Epilogue #3
My name in his mouth sounds different. Older somehow. More significant.
"How do you know my name?" My voice comes out steady despite the sudden racing of my heart.
He gestures to my name tag, lips curving into the barest suggestion of a smile. "It's right there."
Heat rushes to my face. Of course. My name tag. What was I thinking?
"Everyone calls me Sera," I say, trying to recover.
"I'm not everyone." He closes the menu and sets it down with deliberate precision. "And I'm not here for the food."
The restaurant fades around us—the clatter of dishes, the murmur of conversations, all receding like a tide pulling away from shore.
"What are you here for, then?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
His eyes never leave mine as he says, "I'll have you, Seraphina."
The menu slides from my suddenly numb fingers and hits the floor with a soft thud.
Chapter Two
Sera
Chapter Two
I blink, trying to process what he just said.
"Excuse me?" My voice comes out higher than normal.
The stranger leans back in his chair, perfectly at ease while I'm standing here like an idiot, menu still on the floor between us. Something about him feels magnetic—like gravity has shifted slightly in his direction.
"I'm not here to eat," he clarifies, though his tone suggests I should have understood the first time. "I'm here for you."
I glance around, wondering if anyone else can feel how weird this is. But the restaurant continues its normal chaos—Leila arguing with the bartender, tourists snapping photos of their overpriced seafood.
"And you are?" I ask, finally bending to retrieve the fallen menu.
"Someone with an opportunity." He slides long fingers into his suit jacket and pulls out an envelope. Heavy black paper, sealed with what looks like actual wax. The kind of thing you'd see in a period drama, not a beach restaurant in Southern California.
I don't take it. "I don't even know your name."
His mouth curves into something not quite a smile. "Names have power, Seraphina. You, of all people, should know that."
There it is again—the way he says my full name, like he's savoring each syllable.
"Well, I need something to call you." I cross my arms, menu clutched to my chest like a shield.
"You can call me whatever you'd like." He sets the envelope on the table, pushing it toward me with one finger. "But first, I'd like you to consider our invitation."
"Invitation to what?" My curiosity betrays me.
"The Silver Tide Retreat. One month, all expenses paid, at our exclusive coastal property north of Big Sur." His voice drops lower. "We're seeking someone with your particular... talents."
"My talents," I repeat flatly. "You mean waiting tables?"
This time, his smile is real—a flash of perfect teeth that transforms his face from merely handsome to devastating. "Your other talents. The ones you practice in your apartment on Willow Street. The ones that are becoming increasingly difficult to explain away."
My blood runs cold. How does he know where I live? How does he know about my readings?
"I'm not interested," I say automatically.
"You haven't even opened it." He nods at the envelope. "We're prepared to compensate you quite generously. Ten thousand dollars for the month, plus accommodations in your own private cottage."
Ten thousand dollars. That's more than three months' rent. Enough to fix my car, pay off my credit card, maybe even start saving for something better than my shoebox apartment.
"Why me?"
"Because you're authentic." His eyes lock onto mine. "In a world of charlatans and pretenders, you actually see."
I should be flattered, but something in his tone makes my skin prickle with warning. Like I'm being sized up, assessed.
"What exactly would I be doing at this retreat?"
"Readings. Guidance. Helping our guests connect with their intuition." He shrugs one perfect shoulder. "The details are all in the invitation."
Before I can respond, he stands in one fluid motion. He's taller than I realized, towering over me.
"Think about it, Seraphina." He gestures to the envelope. "This is just the beginning."
Without ordering anything, without even saying goodbye, he walks past me and through the restaurant. Everyone turns to watch him go—his presence demanding attention without trying.
The moment the door closes behind him, Leila materializes at my side.
"What. Was. That." She grabs my arm. "Who is he? What did he want? Why am I suddenly questioning my five-year relationship?"
I look down at the black envelope on the table. "I honestly have no idea."
"Well?" She nudges me. "Are you going to open it?"
I slip the envelope into my apron pocket. "Later. Table nine needs their check."
"Sera!" Leila stares at me in disbelief. "A god in human form just handed you what looks like an invitation to the Met Gala, and you're worried about table nine?"
"I'd be more worried about Rob," I nod toward our manager, who's glaring in our direction. "He's about to have an aneurysm if we don't get back to work."
Leila sighs dramatically but moves away. I spend the rest of my shift in a daze, the envelope burning a hole in my pocket. Every time I reach for it, someone needs something—a refill, a dessert menu, change for a fifty.
