Page 23 of The Malibu Destiny

"Put nothing past that guy," I say, shaking my head. "But you're right. Even Asher isn't sociopathic enough to sedate a dog just to impress Los Angeles' champagne-swilling elite with his living art installation."

We push through the perfumed throng back to the main exhibition space, where the crowd buzzes with anticipation for the next unveiling. The first two installations had drawn gasps that rippled across the room like waves, followed by thunderous applause that made the crystal chandeliers tremble.

These Los Angeles and Hollywood socialites—draped in designer silks and dripping with diamonds—devour this living tableau concept with the same enthusiasm they reserve for the $300-per-ounce caviar served at my rooftop restaurant. I have to hand it to Asher; while the concept echoes Laguna's famous Pageant of the Masters with its breathing recreations of classical art, he's managed to distill that grand spectacle into something intimate yet equally captivating for this marble-floored country club gallery.

I scan the ballroom for Lilith. Every face that isn't hers might as well be a blank canvas. Then Serafina materializes, her fingers digging into my sleeve like talons.

"Roman," she says, crimson lips forming a perfect pout beneath the crystal chandeliers. "You abandoned me."

"We were never together to begin with," I say, shaking her off. My molars grind against each other as I picture Lilith laughing with that Irish pop star—100 million albums be damned, he's just another drunk with grabby hands. I could break him in half without breaking a sweat. Or maybe I should just let Serafina hang on my arm all night, see if that gets Lilith's attention.

Listen to me. Plotting like some lovesick high schooler. This isn't who I am. I don't pursue—I'm pursued. Women line up for me, desperate for whatever scraps I'll toss their way. The gold-diggers want access to my empire. The shallow ones want this face, this body—which, objectively speaking, is exceptional. That's just genetics, not ego. And God knows I've got the IQ to match. Then there are the fixers, convinced they'll be the one to finally "heal" me. But I've never chased. Not once. Until Lilith. Now I'd set this whole place ablaze just to make her look my way. She's turned me into something wild and unfamiliar.

I despise it.

I crave it.

I clasp Serafina's hand as the first notes of a slow song drift across the ballroom. Sam Smith's voice fills the air with the ballad “Fire on Fire,” and the lyrics hit too close to home—not for the woman whose waist I'm about to hold, but for Lilith. My eyes find her across the room, already swaying in Blake's arms, her gaze catching mine over his shoulder. Something electric passes between us.

"Excuse me," I mutter to Sera, not waiting for a response before releasing her and cutting across the dance floor.

I tap Blake's shoulder, not bothering with pleasantries. No asking if I can cut in. When he turns, I simply take Lilith's hand and pull her towards me. She comes willingly, her body melting against mine as if she belongs there. Blake might be glaring daggers at my back, but I couldn't care less. All that matters is Lilith's jasmine scent enveloping me, her warmth against my chest, her fingers intertwined with mine as we move in perfect sync to a song that feels written for us—two broken people (or maybe I’m the only broken one) finding salvation in each other's fire. As we turn beneath the chandeliers, I know with absolute certainty: this is where she belongs.

Her heart hammers against my chest, a wild rhythm that matches my own. She trembles in my arms, but those topaz eyes burn into mine with unmistakable hunger—she craves this as desperately as I do. Does she see it in my eyes? That I would raze cities to ash just to witness her smile? Each turn beneath these shadowed lights draws her body closer, and Christ, the torture of restraint is unbearable. I want to tear her clothes off and fuck her, right this second.

This song pulses through us like it was written in our blood. Her breath catches as she surrenders against me, her head finding sanctuary on my chest while my fingers finally—finally—tangle in that silken hair. I've been starving for this since the moment I first saw her. Her body melting into mine, my hands possessing her, our hearts crashing together until I can't tell where mine ends and hers begins. The heat between us could set this whole goddamn place ablaze.

Just then, somebody—some clumsy bastard in the crowd—accidentally dumps an entire flute of golden Moët & Chandon down the front of Lilith's emerald silk dress. The champagne darkens the fabric instantly, leaving a glistening stain from her collarbone to her waist. Dammit. The perfect moment shatters like crystal. But yet...

"Come on," I say, squeezing her hand. "Let's get to the dressing room where the performers are preparing. I'll find you something else to wear."

She nods, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide with disappointment. I guide her through the perfumed crush of bodies to the dressing area tucked behind heavy velvet curtains, where the actors for the next tableau are in their costumes and ready to go.

I scan the cramped backstage area, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. "Uh, I'll find something for you to wear." My fingers brush past the Victorian gown from the Renoir tableau—red at the neck, cream lace at the throat, blue bustle. Beside it hangs another period piece: a blue dress with Belgian lace collar, also from the “Luncheon of the Boating Party” tableau. Soon the “Nighthawks” actress will arrive with their cherry-red cocktail dress, padded shoulders and all, straight out of 1942.

Lilith's eyes light up as she spots a Victorian-era gown hanging on the rack. "Oh, this is exquisite," she breathes, fingers tracing the intricate lace collar. "Do you think it would fit me?"

I can't help but smile. The women I usually date would be texting their therapists by now, horrified at the suggestion of wearing something so outdated to the gala. They'd be tapping their Louboutins impatiently while I called Jacques, my personal shopper, to rescue them with something straight off a Paris runway.

"Lil," I say, the nickname feeling right on my tongue. “My personal shopper Jacques can have something delivered in thirty minutes if you'd prefer⁠—"

"Absolutely not." She pulls the dress from the rack, holding it against her body. "This is pure magic. I'll be Winona Ryder in The Age of Innocence. A proper Edith Wharton heroine."

The dress transforms before my eyes as she cradles it. What I saw as an antique costume, she sees as a portal to another time—romantic and bold.

"You realize you'll stand out completely," I warn her.

She laughs, a sound like wind chimes. "Roman, I already do. Those people out there are your crowd, not mine. If I'm going to be the odd one out anyway, I might as well do it in something that makes me feel beautiful."

I start to argue that my people should be her people too, but stop myself. She's right, in her way. And watching her stroke that Victorian bustle with genuine delight, I wouldn't change a thing about her.

She looks at me with those wide topaz eyes, holding the shimmering midnight-blue silk dress against her slender frame as she gazes into the antique full-length mirror. "Oh, what are the chances this will actually fit?" She cocks her head, sending a cascade of dark curls tumbling over one delicate shoulder. "One in a million, I'm afraid. It's hard to find things to fit me because I'm, well, I'm pretty petite."

And that she is. Five-foot-four of pure fire, a goddamn lightning bolt in human form that couldn't weigh a buck ten soaking wet. Her wrists are so delicate I could snap them with a twitch, fragile as bird bones beneath my grip. Her waist—Christ—so small I could span it with my hands, crush it if I weren't careful. Then those breasts, full and heavy, straining against whatever the hell she's wearing, making my mouth go desert-dry every time she moves. She probably has plenty of clothing challenges.

I can relate to clothing struggles, but from the opposite end of the spectrum. At six-foot-four, with shoulders that barely clear doorframes and two hundred ten pounds of rock-solid muscle honed through countless hours of surfing and MMA training, I couldn’t fit in most department store suits. That's why everything in my cedar-lined closet is bespoke, hand-stitched by artisans in a discreet Parisian atelier off the Rue Saint-Honoré. Even my weekend clothes—raw Japanese denim jeans and Egyptian cotton Henleys—are measured and cut precisely for my frame.

Now I'm standing here, watching her fingers trace the dress's lace neckline, wondering how women like Lilith navigate a fashion world that seems built for some mythical average that neither of us fits.