Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
ROMAN
I know I’ve been out of pocket. Between my usual resort duties, Dad's investor meetings, and poring over his plans until my eyes cross, I've barely had time to breathe.
If someone had told me two months ago I'd willingly sacrifice my scarce free hours to help the man who abandoned us launch his own resort, I'd have called them delusional.
Yet here I am, knee-deep in sustainability reports and blueprint revisions, determined to see this through. The strangest part? Somewhere between location scouting and budget meetings, the stranger who shares my DNA has become... Dad again.
My walls came down when I realized something simple but profound: if he ever tried to vanish like before, I wouldn't let him—none of us would.
What I thought was anger was really just fear in disguise—terror that letting him back meant risking another abandonment that would break me beyond repair.
Now I can breathe easier knowing my brothers and I hold the power.
He's not leaving again unless we say so.
Dad and I even surfed last Saturday. Just us—my brothers all magically had other things to do, even Max, who'd normally cut off his right arm before missing Saturday waves.
The morning fog had burned off, leaving the water so damn perfect it almost hurt to look at it.
Between sets, we just floated there, faces up to the sun, and talked.
Actually talked. Twenty-two years of silence, and suddenly I'm telling him everything like some emotional dam broke inside me.
Told him about Lilith's eyes—amber, like whiskey in sunlight—and how the lavender smell of her skin somehow calms the constant chaos in my head. He told me about Patricia's laugh, how it starts small then takes over her whole body, and how she dragged him back to life after Mom.
The old man actually has a sense of humor—cracking jokes about Uncle Thomas's ridiculous three-legged goat and some crazy Vietnam vet who drinks Jack for breakfast at his local dive in that English village where he spent two decades.
Four hours later, arms feeling like jelly and skin burned to hell, we walked up the beach together, laughing like those missing years were nothing but a bad dream.
After surfing, I invited him to The Bone and Brass for dinner—my flagship restaurant where I knew the staff would treat him like royalty. When he walked in, I stepped forward first and wrapped my arms around him.
"The menu's yours," I said, that old feeling washing over me—ten years old again, desperate for his approval. "Chef Marcelo outdoes himself on everything."
He gave me that hesitant smile before ordering oysters to start and the herb-roasted chicken. Nothing flashy, nothing expensive. Classic Dad—frugal to the bone. I'd somehow forgotten that about him.
He sipped his water. "So, Lilith. She okay with all this father-son time?"
"That's what makes her special," I said. "Unlike anyone I've dated before. She's just... genuine. Sees the bigger picture when everyone else gets caught in the details."
His eyes creased at the corners. "And training for this Ironman with Max next fall? When exactly will you sleep?"
"Not starting that until we finalize your resort plans," I said. "We're in the critical phase now—financing, blueprints. Once we break ground, I'll ease back. Won't push myself too hard, like you always warned."
"You remember those conversations." He nodded slowly. "Me worrying your intensity would burn you out someday. Still worries me."
"It's who I am, Dad. Lilith says it's my Aries nature—always charging forward. That won't change. But I promise not to run myself into the ground."
Dad and I talked long into the night, our voices growing hoarse as the soda water in our glasses dwindled - I don’t drink around him, of course.
He insists that I can, that he can handle it, but why tempt fate?
The restaurant’s balcony overlooks the Pacific with waves crashing against the Palos Verdes cliffs below us.
When his eyelids started drooping, I insisted he take one of our open oceanfront suites—the Malibu, with its king-sized bed and rainfall shower. As I handed him the keycard, our fingers brushed, and I felt something shift between us, like tectonic plates finally settling after decades of tension.
So, yeah, Dad and I are finally becoming something I never dreamed we'd be—friends.
Now, for some odd reason, Lilith isn't answering her phone.
Three calls straight to voicemail. So unlike her.
I drive my Aston Martin down to Venice Beach and go right to her store.
