Page 3 of The Malibu Destiny

“See this?” She taps the upside-down card. “Reversed Ten of Cups in your house position. It represents your current situation—family discord, tension, fighting. And considering this entire spread revolves around your father walking out and those unresolved wounds, I’d say you’re in conflict with your family over your father suddenly showing up again.”

“Hold on. How could you possibly know about him coming back?”

“That your father returned to your life?”

“Exactly.”

“Simple,” Lilith says. “All these abandonment cards appear in your past. But here—“ she points, “the Six of Cups, symbolizing reunion, sits in your present. And these cards here that suggest you and your father will eventually reconcile, they’re all in future positions.”

“What about my mother’s death?” I ask. “How did you figure that out?”

Lilith tilts her head. “Queen of Cups beside the Three of Swords, both in past positions. Deep grief connected to a maternal figure—significant enough to appear prominently in your reading.”

I drum my fingers against the custom mahogany desk that cost more than most people’s cars. Miranda’s eyes are fixed on Lilith, her expression almost reverent. If Miranda had leaked information about my family’s darkest secrets, she wouldn’t look this genuinely awestruck now. The abandonment by my father. My mother’s passing. The ongoing cold war with my siblings since Dad suddenly decided to reappear in our lives and I told Dad to fuck off while the rest of those pussies rolled out the red carpet. The cracks in my foundation that I’ve spent years concealing. The deep psychic wound that this woman somehow sees.

How could Lilith possibly know? The Kensington name appears in headlines weekly—my four brothers running their corporate empires, Connor collecting his Oscars, Kalen’s face on billboards for sold-out concerts—but certain topics remain untouchable. Any journalist who’s ever profiled us knows: mention the family trauma, and your access vanishes permanently. Red line. So, none of the 100s of profiles on us have ever mentioned our family’s history.

Yet somehow Lilith spoke directly to wounds I’ve never displayed publicly.

Maybe there’s something to her abilities after all.

I exhale sharply. “You’re hired.” I snap my fingers at Miranda. “Contract. Now.”

My Patek screams five minutes late. Fuck. The investors are waiting. I despise tardiness—it reeks of weakness— but something made me stay rooted to this damn tarot reading until the bitter end.

I sprint down the corridor, my Italian leather shoes hammering the marble. Doubt claws at my throat.

What the hell was I thinking? Bringing in someone who just gutted me with her eyes, who peeled back my skin without permission and read the entrails of my ambition?

Too late to turn back now.

The beast is already in the house.

Chapter Two

LILITH

I can’t stop grinning as I drive home from Verde resort, my cheeks actually aching. The job is mine! God knows I need the money with how Mystic Tides has been performing lately. Summer brings the sunburned tourists flooding into my little psychic shop on Venice Beach, wallets open after a day riding waves or baking on towels. But winter? The boardwalk empties out, and so does my bank account. This Verde gig couldn’t have come at a better time.

Just imagine—me, reading tarot for actual royalty and A-listers! That’s who stays at Verde, after all. The elite. The one-percenters who’ll pay triple what my regular clients shell out for a glimpse of their gilded futures.

The Verde will only see me twice a week, with all my tarot readings crammed into those days, but oh my God—the space they’ve given me there! Picture this: a private luxury beach cabana with cream-colored canvas walls that billow like sails in the ocean breeze, teak floors polished to a honey-gold sheen, and a ceiling fan spinning lazily above a white linen chaise lounge. Floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean, a mini fridge stocked with San Pellegrino, and an actual assistant who brings fresh fruit every hour.

The only problem? Roman Kensington, the owner of this resort. Every time he looked at me, his eyes narrowed like he’s spotted a counterfeit bill. I could practically hear his thoughts: “Fraud. Con artist.” And sure, I’ve seen the type—psychics who charge $1500 for “blessed” candles that supposedly break spiritual chains, or sell $1000 crystals with promises of instant wealth. The ones who whisper “You’re cursed” just to charge thousands more to lift that imaginary hex.

But my shop? The price tags match what you’d find at any retail store. My readings cost forty bucks for half an hour—peanuts in this industry. When Mrs. Abernathy came in last week convinced she needed some kind of super-expensive “ultimate spiritual package,” I sent her home with a $15 journal and told her to write down her dreams instead. I’ve built my business on helping people find clarity, not emptying their wallets. In a world where everyone seems to be chasing the next dollar, my little corner operates differently. If only Roman could see that.

I get to my shop, the little bell clinking as I walk in and see Jack, my roommate, my partner in crime (and in this shop) ringing up a sunburned blonde who looks like she needs aloe much more than she needs crystals, poor thing. Jack sees me and his eyes light up. “Lil! Spill the tea, girly. How did it go?”

“I’m in!” I grab a chunk of rose quartz from the display, rubbing my thumb over its smooth surface. Rose quartz is the stone of gratitude, and I always try to be grateful for all the abundance that comes my way, like this new gig. “Can you believe it? Me, reading cards at Verde! A-Listers, billionaires, royalty - those are the only people who could afford to stay at Verde, so those will be my clients there.”

Jack finishes with the sunburned girl before turning to me. “Slow your roll, psychic woman. You’re acting like the Harry and Meghan will be on your client list.”

“Why not?” I toss my hair. “Meghan would totally get a reading.”

“Girl, please.” Jack rolls his eyes dramatically. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re besties with Oprah.”

“You laugh, but Angie Banicki reads for Gwyneth Paltrow and Emma Roberts. Not to mention Usher. That could be me someday!” I frame an imaginary marquee with my hands. “Lilith Sydney: Tarot Reader to the Stars!”