Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
LILITH
That Serafina…now that was some bad energy. Not the dark, heavy vibe Roman gives off, and not unresolved trauma, either. Her aura was a slimy green—pure jealousy—and it was so strong it felt almost tangible. After she left my cabana, I burned sage, but her energy stayed stubbornly in the air.
My next client is the wife of a U.S. Senator. She’s caught in a personal crisis over rumors that her husband, Senator Williams of Kentucky, is having an affair. With talk swirling that he’s planning a presidential run, this scandal could be disastrous.
Kelly Williams is polite but guarded. The spread I lay out for her isn’t catastrophic—it showed the scandal fading after a few news cycles and the mistress disappearing—but it did warn of some bumpy months ahead.
Exactly the sort of balanced reading I like: not relentlessly dark, but not sugarcoated either—an opportunity for growth.
Once all the readings are done, I can’t wait to get home.
I’ve been spending every spare minute sewing my gala dress.
I grabbed that bolt of fabric yesterday after the shop closed, right after the courier delivered that rare, stunning crystal necklace, and I’ve barely put my sewing machine needle down since.
I even have jeweled trim for the neckline.
The design is simple—a scoop neck, sleeveless bodice, flowing skirt—but with that jeweled edging and the crystal resting at my throat, I just might blend in with the A-listers.
I find myself in the lobby, where Roman hunches over a stack of paperwork at the front desk.
His eyes lift to mine, and something flutters beneath my ribs.
My feet carry me toward him before I can think twice.
"Rome," I say, my lips curving upward of their own accord, "that crystal you sent me...
it's beyond perfect. I'm completely speechless. "
He shrugs. “I saw it in the resort jewelry store and thought of you. I thought you’d like it. I read about it later—people say it’s a powerful stone that opens all your chakras and aligns your energy centers. I don’t really know what any of that means, but it sounded good.”
Hmmm…resort jewelry store? Nope. That crystal is too rare and perfect to just be hanging around in a random jewelry store, even a random jewelry store in a place like this.
He had to have had a supplier get it for him.
So I wonder why he’s lying about that? Why he’s trying to make it seem so casual when he obviously put a ton of thought into it? Intriguing…
“Well,” I say, “I love it.” I don’t ask the price tag, but a Painite of that quality—shipped by courier—could easily run a quarter-million dollars, plus thousands more for the platinum rope chain. I tell myself it’s pocket change for him, but even so…such an extravagant, thoughtful gift.
He smiles. "Good. I hope you wear it to the gala." He clears his throat. "I'm really glad I ran into you. Serafina. She wasn't bothering you, was she?"
I replay her words in my mind. The warning about swimming in waters too deep for me.
The snide suggestion I belonged on a late-night psychic hotline—which honestly wasn’t the dig she intended, since those folks often have genuine gifts.
Her casual mention of their former engagement, the implication they'd reunite.
Her certainty that Roman could never truly see me, that our worlds colliding would leave someone—me—in ruins.
Yet none of it landed where she aimed. Her venom revealed her fears, not my reality.
"No," I say honestly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "She didn't bother me at all." I cock my head, studying the tense line of his jaw. "But maybe she bothers you."
He shrugs, his broad shoulders rising beneath his crisp white dress shirt.
"She doesn't bother me. Well, that's not right to say.
She literally bothers me, just because she won't leave me alone.
But her presence in the world—" he pauses, his dark eyes narrowing, "—it annoys me, but doesn't bother me.
Because if somebody bothers you, it implies that you care, which I don't."
I nod, my thoughts drifting to the half-finished silk fabric bolt waiting on my sewing machine at home, but something in his restless energy tells me he needs to talk about something else.
His gaze sweeps the marble-floored lobby where guests in designer clothes mill about with Louis Vuitton luggage.
"Can I see you in my office?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave.
I follow him to his office adjacent to the main lobby, and the sight steals my breath.
Soaring thirty-foot ceilings crowned with a cascading crystal chandelier—thousands of teardrops of light that shimmer like stars caught indoors.
The western wall consists entirely of floor-to-ceiling sectioned windows framing the Pacific's azure waves, white-capped and violent, crashing against jagged obsidian cliffs dusted with emerald vegetation.
A massive twelve-foot slab of rare blue-veined Carrara marble forms his desk, polished to a mirror finish that reflects the California sunlight.
Behind it hangs not one but three presumably authentic Renoirs—dancing girls in butter-yellow and blush-pink dresses, their porcelain faces flushed with youth and joy beneath dappled golden sunlight filtering through invisible trees.
