Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
ROMAN
I'm meeting my father at Sea Foam Brew on Monday to discuss the eco-hotel project.
After twenty-two years of silence, I'm as ready as I'll ever be—which is to say, not ready at all.
That's why I chose this particular coffee shop on Venice Beach.
It's only a block from Lilith's store, where I can escape afterward when my nerves are shot to hell.
When my father walks in, I rise to my feet, jaw clenching when I see Max trailing behind him.
Why is my youngest brother so invested in this project?
The man has a newborn at home and runs a freshly-merged studio that's been churning out blockbusters like a factory. Plus, he’s training for the Iron Man next year.
He shouldn’t have time to breathe. Yet here he is, playing mediator.
Smart move on my father's part, bringing backup, in case Hurricane Roman turns into a Cat 5. Maybe the old man knows me better than I thought.
I clear my throat. "Dad." The word feels like a stone in my mouth. Sure, I agreed to this meeting about his proposal, but that doesn't mean I'm rolling out the welcome mat.
"Rome." His voice breaks, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Classic Michael Kensington manipulation. All I see is the same weakness that infected half my brothers. "Thank you for coming."
I tap the proposal on the table, pages bleeding with my red ink corrections and other ideas I wrote in the margins. "It has potential." My attention shifts. "Max. Didn't expect to see you here."
Max straightens his tie. "I've been studying up on resort development. Thought I could contribute something valuable."
I arch an eyebrow. "Between running your company and changing diapers? Does Celeste know you've taken on another project?" I shake my head. “She must be thrilled.”
"It's just something on the side," he says with a shrug.
I study him, seeing him differently now. Another brother falling into Dad's orbit, willing to sacrifice precious hours with his family to chase approval from a man who abandoned us all. And for what? To dabble in something he knows nothing about.
Still...I can't help but admire Max's loyalty, misguided as it is. The fact that he’s here, and he’s sacrificing precious moments to help Dad with this project - it's all so transparent.
He thinks if Dad stays busy with blueprints and investors, there won't be time for whiskey and disappearing acts.
My chest tightens watching him shoulder a burden that was never his to carry.
I want to grab him by those tense shoulders and tell him what took me years to learn: Dad's demons are his own.
We didn't pour the drinks then, and we can't stop them now.
Max needs to loosen his white-knuckle grip before Dad inevitably does what Dad's always done—choose his own path, consequences be damned.
I glance at Max. "With your schedule, I'm surprised you even have time to hit the bathroom. Your call, though. Just don't get your hopes up." I arch one eyebrow, and his slight nod tells me he understands.
Dad clears his throat. I've been staring at everything but him since he took a seat. "Rome, you have no idea how much it means that you're considering my eco-resort concepts. I could really use your guidance on making something like this work."
Something in my chest constricts like a fist closing around my heart as my father—his salt-and-pepper hair catching the late afternoon sunlight—seeks my expertise.
I blink hard against the sudden burn behind my eyes and remember when our roles were reversed: me, a gap-toothed kid with scraped knees, hanging on his every word, thinking he hung the moon.
The way his calloused hands guided mine around a fishing hook slick with worm guts.
I think about him teaching me to ski in Switzerland.
His hands were steady on my shoulders while I stood there shaking, convinced the bunny slope was actually a death-defying cliff.
His voice broke through my terror as he repeated our code: "Pizza to slow down, French fries to go, Roman.
I won't let you fall." I was only 4 then—the same year he taught me to surf.
Years later, we'd race each other down black diamonds, shouting like maniacs the whole way.
The bastard always won, which drove me crazy, but damn if it wasn't a good time.
I think about his steady grip on my surfboard as I wobbled atop my first wave.
The sharp scent of fresh-cut pine as we hammered together a lopsided treehouse that felt like a mansion.
I was barely ten, voice still high and clear, when he vanished—but not before he'd leaned close one evening, bourbon on his breath, to give me advice about girls, specifically one girl I was crushing on and wanted his advice about how to approach her.
I shake my head, trying to push away memories that hit me like a rogue wave. My throat tightens, and I notice my hands trembling against the table. Shit. I walked right into this trap. I'm not as bulletproof as I thought.
