Chapter 46 #2
Now, Serafina's perfectly plucked eyebrows draw together, her crimson lips thinning to a dangerous line. Her manicured fingers grip her champagne flute so tightly I'm surprised the crystal doesn't shatter.
"I still don't believe you're falling for her games," she hisses through clenched teeth.
"Wake up, Roman! The woman graduated from City College.
City College!" She spits the words like they taste foul on her tongue.
"I heard her telling somebody at your gala that she sewed her own dress—with actual thread and needle, like some kind of peasant from the Middle Ages.
She probably thinks Chanel is a TV station.
Thinks Balenciaga is a kind of cheese. I bet she stares at the row of forks at Eleven Madison Park like they're ancient hieroglyphics.
She might know service protocol—left to serve, right to clear in America, ladies first in Europe—but only because she's been a fucking cater waiter, not because she has a single refined bone in her bohemian body.
What could you possibly have in common with her? "
Ha. Good question. Truth is, Lilith and I have very little in common.
Her tiny Venice Beach townhouse could fit in my master bathroom.
Her idea of breakfast is some kind of green smoothie with ingredients I can't pronounce, while I have a personal chef at the resort who prepares eggs Benedict with caviar.
She wears flowing skirts with jangling ankle bracelets; I wear Tom Ford suits that cost more than her monthly store rent.
But none of that matters when I'm with her—when her eyes crinkle at the corners as she laughs, when her wild chestnut curls tickle my chest as she sleeps.
She makes the constant buzzing in my head quiet down for the first time since I was ten years old.
No, she didn't attend Harvard-Westlake prep school, or Harvard undergrad, or Stanford MBA, or Cornell PhD like I did.
I don't understand how her tarot cards work or why she thinks holding a piece of rose quartz can heal a broken heart.
But when I'm with her, I'm not Roman Kensington, hotel magnate with the weight of a $50 billion-dollar empire on his shoulders.
I'm just Roman. And that feels like finally being able to breathe after drowning for twenty-nine years - since my mother died.
And the fact is, she’s everything to me. Light. Heat. Oxygen. Everything.
I lean in close enough to smell the Chanel No.
5 on Sera's neck, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that only she can hear in the crowded restaurant.
"It's over, Sera. Not just over—fossilized.
Ancient history." The crystal tumbler in my hand catches the amber light from the chandelier as I take a slow sip of eighteen-year Macallan.
"And I know exactly what you did, threatening Lilith at her bookstore. "
Her perfectly glossed lips part slightly, the first crack in her porcelain facade.
I slide my phone across the white tablecloth, its screen displaying a series of damning financial records.
"Five separate insider trading violations, all meticulously documented.
The Cohen and Friesz merger you somehow predicted; Flicka and Pojke, whose stocks you dumped right before it came out that their wooden train set would be recalled; Boeing's nosedive—both literal and financial—that you escaped unscathed.
" I tap each transaction with my index finger, the platinum Patek Philippe on my wrist catching the light.
"The Chinese battery breakthrough. And my personal favorite—Orion's miracle weight-loss drug that's currently financing your new Aspen chalet. "
The blood drains from Sera's face, leaving her MAC foundation a shade too dark against her suddenly pallid skin. Her French-manicured nails dig into the leather banquette. "How did you possibly—"
"Not important," I cut her off, enjoying the way her sapphire earrings tremble as she swallows hard.
"What matters is that I can picture the whole scene now—federal agents in bulletproof vests storming through your hotel, boxes of evidence stacked in the elevator, your Louboutins clicking desperately as they escort you past all those employees you've terrorized.
" I smile, not the practiced one I use for investors, but the predatory one my brothers know means someone's about to bleed.
"So here's the deal, simple enough even for your Harvard Business School brain: you stay completely silent about my father's past and Lilith's spiritual practices, or I make one phone call and your next outfit comes in prison orange. Understood?"
She nods, finally knowing she’s lost. For good.
Sera's eyes glisten with tears. "Roman," she chokes out, clutching at my sleeve. "Please don't do this. Please. We loved each other, I know we did."
I wrench my arm away. "Sera, here's the thing.
" My voice turns to ice. "What we had wasn't love.
It was convenience. Lust. A goddamn business arrangement with orgasms." I lean closer.
"Real love? It's a fucking inferno. It's choosing to burn alive, screaming in agony, rather than watch her shed a single tear.
It's lying awake at night memorizing the rhythm of her breathing.
" My fists clench as Lilith floods my mind—rushing that dress to her at the gala; rebuilding her shop after that flood, her smile worth every penny of the six figures I spent.
The blood I would spill for her. The bullet I would take for her.
"I would tear this world apart with my bare hands for her. And I wouldn't think twice."
She sighs. “Roman.”
I point at her. “Not a word about Lilith to anyone. Not a word about my dad to anyone. Got that? You breathe a word and the fed will get an anonymous tip. And you can do what can, hire a forensic fucking genius to erase all evidence of your trades from your hard-drives, but it’ll be no use.
Those trades are out there. They can’t be erased.
The feds will find them. And you’ll be fucking toast.” I raise an eyebrow. “Fair warning.”
At that, I drink the rest of my whiskey, throw down my napkin and storm out.
Tomorrow, I’ll do one thing, the first thing in the morning.
Head to Carmel.
But first, I call Jack. "Jack," I say. "Sera won't be a problem anymore. Where's Lilith?"
"Oh my god, what did you do? I need details!"
Jack's practically salivating for gossip, but I can't risk it. My arrangement with Sera hinges on discretion—her financial indiscretions stay buried as long as she backs off. If Jack finds out, the whole city will know by happy hour.
"Not important. Just tell me where to find her."
He sighs with the drama of a soap opera diva.
"In Car-MEL, silly. I'm sure you knew that. Some cosmic priestess named Raven something is letting her crash in her yurt. Our girl’s scouting storefronts for Mystic Tides: The Sequel.
Probably communing with redwood spirits and collecting moon-charged pebbles as we speak. "
I nod. Tomorrow at dawn, I'll be in my helicopter heading north. The five-hour drive isn't an option—every minute away from her feels like torture.
I touch the small velvet box in my pocket.
For weeks, I've been working with Silas, who’s been in touch with jewelers across three continents to find it: a blue diamond so rare that fewer than twenty comparable stones exist on earth.
When I look at its impossible azure depths, I see everything I want to promise her—forever, only her, always.
The kind of certainty I've never felt about anything else in my life.