The crystal dreamcatcher that usually catches the last rays of sunlight in the display window hangs motionless in darkness.
The CLOSED sign dangles crookedly against the glass door.
Of course—it's 8:17 now. She always locks up around 6, right after the beach crowd thins out.
I speed across town to her pale blue townhome and rap my knuckles against the door, my pulse quickening with each second of silence.
When Jack finally opens the door, his usual sparkly eye makeup is smudged at the corners.
"Roman, hello," he says stiffly, his shoulders squared beneath his silk kimono robe.
My stomach drops. Jack isn't winking, isn't calling me "gorgeous," isn't playfully adjusting my collar. Something is definitely wrong.
“Hey, Jack,” I say. “Where’s Lilith?”
Jack heaves a heavy sigh. “She’s not here.”
My heart drops like an elevator with cut cables.
The hairs on my forearms stand at attention.
Lilith once told me about how the subconscious mind processes millions of data points that never reach our conscious awareness—something like 11 million bits of information per second versus a measly 40 bits that we actually notice.
It's why sometimes everything looks fine on the surface, but your gut churns with warning.
"That's your third eye," she'd said, touching the center of my forehead with her fingertip, her voice soft and certain.
"Trust it when it speaks." Right now, mine isn't just speaking—it's screaming.
“Where is she?”
He shrugs and I want to rip his throat out. "She's..." His voice cracks. "She's gone, Roman. And I can't tell you where she is." He's trembling like a goddamn leaf, but still has the audacity to gesture me into the townhouse. “Cocktail?”
"Fuck no," I snarl, shoving past him. "Jack, what the FUCK is happening?"
He flinches, backing against the wall. "I begged her to face you, but she refused." His eyes dart away from mine. "Said she felt she’d end up destroying you and your father. That she'd rather disappear than watch you both crash and burn. So she ran—vanished without a trace."
Oh, hell no. This is NOT happening. I swear on my mother's grave, if I have to kick down every goddamn door on this planet with my bare fucking feet, I WILL find her.
My hands are already shaking, jaw clenched so tight my teeth might crack.
But first—Jack. Jack has answers, and I don't care what it takes to get them.
“Okay. Let’s have that cocktail.”
I enter the apartment, and Jack's already mixing tequila with lime in a salt-rimmed glass.
Sweet drinks, ugh, hate sugar, but take it anyhow to be social.
Taking the margarita, I settle into the chair opposite his at the dining room table and study his face.
Jack's an open book with dog-eared pages—I can practically see the secrets bubbling behind those eyes.
Five minutes of my questioning, and he'll spill everything.
“Now,” I say. “Let’s start over. Why is Lilith gone?”
“Oh, I can’t lie to you. But I won’t tell you where she is, but I can tell you why she left. How would that be?”
I drag in a ragged breath, my fists clenching so hard my knuckles crack as I fight the crimson fury blazing behind my eyes.
Everything was finally falling into place—reconciling with my father after twenty-two fucking years, getting his project off the ground, crushing those investor meetings for him.
Demolishing my opponent in that MMA cage until my hands were slick with blood and victory.
And Lilith—Christ—she's been the only light guiding me through this darkness.
Now it's all crumbling to ash in my hands, and I swear to God I'll burn the world down before I let that happen.
She isn't just my North Star—she's the oxygen in my lungs, the blood in my veins. That.Will.Never.Fucking.Change.
“Why did she leave?”
Jack leaned in, lowering his voice. "It's that Shady Barbie again.” He shakes his head.
“Don't give me that look—Lilith might absolutely murder me for spilling the tea, but honey, someone's gotta put Miss Thing in check.
She's been skating by her whole life on those baby blues and daddy's platinum AmEx.
I mean, please. You ask little ol' me? She's been getting away with nonsense since the cradle, which is why she continues to be a hot mess.
Somebody has to hold her fabulous ass accountable. "
My stomach knotted. "Sera. What happened?”
