Chapter One & 2 : The Modern Witch of Rodeo Drive

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Chapter 1

On a dazzling, sun-soaked afternoon in June on the chic streets of Hollywood, California, a gentle breeze playfully flutters through tall palm trees, casting dappled shadows on the pavement that glistens like gold. Behind the wheel of a stunning white Maybach, a lively and magnetic young woman effortlessly glides along the twisting roads of the Hollywood Hills. Her long, sun-kissed hair billows behind her like a radiant banner, catching the shimmering sunlight and creating an ethereal halo that complements her captivating presence. With perfectly manicured hands adorned with striking, elongated nails, she grips the steering wheel with intricate care as she navigates these scenic routes.

In the plush passenger seat lies a gorgeous collection of well-worn tarot cards, lovingly arranged on a luxurious vintage silk scarf, each card bursting with vivid imagery and rich, personal tales waiting to be revealed. Accompanying them is a magnificent vintage Birkin bag, a treasured heirloom bestowed by a beloved mentor—an exquisite carrier for her mystical tools and cherished mementos that embodies both history and elegance.

As the Maybach sails toward the pulsating heart of the city, the air is thick with an electric excitement. A lively crowd of university girls congregates at a charming café, their laughter ringing in the air like sweet music, blending perfectly with the enticing aromas of freshly brewed espresso and buttery croissants wafting through the open doors. Enthusiastically, they chatter about the current issue of "Vogue," their eyes sparkling with anticipation as they swap thrilling gossip about an upcoming blockbuster featuring Tom Cruise and their ambitious weekend plans for a mesmerizing beach bonfire at Sunset Beach.

Then, with a thunderous roar that vibrates through the streets, the sleek Maybach approaches, igniting a surge of anticipation like a firework ready to explode. One curious girl nudges her friend, whispering breathlessly, “Who do you think that is?” Instantly, a flurry of smartphones shoots up like flowers blooming in spring, poised to capture the moment. Just then, the breathtaking woman steps out of the luxurious vehicle, her high heels clicking decisively on the pavement. Her long, highlighted locks cascade down her back like a waterfall, crowned by an oversized, glamorous hat that adds an air of intriguing mystery. Clad in an exquisite long See-Through Lace Black Gown that flows like liquid beauty, she sparkles with a lavish string of pearls that catches the sunlight, making her look as if she’s stepped straight from the pages of a high-fashion magazine.

As she strides past the mesmerized group of girls, she pauses for just a heartbeat, gifting them with a warm, enchanting smile that lights up her entire face—an almost tangible energy radiating from her essence. The girls stand in captivated silence, eyes wide with wonder, as their cameras click rhythmically, capturing this magical moment for eternity. She glides effortlessly into the café, leaving behind an intoxicating trace of her signature Chanel perfume, a tantalizing reminder of the glamorous lifestyle she embodies, brimming with allure and sophistication. One enchanted girl, utterly taken by the moment, turns to a nearby young man busy snapping photos and asks breathlessly, “Do you know who that is?” He shrugs nonchalantly, saying, “No one really knows, except that she’s the Modern Witch.” Stunned, the girl gasps, realising she stands before the very figure she read about in an article, famous for her jaw-dropping ensemble at a recent musical gala.

Chapter 2

Amanda Forsythe Tufts' fingertips glimmered with the faintest trace of stardust as she traced the rim of her champagne flute. Few would notice the shimmer—most would attribute it to her signature diamond powder-infused nail polish that had launched a thousand imitations. But the real magic wasn't in the bottle selling for $250 at Neiman Marcus; it was in her touch.

"Darling, you've outdone yourself," purred the wife of a studio executive, eyeing Amanda's sprawling Beverly Hills mansion with undisguised envy. The summer solstice party was the event of the season, and everyone who was anyone had fought for an invitation. "How do you keep your roses blooming in this dreadful heat? Mine have all but wilted away."

Amanda smiled, her hazel eyes catching the light in a way that made them appear to glow from within. "Just a little special attention," she said, allowing her gaze to drift toward the garden where roses bloomed in impossible colors—midnight blue, silver, and a particular shade of crimson that matched the blood moon. "I've always had a green thumb."

What she didn't mention was the midnight ritual performed under the waning crescent, or the ancestral grimoire hidden behind a biometric scanner in her walk-in closet, nestled between Hermès Birkins and vintage Chanel.

The truth was, Amanda Forsythe Tufts hadn't become Hollywood's most sought-after beauty and lifestyle guru by accident. Four generations of witches had perfected the art of hiding in plain sight, and she had elevated it to an art form.

