Chapter 41 #2
"Oh, okay. Sure." I snap my fingers sarcastically.
"You tell me to break up with him and I guess you think I'll just do it.
" I shake my head, my handmade rose quartz earrings swinging against my neck.
"I know your type. I went to school with girls like you—girls with Daddy's credit card and designer handbags.
They drove Porsches to school. They all thought they were entitled to things without working for them.
They all felt that because they're beautiful, popular, and trust-fund rich, that they could just bat those extension-enhanced eyelashes and make everybody cater to their every whim. "
I smile, remembering myself in high school—my lavender-streaked hair smelling of patchouli oil, my thrift-store denim covered in hand-embroidered stars, my silver nose ring catching the light, my tarot cards worn at the edges from daily use. Women like Serafina would've bullied me. Did bully me.
But I never surrendered my crystal pendant to their Tiffany charm bracelets, because I knew, even then, that my worth wasn't measured in carats or brand names.
I knew it then, standing in bathroom stalls wiping away tears, and I know it now, facing down this couture-clad mean girl.
I won't give in to this overgrown bully now, no matter how many zeros are in her checking account.
Sera's crimson lips curl into a serpentine smile. "Break up with him or else."
"Or else what?" My voice catches in my throat.
"Or else his father’s resorts will be dragged through the mud.
" She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, her diamond studs catching the light.
"You don't think I have connections in the media world, do you?
My father is a tech billionaire in Silicon Valley with a mansion overlooking the Pacific and he knows everybody in the new media landscape.
And once I tell my father about Roman dating a witch—" she spits the word like venom "—he'll blast it far and wide until Roman's reputation crumbles like sand.
Old school investors with their Brooks Brothers suits and country club memberships don't look too kindly to actual witches.
They don't burn them at the stake anymore, pity that, but they don't exactly invite them to their yacht parties, either.”
I stare at her blankly, but she continues
“Roman has a very particular image to convey - successful, brash, handsome, uber-wealthy,” she says.
“And I can't believe that you can't look in that cracked mirror of yours and see how pathetic it looks for him to be with you.
" Then she narrows her eyes. "Imagine the headline: 'Kensington Heir Courts Crystal-Gazing Hippie.
' The investors would run screaming. Then add Michael's whiskey breakfast habit?
" She leans closer. "Those Wall Street types, they want stability.
Not a billionaire who spends his nights with tarot cards and his mornings bailing Daddy out of the drunk tank.
The Kensington empire would crumble faster than those ancient ruins in Greece. "
"Get out!" I scream, my finger trembling as I point at the door, the amethyst ring my grandmother gave me catching the afternoon light.
She doesn't leave, but just stands there in the doorway, tossing her honey-blonde hair and shaking her head.
"Read this story," she says, thrusting her manicured hand toward me, a tablet displaying a mock article.
"As soon as I snap my fingers, it'll be all over social media and in every glossy industry magazine from Los Angeles to Dubai. I’ve already contacted the editor of Forbes about this juicy piece of gossip.”
My heart pounds against my ribs as I read the story that Sera had concocted.
The story paints a picture of Roman's new lady, a practicing Wicca who dances barefoot around crackling bonfires for Samhain and the winter solstice, who reads worn tarot cards by candlelight, who believes that rose quartz crystals heal broken hearts and who prays to an ancient Celtic goddess with outstretched arms. All true, so I can't very well sue for libel.
Well, I'm not a practicing Wicca, but my belief system with its herbs and incantations aligns with theirs, so that's a grey area for suing.
And then I see the pièce de résistance—the story also goes into depth about Michael's alcoholism, detailing every bottle he emptied, every family dinner he ruined, every promise he broke.
The article even includes a photo of him passed out on a front lawn, his tie askew and his expensive suit stained with what could have been whiskey or vomit.
The caption reads, "Michael Kensington: The Fall of a Would-be Hotelier.” My jaw clenches so hard I can hear my teeth grinding.
