Page 16 of The Malibu Destiny

Suddenly another gorgeous man appears—unmistakably Roman's brother. He's like their father reincarnated younger—those same piercing blue-green eyes, that same chiseled jawline, identical dark waves of hair. But where the father's hair flows wild and untamed, the son's is slicked back with enough product to survive a typhoon. When this new man’s face splits into a smile, it's blinding—deep dimples carving into his cheeks, lighting up the entire beach.

"Max!" The father's voice breaks with desperate joy as they collide in an embrace.

"Dad!" Max clutches him fiercely. "Roman around?"

The father points shakily toward the beach where Roman stands, not fifty feet away, watching them. The naked longing on Roman's face is devastating—like a starving man watching others feast. His eyes burn with such hunger for that same connection that I can barely breathe watching him. His hands have curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, trembling with the force of everything he's holding back.

Oh God. Roman is hemorrhaging before my eyes. His aura pulses crimson and black, a psychic scream so loud my ears ring. The cards in my pocket burn against my thigh—I don't need to read them to see the Tower, the Three of Swords piercing his chest. His jaw clenches so hard I swear I hear enamel crack as he watches his father's arms encircle Max—the golden child whose birth shattered everything. The betrayal in Roman's eyes is primal, animal.

My lungs seize. The energy crackling between these three men is suffocating me, a vortex of twenty-two years of abandonment, rage, and desperate, shameful yearning. Roman's eyes never leave his father's hands on Max's back. Those same hands never held him through nightmares, never taught him to shave, never steadied him when he stumbled.

Max approaches Roman, hand outstretched. Roman's entire body jerks back—pure instinct—before he forces himself into his brother's embrace. The violence of that contradiction splits my heart. Flinch. Embrace. Reject. Need. I press my nails into my palms until they leave half-moons. Every cell in my body screams to cross the sand, to press my hands against Roman’s temples and draw out the poison. But I stand frozen, watching him bleed.

My eyes lock with the father's, who's planted himself in front of me like a man awaiting judgment. "I'm Michael," he says, his hand thrust forward, weathered lines etched into his palm. His gaze sweeps over my crystals, my cards, as he inhales the sandalwood incense that coils between us like a living thing.

"Lilith," I say, my voice stronger than I intended. "I read tarot cards here."

"I see that." His eyes narrow. "You actually divine truth from those things?"

"Every time," I say, holding his stare. "Want me to prove it?"

He glances over his shoulder at Roman, who's standing rigid as stone beside Max on the beach, his eyes burning holes through us both. "God, no," he says, voice cracking. "Not with him watching. Though you must be something special to survive working for my son." The words "my son" catch in his throat like broken glass.

I grip his shoulder, feeling bone beneath fabric. "Listen to me," I whisper fiercely. "Your sons—all of them—have your blood burning in their veins and they all love you. Even him. Especially him.” I somehow know that what I’m saying is the truth.

His eyes flood instantly. "He'll never forgive me," he chokes out. "And Christ, I probably deserve every ounce of that hatred."

I dig my fingers deeper. "No. Hatred is poison, not justice. Everyone walks through fire for their reasons. I don't know yours, but I see what you are—a Phoenix risen from destruction. Own that power. It's yours now."

Michael's eyes flood with unshed tears as Max comes back and wraps his arm around his father's shoulder, squeezing tight. My heart swells watching them—this sweet, gentle man with the aura that blazes golden like summer sunrise finally receiving the love he deserves. I burn to know if the others embrace their father with the same fierce devotion Max shows. If they do, Michael's wounds will heal like wildfire.

"Just dropped my gear with Roman's surfing concierge," Max says, then pivots toward me, hand thrust forward. "I'm Max. And you are?"

"Lilith," I manage, my voice catching.

His smile flashes white. "Lilith. Nice to meet you." He turns back, clasping his father's shoulder. "Gotta run, Dad. Saturday at the Gala?"

Michael's eyes dart anxiously. "Will Roman be there?"

"Working on it," Max promises, then gives me one last electric smile before vanishing into the crowd.

Michael's gaze finds Roman standing at the water's edge. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fists clench at his sides. Something about his stillness against the moving water makes my chest tighten. I want to go to him, to stand beside him until whatever storm is raging inside him passes.

I've always been the one who could brighten a room, ease someone's burden with a joke or a touch. But Roman's pain feels different—deeper than anything my usual light could reach. Still, I wish I could try.

Later, after readings for the elite—a billionaire who crushed my hand in his grip; a tech mogul's wife dripping in diamonds that could fund my shop for decades; a Duchess with eyes like glaciers; and an A-list actress whose presence literally stole my breath—I stumble up the beach, sand burning between my toes.

Later, when I’m walking through the lobby to go to my car, Roman appears without warning, dark suit and darker expression. He leans over the front desk, each clipped word making the staff member's shoulders tense visibly. When he looks up and sees me, something flickers across his face—recognition, maybe interest—before he deliberately turns away, jaw tightening. My stomach drops. Of course. I'm just another tourist with a crush on the handsome hotel owner, the kind of distraction he's learned to dismiss before his coffee gets cold.

Yet my heart pounds wildly as I trek the endless miles back to Venice Beach. Blake Walsh is taking me to the Kensington Gala! The same Blake who once made me tongue-tied in middle school is suddenly back in my orbit. So even though Roman's rejection scorches like third-degree burns—Jack will be devastated to find out that Roman’s not interested in me after all—I’ve got a lifeline to cling to in this drowning sea of emotion.

Chapter Eleven

LILITH

"Guess what?" I say to Jack, practically vibrating with excitement. My silver bangles jingle as I grab his arm.

I can't stop thinking about going to the Kensington Gala with Blake Walsh. Not that I have a thing for Blake - god no. We spent six summers - ages 9 to 15 - building sandcastles and chasing ice cream trucks together, skateboarding on the Venice Boardwalk, and boogie-boarding in the ocean. Building bonfires with him singing with his guitar - always wildly talented, even then, but little did I know that he’d become one of the biggest pop stars in the world.