"So, Dad," I manage, reaching for my phone.
"I implemented similar sustainability measures at Verde.” I swipe through photos of the resort renovations.
"Lilith actually suggested—" I stop cold. He’s going to ask who she is and what do I tell him - what is she to me?
The word "girlfriend" feels both too juvenile and too significant.
"Partner" sounds like we share a law firm or we’re gay.
"Significant other" is what guys who drink kombucha say.
And "friend" doesn't begin to cover what goes on between us as often as we can see each other.
Dad's eyes light up like I just offered him a winning lottery ticket. "Lilith? Who's that?"
Great. I just handed him the perfect opening. Now he'll try to extract personal details, thinking if I talk about my woman, he can mention Patricia, and suddenly we're bonding like he didn't disappear for two decades. Like we're normal. Like we're actually father and son.
Max is practically vibrating in his seat, his eyes lit up like it's Christmas morning.
I know that look—he's itching to spill everything about Lilith to Dad. Our eyes lock across the table. His excitement dims as he reads the warning in my eyes - I’m giving him the same look I gave Blake right before I roundhouse kicked him to the floor.
That's how it's always been—seven brothers who know exactly where the line is with me, and how quickly I'll cross mine if they step over theirs.
I open my mouth, but something makes me stop. "She's..." The syllables of Lilith's name sit heavy on my tongue. I work my jaw. Fuck that. This man standing in front of me—he doesn't get access to her. That's not something he's earned.
My jaw tightens. "Never mind." Max's face falls. I catch his eye, my expression hardening into a warning. Dad shifts in his chair, his gaze flicking between us. At least he has the decency to stay silent.
Dad nods, his green eyes dimming like lights in a power outage.
Did he honestly think I'd roll out the red carpet to my inner world after all these years?
That I'd pour him a scotch and tell him about Lilith, about the nightmares that still wake me?
This meeting has an agenda, typed and printed: business only.
Nothing else is on the table—certainly not the father-son heart-to-heart he seems to be fishing for.
Then I look at Max and feel that familiar burn rising in my chest. My fists clench at my sides.
Max—all of them—have welcomed him back like some prodigal father.
I can picture it now: Dad sitting on Cam's leather couch, nursing a beer while my oldest brother passes him photos of Alecia cradling baby Stephanie.
That little face he'll never actually see.
That tiny coffin he wasn't there to carry. His own granddaughter, gone before he bothered to return. His daughter-in-law, who he’ll also never know.
I hope whatever he found out in England was worth missing all this.
I slam the folder down on the desk. "Your proposal shows promise. But there are things I'd change."
Dad leans forward. His knuckles whiten as he grips the chair's armrests. Behind his eyes, I see it—that desperate hunger to breach my defenses, to force his way back into my life with his goddamn apologies for vanishing when we needed him most. Does he actually think the word sorry fixes anything?
"Son," he says, voice cracking. "Whatever you say. You're the expert."
I lock eyes with him, jaw clenched. "I'm an expert at running resorts that don't give a shit about carbon footprints.
Not eco-friendly designs. But I've got sustainability architects and engineers—absolute geniuses—who tore your proposal apart and found every weakness. Things you never even considered."
Dad's eyes light up like he just won the fucking lottery. "Go ahead," he says, and I can read his thoughts without Lilith's tarot cards. He's practically doing backflips in his head because I'm talking to him instead of hurling him through the plate glass window.
Max has that same puppy-dog hope plastered across his face.
I shake my head hard. Goddammit. I'm sending the wrong message.
I want to cut this man out of my life like a tumor.
But I can't let him crash and burn—he'd crawl right back inside a bottle and end up at Uncle Thomas' farm again, leaving my brothers shattered.
Christ. They'll break in ways worse than if this walking disappointment had stayed dead to us all along.
"Let me summarize just some of the changes my experts suggest.” Then I go through some of the suggestions with my father, whose eyes widen at my red-inked changes.
"Roman, Jesus—I can't believe you actually took this seriously." His voice cracks slightly. "What did your sustainability team say? Can we make this happen?"