I point to the largest painting, my fingertips trembling slightly. "Is that real?"
He nods, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rare half-smile that transforms his granite features into something almost boyish, revealing a dimple I hadn't noticed before.
"Got it at Christie's in New York. $150 million.
You like Renoir?" His voice is as casual as if he's discussing a cup of coffee, but his fingers drum once against the polished marble of his desk.
He's perched on the edge of his desk, one Italian leather shoe planted firmly on the plush carpet while the other dangles, the platinum cufflinks on his crisp white shirt catching the late afternoon sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The look in his espresso-dark eyes is indiscernible, but there's something behind them—an intensity that makes my breath catch.
And it's strange—right now, I don't feel the dark aura that usually surrounds him like a thundercloud.
Instead, his energy pulses dark red, rich as burgundy wine—the color of vitality, strength, raw courage.
The color of a heart beating beneath all that expensive tailoring.
God, this man radiates passion like heat from a sun-warmed stone.
I don't know why the stormy black aura has dissipated, but he seems to glow from within now, as if someone has finally switched on the lights inside a magnificent abandoned mansion.
"Oh, god, yes," I whisper, my voice thick with reverence as I drink in the master's brushstrokes—the dappled sunlight on silk dresses, the rosy flush on porcelain cheeks, the champagne glasses catching golden afternoon light.
"The way he captured the upper class…it's like you could befriend them, talk to them.
You can see the secrets behind their eyes, the whispered scandals on the tips of their tongues. "
“He certainly does capture them well,” he replies. “Renoir has always been my favorite.”
I cock my head. “You’re different tonight, Roman. Less… tempestuous.”
He grins. “Tempestuous—that’s a perfect word for my usual self.
But you’re right. I don’t feel stormy right now.
” He arches an eyebrow. “There’s something about you that calms the chaos in me, at least in this moment.
” He smiles softly. “Of course, I might see you later and all that turbulence will be back. I can’t control it.
But right now, I’m… surprisingly peaceful.
And I really shouldn’t be—thinking of Serafina normally kicks off a red haze. ” He shakes his head.
I take a seat, my heart racing as he gazes at me—not with menace but with equal parts curiosity and desire.
“Lilith,” he says quietly, “I wanted to talk about my father and Max. You got caught up in that storm too.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s a mess—complicated and ugly—and I’m sorry you were dragged into it.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Roman,” I answer.
He shakes his head. “I just… I don’t want to pull you into my vortex. You strike me as someone upbeat, someone who hasn’t been beaten down by life yet. And I worry that my drama is the last thing you need.”
So that’s why the crystal was a peace offering. He isn’t necessarily chasing me—he just feels guilty for darkening my world.
“Roman,” I say softly, “really, you don’t have to say sorry.” He may think my life is carefree, but he’s wrong. I lost my mother, I never even knew my father—I’ve had my share of tragedy. I just choose not to let it define me.
He nods, still perched on the desk, looking at me with that tender ache that makes my chest flutter. “You’re really going to the gala with Blake?”
I nod. “I promised.” I let the words hang there, shutting down any chance for him to insist. I couldn’t say no to Blake—and I won’t put him in that position.
“Okay,” he says. “Well, I wanted to see if you were okay after Sera came in and said those ugly things and also after seeing my brother and father with me. And I guess I’ll see you at the gala.”
“You will,” I say with a smile. “And I really have to get home to get back to sewing.”
He smiles. “You sew your own dresses?”
“Sure,” I say. “I learned to sew when I was 10. I don’t sew all my clothes, just the ball gowns and things that are beyond my financial reach.”
“You’ll wear the Painite to the gala?”
My fingers drift to the opalite crystal at my throat. "Of course," I say, drawing comfort from its cool smoothness. "I wouldn't dream of wearing anything else."
He tilts his head. "I don't think I've ever met someone who makes their own clothes."
"Well," I say, adjusting the handmade sleeve at my wrist, "when you're sixteen with champagne taste and a tap water budget, you learn to thread a sewing machine needle.
My first major creation was my prom dress—necessity being the mother of invention.
Now I do it because nothing in stores ever feels quite...
me." I shrug. "Plus, it quiets my mind."
His smile reaches his eyes. "You're unlike anyone I've ever known."
"I hope that's a good thing," I say, returning his smile.
His gaze holds mine, unwavering. "It's the best thing."