince, the fluorescent lights of the bookstore suddenly feeling too harsh.
"Not unless I want to max out my credit card and live on ramen for months. Either that or buy the dress and return it the next day, like girls do after the high school prom.” I twist my grandmother's silver ring nervously. "No, I think I'll make my dress."
My fingers snap with sudden inspiration, the sound echoing against the crystal display case.
"That's it! Oh god, the gala's in three days, Jack.
I can't afford designer, but these hands can work magic with a sewing machine.” I gesture toward the ceiling, mind racing.
I can already envision the fabric, cool and lustrous between my fingers.
"I know exactly what I need—emerald green satin that'll catch the light when I move. Easy to sew, drapes beautifully. Not as expensive as silk. I can get enough for $80 at that little shop on the boardwalk.”
Jack's laughter fills the incense-scented shop, warm and melodic. "My god, you're such a Cinderella, stitching away at your magical gown."
"Well," I counter, absently straightening a stack of tarot cards, "Cinderella made her dress before those stepsisters tore it to—" I shake my head, my long earrings swinging against my neck.
"You know the story. But no, Jack, I'm not waiting for any prince.
I just don't have a grand to drop on a dress I'll wear once. But I’ll have to get started tonight when I get home. Making this gown will take hours of my time, plus I need to find the material.”
And then the man from the reading yesterday comes through the door, the crystal bell tinkling like wind chimes in a summer breeze.
Max. Roman's breathtakingly beautiful brother with his sun-kissed skin and piercing jade eyes that crinkle at the corners.
He has a dimpled smile on his face, his long, tanned fingers stuck in the pockets of his designer jeans as he saunters casually in, exuding California cool.
"Hi, Lilith," he says, stretching his hand to me, a silver Rolex watch glinting on his wrist.
"Well, hello. Max, right? Roman's brother?" I tuck a strand of my wild dark hair behind my ear.
He nods, his thick chestnut hair catching the light from the stained-glass window. "I live in Malibu, not too far from here. I wanted to…"
I sigh, the scent of sandalwood incense swirling around us. He's here to check me out, obviously, but why? Perhaps he thinks that I'm a fraud, too, and wants to warn his brother about me? Then I shake my head, my silver moon pendant swinging against my collarbone.
No. I don't get a bad vibe from this man at all.
I don't really have a read on his aura—it's faint, almost see-through, like morning fog.
Nothing like Roman's. Roman's aura is thick and dark, hovering around him like a shadow that never leaves.
Years of buried feelings have hardened there, building up until he's trapped inside himself.
But this is the brother who Roman blames for the family falling apart, even if Roman would never admit to this, even to himself.
He nods again, shifting his weight on the creaking wooden floorboards. "My wife, Celeste. She's really into the crystal thing. I know nothing about it, and I'm embarrassed to ask most uh, psychics."
I smile, feeling the warmth spread across my face as I lean against the amethyst-topped counter. "I'm not really a psychic. I read tarot cards and I can sometimes see auras. I'm very good at reading tarot, though. Do you want to know more about it?"
He steps into the softly lit shop, eyes drifting over shelves bristling with polished quartz and amethyst clusters.
“Actually, I wanted to surprise Celeste with something,” he says, voice low.
“Maybe a crystal, and learn a bit about tarot.” He shrugs, the denim of his jacket creaking.
“She’s learned to surf for me—her arms burn and I know she hates it, but she’d never admit that.
I thought if I dug into what she believes—what she really loves—she might open up.
She’s so guarded about her mystical side; she’s convinced I’ll mock it.
Maybe if I knew more, she’d feel safe talking to me. ”
I brush a lock of black hair behind my ear and smile. “Tarot can be eerily accurate. Want a reading?”
He shakes his head, the harsh overhead light catching the golden flecks in his green eyes. "No. It's not a reflection on you, it's just that I don't necessarily want to know things. But maybe I should. How does it work?"
I run my finger along the edge of my favorite deck—deep blue with silver stars that catch the light.
"I'm not psychic," I tell him. "I can't see the future or read your past. These cards are just how the Universe communicates.
They help me understand what's happening with the person sitting across from me.
" I pause, noticing his jaw soften. "But I can sense whether someone's good or carrying old wounds.
" Something about him feels genuine. Whoever Celeste is, she's lucky.
"And the crystals?" He gestures toward the velvet-lined display case, his calloused fingertips hovering over the rainbow of stones. "How do they work?"
"Well, they're blessed. At least, the crystals I buy are blessed by shamans in a ceremony with sage and moonlight." I smile, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood incense that permeates my shop. "So, they have healing and protective properties. You want to buy a crystal for Celeste, then?"
His stern expression softens. "We just welcomed our first baby. Got anything special for little Violet?"
I float toward my crystal collection, the hem of my skirt dancing around my ankles, and lift a milky white stone that catches the light.
"Selenite—purifies a baby's space, surrounds her with calm energy.
" I place it in his palm, then add a sleek black stone flecked with emerald.
"Black tourmaline. Nature's shield against negativity. "
He reaches for his wallet, sliding out a Black Mastercard that gleams like onyx.
"Please, they're gifts," I insist, pushing his hand away gently.
"Absolutely not." His tone brooks no argument. I surrender, processing his payment before wrapping the stones in tissue paper.
As I hand him the small package, he lingers. "About my brother, Roman..." He pauses. "He'd have my head if he knew I stopped by."
My curiosity sparks. I wait, eyes locked on his.
"Roman's...complex. Old wounds run deep in our family." He shifts his weight. "But something tells me you might reach him in ways others can't. He needs that—needs..." He trails off, then straightens. "Don't let his rough edges chase you away, okay?"
I blink and smile. This is a strange conversation, considering Roman’s showed no romantic interest in me. But perhaps Max sensed something the other day when he came to my tent looking for his father and Roman? “I don’t understand?”
He sighs. “Just don’t let him chase you away, that’s all.” Then he lifts the crystals up and smiles. “Celeste will love these. Violet will too, one day. Right now, she’s just a tiny baby who won’t appreciate these crystals.”
Later on, just as I'm gathering my things to dash to Fabric Planet before closing—I've been dreaming of that emerald silk for my gala dress—the bell above the shop door chimes. A courier in pressed gray slacks hands me a black velvet box tied with a single crimson ribbon.
Inside, nestled against black satin, lies a Painite pendant: deep red with dark flecks catching the light. It hangs from a delicate platinum chain. My fingers tremble as I touch it—most jewelers will never see one in their lifetime. A crystal this perfect is worth a quarter million.
A cream-colored card rests beneath it, the handwriting bold and slashing: "This crystal is said to align all seven chakras simultaneously. Thought that might appeal to your mystical side. Hope to see it gracing your neck at the gala. Roman."
I blink. First Max comes by with his cryptic words and now this…
Is it possible for a beautiful and stormy billionaire to actually be interested in little ol’ me?
I suddenly can’t wait for the gala!