By the time I clock out, the sun is setting over the ocean, painting the water in shades of gold and crimson. I walk to my apartment, just six blocks from the restaurant, my shadow stretching long behind me on the sidewalk.
My routine is automatic: keys in the dish by the door, shoes off, workout clothes on. I roll out my yoga mat in the small space between my bed and the kitchenette, trying to focus on my breath rather than the stranger's piercing eyes.
Down dog. Warrior one. Warrior two. My body moves through the poses while my mind replays the encounter on an endless loop. Who was he? What did he really want? Ten thousand dollars seems excessive for a month of tarot readings.
I give up after twenty minutes, my concentration shattered. Even my meditation session is useless—five minutes in and I'm fidgeting like a child.
Finally, I retrieve the envelope from my work bag. It's heavier than it looks, the paper thick and textured. The seal is deep gold, embossed with what appears to be a wave pattern. It breaks with a satisfying crack when I run my thumb along it.
Inside is a single card, the same black paper with gold lettering that seems to shimmer under my apartment lights:
THE SURFCASTERS
CORDIALLY INVITE
SERAPHINA ELISE MORGAN
TO PARTICIPATE IN THE ANNUAL SILVER TIDE RETREAT
As our honored Oracle-in-Residence
May 1 - May 31
Moonstone Bay Estate
Big Sur, California
Where the hunters become the guided And the seekers become the found
Under the buck moon's revealing tide
New bonds are forged and ancient powers renewed
Full compensation details enclosed
RSVP REQUIRED by June 20
Transportation will be arranged
A smaller card falls out—a business card with just a phone number printed in the same gold lettering. No name. The back of the invitation includes details about the ten thousand dollar payment, half to be provided upon arrival, half upon completion.
I turn the invitation over in my hands, reading it again. The Surfcasters. The name feels significant somehow, though I can't place why. And "Oracle-in-Residence" sounds a lot more prestigious than "tarot card reader who works out of her apartment."
Where the hunters become the guided...
Something about that line makes me uneasy, though I can't put my finger on why. It's probably just poetic nonsense, the kind of vague spiritual language these wellness retreats always use.
I grab my phone and search "The Surfcasters retreat Big Sur.
" Surprisingly little comes up—just a sleek website with minimal information.
Exclusive wellness experiences. Transformational journeys.
By invitation only. The photos show a stunning coastal property with modern glass buildings perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific.
Ten thousand dollars. A month away from double shifts and tourist demands. A private cottage in Big Sur.
It sounds too good to be true, which usually means it is.
But as I set the invitation on my nightstand and crawl into bed, I can't help but wonder. What if this is the opportunity I've been waiting for? What if these people can help me understand what's happening with my abilities?
What if I'm meant to go?
The stranger's eyes flash in my memory—that stormy blue-gray, looking at me like he already knew my answer.
I roll over, pulling the blanket tight around me. The invitation catches the moonlight streaming through my window, the gold lettering gleaming in the darkness.
Where the hunters become the guided...
Sleep eludes me for a long time.
Chapter Three
Ryder Calloway
Chapter Three
Ryder
The camera clicks again. Then again. And again. A slow, deliberate rhythm like Dante's drawing pleasure from every frame.
He's in the zone now. Shirtless, barefoot, his hands guiding the lens like it's an extension of his body. The model's nude, sprawled across a velvet chaise in a posture that screams submission. Her lips are parted, eyes glazed over, skin slick with the light sweat of anticipation.
"Raise your hips," Dante murmurs, voice low and dark. "Good. Now touch your breast—no, slower. Like it's for you."
She moans. Actually moans.
I stand near the open glass wall of his studio, the ocean air sliding in around us, thick with salt and incense. Sandalwood—Dante's signature. Mixed with heat, flesh, the soft hum of seduction. It smells like distraction.
Kai lounges behind me on a leather settee, tapping at his phone like this is just another Tuesday. "Bitcoin's up," he mutters absently. "Also, we just got three new RSVPs. All verified blue checkmarks. Very grateful. Very desperate."
"Perfect," I say, but my eyes stay locked on the model. I'm not impressed.
Dante circles her now, crouching down to adjust her wrist. His voice is practically a growl. "Look at me like you want me. There it is. That's it."
"Dante," I snap.
He doesn't stop.
"Dante."