Her great-grandmother had been burned at the stake in a small European village. Her grandmother had escaped to America and cleaned houses in Boston. Her mother had made it to New York and built a modest fortune reading tarot for Broadway stars. But Amanda—Amanda had conquered Los Angeles, weaponized social media, and built an empire on the power of her "intuition" and "natural remedies despite of also being a Recording Artist."

"Amanda! The camera loves you, as always." Felix Harmon, her publicist, appeared at her elbow with his perpetual look of calculated enthusiasm. Today it was accompanied by a nervous twitch in his left eye that meant trouble. "Teen Vogue wants five minutes. Just a quick statement about the rumors."

She maintained her smile for the benefit of her departing guest. "What rumors would those be, Felix? There are so many to choose from." Her tone was light, but the temperature around them dropped several degrees.

Felix loosened his collar. "The, ah, comparison photos from your fortieth birthday ten years ago and now. The ones suggesting you haven't aged a day. The Reddit thread has gone viral—they're calling you 'The Real-Life Witch of Beverly Hills.'"

A crystal somewhere in the house shattered. Amanda didn't flinch.

"How terribly unoriginal," she said, her perfectly glossed lips barely moving. "Tell them I'll give an exclusive on my skincare routine next week. Arrange a shoot with that photographer I like, the one who understands proper lighting."

"Yes, of course," Felix nodded, thumbing frantically at his phone. "And there's one more thing. She's here."

Amanda didn't need to ask who "she" was. She could feel the presence like a storm cloud rolling over her carefully curated garden party. Moira Blackwood. The only other witch in Los Angeles with power that could rival her own. Her former best friend. Her greatest enemy.

"How did she get past the protection spell?" Amanda caught herself. "Past security?"

"Said she was your estranged sister. Had ID to match." Felix looked apologetic. "The new guy at the gate didn't know better."

Amanda took a measured sip of champagne, infusing it with a calming herb as it passed her lips. "It's fine. I've been expecting this confrontation for some time."

The French doors to the garden slid open, and conversations quieted as heads turned. Moira stood there in a black dress that seemed to absorb light, her silver hair cut in a severe bob that accentuated cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Where Amanda cultivated warmth and accessibility in her public persona, Moira had embraced her otherness, building her own counter-empire as the dark priestess of underground Hollywood.

"Amanda," Moira's voice carried across the party without her seeming to raise it. "It's been too long."

A hummingbird froze mid-flight. The wind chimes fell silent. Even the ice stopped clinking in glasses as if time itself held its breath.

"Moira," Amanda replied, her voice honey over steel. "What an unexpected pleasure."

The two women locked eyes across the crowded garden, and for a moment, reality seemed to waver around them—the carefully maintained veneer of normal cracking to reveal the power surging beneath.

Felix, suddenly aware he was standing between two forces of nature, whispered, "Should I call security?"

Amanda laughed, a sound like silver bells that broke the tension. The party resumed its buzz, the hummingbird darted away, and not a single guest seemed to realize anything unusual had occurred.

"No need," she said, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her white Valentino jumpsuit. "Moira is an old friend. And today is a celebration." She handed her glass to Felix. "Be a dear and get me something stronger. I believe I'll need it."

As Felix scurried away, Amanda drew a small sigil in the air with her pinky finger—invisible to mortal eyes but blazing like neon to anyone with the Sight. A small warning. A boundary set.

Not here. Not now. Not among the mundane.

Across the garden, Moira's crimson lips curved in acknowledgment. She lifted her own glass in a mocking toast before turning to charm the director beside her, as if she hadn't come to overturn Amanda's carefully constructed world.

Amanda felt the ancient power stir in her blood, the magic that had made her family both blessed and hunted for generations. The magic she had parlayed into a public empire built on half-truths and carefully crafted illusions. The magic that kept her young, kept her relevant, kept her at the pinnacle of a society that would have burned her alive just a few centuries ago.

Her phone vibrated. A notification from her custom security system: unusual energy signature detected in the east wing. Near her private quarters. Near the grimoire.

So Moira hadn't come alone.

Amanda's smile never faltered as she moved through her guests toward the house. The real game was just beginning, and she hadn't maintained her position as Beverly Hills' most powerful witch by being predictable.

Behind her, the roses turned to face her retreating figure, like subjects bowing to their queen.

Chapter One & 2 : The Modern Witch of Rodeo Drive

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