Streatham Secrets
"Psychic Madame Rosalie runs a tarot shop in Streatham, but when skeptic journalist Oliver comes to debunk her, she reads him in ways he never expected—and shows him a future he can't refuse."
Oliver came to expose a fraud. Madame Rosalie wasn't supposed to be real. Definitely wasn't supposed to be beautiful.
She was thick in flowing scarves, dark eyes that saw too much, curves the incense smoke caressed.
"Yuh a skeptic," she said without being told. "But yuh won't be when yuh leave."
"That's what they all say."
"They don't know what I know." She smiled. "Sit."
The cards she drew made his blood run cold. His mother's illness. His failed marriage. His childhood fear. Things no one knew.
"How—"
"Mi see things." She took his hand. "But yuh came for something else. Something about mi."
"I came to write an article."
"Yuh came because yuh lonely. Mi see that too."
She saw everything. Including what came next.
"Stay," she said. "Mi show yuh things cards can't."
"I don't believe in—"
"Yuh will."
In the room behind the curtain, she showed him futures and pleasures intertwined.
"Yes! Oliver! There!"
That thick body arching against velvet, her moans like prophecy, her touch rewriting everything he thought he knew.
"Don't stop! See what we are together!"
He saw. A future neither expected. The article never published. Instead, he kept coming back.
"The cards said this would happen," she whispered.
"I believe you now."
"Good." She pulled him close. "Because they say yuh staying."
Oliver never wrote about Streatham's psychic.
He married her instead.
Some secrets aren't meant for newspapers.
Some futures are meant to be lived.
Streatham secrets.
All revealed.