"Paid our girl a little visit. Threatened to blast you all over Instagram, maybe even get some hit piece in Forbes about how the great Roman Kensington is dating—" he made air quotes, "—a 'witch.
'" Jack rolled his eyes. "She knows damn well Lil don't cast spells or whatever.
Lil reads cards and sells crystals. There's a difference." He sighs. “And she threatened to tell the investors about your father’s drunkenness. Guess they don’t know about that right now, huh?”
My jaw tightens. I know the distinction between Lilith's spiritual practice and actual witchcraft, but to Sera and her crowd, it was all the same ammunition. And I wouldn’t try to explain to my investors the difference, either. They wouldn’t understand, the closed-minded pricks.
And Dad’s alcoholism? Those investors would bolt faster than paparazzi chasing a scandal.
They have no clue—how could they? We’ve buried that secret deeper than the Mariana Trench.
Every glossy magazine profile on the Kensington brothers strategically omitted the chapter where our father vanished into a bottle.
One word about that in the article, and that magazine would face a complete Kensington media blackout.
Not even worth it when Connor’s collecting Oscars like souvenirs and Kalen has stadiums of screaming fans worldwide.
We’ve guarded that boundary like a fortress.
So, yeah, those investors are blissfully ignorant about Dad’s demons, and that’s exactly how the project survives.
If Sera starts talking... Dad’s dream dies before it takes its first breath.
I wouldn't touch Sera—never raised a hand to a woman in my life—but picturing her Maserati taking a wrong turn at Mulholland gives me a moment of dark satisfaction.
I clench my jaw, feeling the muscle twitch beneath my skin.
"Let me guess. Sera threatened to poison my investors against me if Lilith didn't back off.
" My voice drops lower, harsher. "She was going to paint my father as a unrepentant drunk while convincing them Lilith's some kind of black magic practitioner.
" I slam my palm against the desk, sending papers fluttering.
"I can just see her whispering in their ears about evil spells and hexes, making those superstitious old bastards think their stock portfolios would suddenly combust."
“Oh my God, you hit that on the head! Yes, that’s exactly how it went.”
I slam my fist against the wall. Damn it.
Lilith is gone because she wants to save my father’s project.
No matter. I’ll find her if I have to burn this whole coast down.
Jack will crack—I'll make sure of it. But I already know where she is.
Carmel. The way her eyes lit up when we drove through those cypress trees, how she gasped at the waves crashing against those jagged cliffs.
She practically vibrated with energy there, said the place "called to her soul.
" She disappeared to Big Sur for that retreat a few months ago too.
Those fairy-tale cottages, the misty mornings—it screams Lilith.
She's there. I can feel it in my bones. And if she's not?
I'll tear apart every town on the goddamn map until I find her.
But Sera—that manipulative bitch is my first problem.
My investors are old-school, superstitious as hell.
One whisper from Sera about Lilith's crystals or meditation circles, and those cowards will run. She'll twist everything, paint Lilith as some kind of dark sorceress corrupting their precious investment. And if that doesn’t do it, Dad’s alcoholism will.
I need to shut Sera down. Permanently.
Caspian will help me. Blood or not, he knows his sister is poison.
He's seen what Lilith does to me—how she's the only fucking thing that makes sense in my world.
Once I tell him what Sera pulled, he'll help me find her weakness.
Everyone has one. And I'll exploit it until she backs the hell away from my investors, my father's project, and my life.
“Thanks, Jack,” I say. “Listen, I have to go. I have to talk to Caspian.”
“Caspian. Sera’s brother, no?”
“Right.”
I storm out and call Caspian from the car, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. "Coming over," I growl, not asking permission. Caspian would walk through fire for me—has before, metaphorically speaking—and I'd burn down the world for him. That's our blood oath.
And right now, I'm drowning.
My chest is a vise, crushing inward with every heartbeat. If anyone can pull me back from this edge, it's him.