I lock eyes with him. "It'll work. But you need serious capital—fifty million, minimum." I slam my palm on the table. My jaw tightens. The truth burns in my throat: with the Roman Kensington name attached, investors would be climbing over each other, throwing cash at his feet. Without me, he won’t get funding. But I’m not ready to help him—not yet.
He nods. “I’ll talk to Dad.”
Max leans forward. "Roman. If you put your name behind this, Dad wouldn't have to get a loan."
My molars grind together so hard I taste enamel dust. Blood rushes to my face, pounding in my temples. I slam both palms on the table and stand, sending my chair crashing backward.
"This meeting is over." I lock eyes with Max, daring him to say one more goddamn word. The little shit ambushed me in front of my father, put me on the spot, and he knows he’s wrong.
I storm out without another word. Outside the coffee shop, I pause and glance back through the window.
Dad's head is bowed, shoulders shaking slightly.
Max has his arm around him. My chest tightens and my throat burns.
Damn it. Am I the asshole here? I take three steps back toward the door, then stop.
I turn away, then back again. My fist clenches, unclenches.
Twenty-two fucking years and he ambushes me with Max like this.
I reach for the coffee shop door handle, then jerk my hand away like it's electrified.
I exhale slowly, run a hand through my hair.
Max catches my eye through the glass, nods once.
Whatever. Max will handle it. He always does. That's his thing, not mine. Isn't it?
After swinging by Mystic Tides and finding the CLOSED sign hanging in the window, I drive straight to Lilith's place. It's just past seven when Jack swings open her front door, his eyebrows shooting up.
"Well hello, gorgeous! Perfect timing. Lilith's wrapping up her meditation circle—first one in ages. The ladies are about to hit some fancy cocktails. Well, except our girl. She'll nurse some mocktails, as she don’t drink so much, as I'm sure you've noticed."
"They're still at it?" I ask, glancing toward the living room.
"Just finishing. She used to host these weekly before your resort snatched up all her free time. Tonight's the big comeback—five of her closest girlfriends in there getting their zen on."
I stare down at my calloused knuckles and exhale slowly.
What am I even doing here? Her world: crystal healing and group meditation.
Mine: boardroom battles and buried rage.
I'm a walking disaster with daddy issues and a mean right hook.
Someone like her—all light and genuine goodness—deserves better than getting dragged into my darkness.
And how long until I take away all her light with my vortex?
Goddamn it, I'm a fucking parasite for being with her.
She's like oxygen to me—the only thing that silences the goddamn hurricane raging between my ears.
But what the hell does she get? A quarter-million crystal pendant?
A store makeover I threw money at? That's not love—that's just me buying the right to drain her light until there's nothing left. Christ, I'm no better than my father.
I shake my head. “Uh, I shouldn’t have come here. Don’t tell Lilith I stopped by, okay?”
Jack knits his brows. “Okay, but-”
I clench my jaw. "Got an early meeting tomorrow and I haven't been sleeping much lately.
" My body aches with exhaustion, but I'd sacrifice every minute of rest to feel Lilith writhing beneath me again.
For three straight nights, I've stayed over with her and devoured her until dawn, pinning her against the headboard, the wall, the floor—anywhere I can claim her.
The sound of her gasping my name has become an addiction I can't shake.
She probably hasn't closed her eyes for more than an hour at a time either.
I drive back home with a jackhammer pounding behind my eyes.
What a goddamn train wreck I am. Just thirty minutes with my father and my mind's a war zone again—worse than before.
How do you forgive someone who taught you that trust is for suckers?
The old man's like a virus in my system—infecting everything from how I run my hotels to how I look at Lilith when she smiles at me.
She's the only person who's ever made the noise in my head quiet down, who's made me feel... Christ, I don't even have words for it.
But I'm damaged goods. Period. And Lilith? She's got her little bookshop, that Jack guy who makes her laugh, those crystal-clutching friends who probably chant under the full moon. She radiates light. Meanwhile, I'm over here dragging around twenty-two years of daddy issues like a ball and chain.
I've got to end this. Cut her loose before she drowns with me. It'll gut me, but she deserves better.