I want to tell her that I don't care about this story.
That I love Roman—the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, how he holds my hand under restaurant tables—and he loves me and that's all that matters.
That he's too well-established in his five-star resorts so that anything these tabloids and social media vultures might say about me wouldn't affect him.
But that's not true and I know it. Roman's trying to get his father's new eco-resort idea off the ground right now.
It's a revolutionary concept and he's been lining up skeptical investors in boardrooms across the world.
What would happen if these new investors get spooked because they think that Roman's gone completely bonkers because he's dating me?
And this story about Michael’s alcoholism…that will kill the project for sure. Roman told me that the investors don’t know about his father’s problems. They have no reason to know, really. But with this article published, that will change. Those investors will get spooked for sure.
Oh, God, I can't be selfish here. Roman's face had lit up like a child's on Christmas morning when he told me about reconciling with his father—the deep crease between his eyebrows smoothing out for the first time since I'd known him.
His hands had gestured wildly as he described helping Michael establish his own luxury resorts.
What would happen if the investors for Michael’s new project get spooked by me being in the picture?
The fact that Roman's dating me—a woman who reads tarot cards for a living, burns sage bundles in her apartment, and only has an associate's degree from City College with its peeling paint and flickering fluorescent lights—how could I possibly be anything but a detriment to Roman's polished Forbes magazine image?
And if I am a detriment, how would that affect his father's fledgling resorts?
I bow my head, my hair falling forward to shield my face as hot tears threaten to spill. The Tiger’s Eye crystal pendant at my throat—the one Roman said matched my eyes—suddenly feels like it's choking me.
I can't believe I never saw this coming, even with all my tarot cards and intuition.
I've been living in a fairy tale bubble all this time, floating on incense smoke and wishful thinking, where love conquers all like some cosmic force.
But it doesn't, does it? The real world, with its marble-floored boardrooms and judgmental stares, dictates that barefoot bookstore owners with healing crystals do not end up with billionaire hotel magnates.
Period, end of story. And in that same cold, hard reality, women like me, with our thrift-store dresses and New Age philosophies, do nothing but tarnish men like Roman's polished reputations just by standing at their side.
My fingers curl into my palms, nails digging half-moons into the flesh as I finally speak. "If I break up with him, you'll leave him alone, then? You won't drag his name through the mud with this story? You won’t tell people about Michael’s alcoholism?”
Serafina’s lips curve into what might pass for a smile in certain predatory species.
"Of course not. You break up with him, there's no need to run that story, is there?
" Then she cocks her head. She leans in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"You have two choices. Either you walk away from Roman now, or I run this story and personally visit every investor backing his father's project. I'll make sure they know all about the witch who might curse their fortunes while they sleep. I’ll let them know exactly why dear old Dad disappeared for so long.” Her lips curved into a cold smile.
"Watch how quickly they disappear. And Roman will know exactly who to blame. "
I exhale slowly, feeling something crack inside my chest. My heart will shatter like sea glass, but I have to do this.
Later on, Jack comes back to the shop, the little bell above the door announcing his arrival with its familiar silver tinkle. I'm already planning my exit strategy, my fingers absently rearranging the same stack of amethyst crystals for the third time today.
I'll move to Northern California where I don't have to see Roman's fancy cars pulling up outside my shop, because I know that with those penetrating dark eyes and that stubborn Kensington jaw, he won't understand and he'll continue to come here until I take him back.
I can't do that. I love him so much that my chest physically aches when I think of him, and I know I'll crumble like sea salt if he asks me to come back.
Jack sashays in, peacock-blue scarf fluttering, and freezes mid-stride.
"Oh honey," he says, voice dipping low with concern.
"Who do I need to destroy today?" He plants his hands on his narrow hips, head tilted.
"Was it that plastic surgery nightmare? Just say the word and I'll channel my inner drag queen rage. "