WILLOW
The camera is setup on my tarot table, angled just right so it catches the velvet cloth, the candles flickering in the corners, and my hands shuffling the deck. I don’t need to see myself on screen to know the lighting is perfect. I’ve been doing this long enough—I can make TikTok’s algorithm purr with a single card flip. I can feel what’s coming with every part of my bones.
“Today’s reading,” I say, fingers trailing along the edges of the deck, “is for someone standing on the edge of something big. Money. Recognition. Power.”
I shuffle once, twice, cut the deck cleanly. The first card slides out smooth as breath—the Ten of Pentacles. “There it is,” I murmur. “Generational wealth. Security. The kind of success people don’t stumble into—they bleed for it.”
I draw the next—The Devil. My smile sharpens. “But here’s the catch. Nothing this good comes clean. Temptation hides under luxury’s skin. Someone’s pulling strings.”
The third card flicks free—Seven of Swords. “Lies,” I whisper, eyes lifting to the lens. “Someone’s playing you—or you’re about to play them.”
I tap the cards in a neat line. “So, yes, take the deal. Take the money. But lock the door behind whoever offers it.”
I pause, let the silence hum. “And maybe don’t answer unknown numbers this week.”
I end the video with a sweep of the cards. I do thirty seconds of editing, making sure it will hit just right. I caption the video, throw on a few hashtags, hit post, and lean back. Sometimes I sit and wait for the views and comments to start rolling in, little dopamine bubbles fizzing through me. But not tonight. Tonight, I finally check the thousands of comments on my latest and last Saint Shade video.
Why’d you stop the Shade series?
She figured it out, didn’t she? That’s why she went quiet.
No, Shade disappeared because she got too close to the truth…
Nah, Shade’s actually THREE people. Go frame by frame.
I snort, scrolling, half-annoyed, half-entertained. The conspiracies are always unhinged, though if anyone knew just how close I’ve gotten to Saint Shade, as in I crawled up into the man’s lap and took his mouth like I owned it, the internet would spontaneously combust.
I should be worried. Instead, I find myself smiling, because my brain isn’t stuck on Saint Shade—it’s circlingnot-Kade.
He didn’t look sick this morning when we went to breakfast. Whatever had him down last night when he said no to dinner didn’t last long. And maybe I was reading too much into the situation, because I’m an obsessed, thirsty, twenty-eight-year-old, but something seemed off. It was almost like he kept twitching, like he wanted to say something, but kept swallowing it back down.
I hate not knowing. Curiosity gnaws at me. But I know there’s a very real chance I’m reading something that wasn’t there.
But I like remembering the way he leaned in over the Formica table, his voice low, teasing, like we weren’t in some dingy Vegas diner but in our own private world. I loved laughing with him. Teasing him. Flirting with him. Watching his every movement, knowing what he looks like without a shirt on, what he looks like dangling thirty feet above a stage, dramatic lights highlighting every beautiful inch of him.
I shake myself. “Get a grip, Vale,” I mutter under my breath. I have work to do. The shop is waiting. Clients are waiting. And tonight, justice is waiting.
The bellover the shop door jingles as the first client of the day steps in. My little space smells like sandalwood, neroli, and dried roses—my holy trinity of vibes. Candles burn in the back room as I lead her in, where my tarot table waits like a stage.
She’s jittery, twisting her hands in her lap as I shuffle. “I just… I need to know if he’s cheating.”
Of course. Classic. My cards are probably sick of this question. Still, they never fail me. “Let’s find out, babe.” I cut the deck and draw.
The Moon. Seven of Swords. The Lovers reversed.
I bite my tongue to keep from saying,Well, that answers that.Instead, I school my face into professional compassion. “There’s deception here. Secrets being kept. And the Lovers reversed tells me the connection you thought you had—it’s broken. You’re not imagining it.”
Her eyes fill with tears. My chest tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “The cards aren’t here to devastate you, though. They’re showing you the truth so you can move forward. Staying will hurt more than leaving.”
She nods, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Inside, I’m screaming at the universe.Why are there so many dirtbags in the world? Why are so many women crying at tables like this one?
Before she leaves, she hugs me like I’m a lifeline. I’m not. I’m just the messenger. But I let her hold on anyway.
Just ten minutes later, a man in a too-tight polo, flashing a smile that’s more desperation than charm, walks in. “Business,” he says. “I need to know if I should take the deal.”
The deck practically sighs and rolls its nonexistent eyes as I shuffle. I flip three cards.
Ace of Pentacles. Two of Wands. Ten of Swords.
