CHAPTER 112: NIGHTFALL ISN’T KIND

–Damon–

I was enjoying the show far too much. My gaze lingered on Carrie’s expression — embarrassment, finally. Livana’s words had been ruthless, each syllable laced with elegance. Savage. Beautiful. So intoxicatingly sexy they made me want to marry her all over again, right here, in front of everyone, just to remind them she’s mine.

"Oh, what a surprise."

We turned to see Laura, arms weighed down with shopping bags from half the luxury brands in the city.

"Hello, Sis." Carrie smiled with false sweetness.

Laura returned the smile, but it twitched at the edges, like she’d just bitten into something sour.

"Oh, please. Don’t call me that." Laura gave a short laugh.

"Don’t make me feel unwelcome," Carrie countered. Gods, she really was shameless—a thick-skinned, two-faced bitch. Watching her was like suffering through a bad comedy, the kind that makes you pity the actors.

"You are not welcome," Laura replied, laughing again.

"Hello, Damien." Carrie shifted her charm to him like a snake changing direction.

"Hello to you." Damien said it casually, already holding Laura’s bags like a devoted fiancé. He glanced at his wife—Laura, wearing that war-freak expression she was famous for in the family.

"Well, Carrie. You missed the bachelorette party." His tone was flat.

"Too bad." She shrugged. "But we can do it again tonight?"

Damien shook his head.

"Damien," Laura called sharply. Overprotective—just the way she’d always been.

"Sorry, babe." He took the rest of the bags. "Let’s go straight to our bedroom and massage those ankles."

Carrie’s eyes lingered on him like a predator sizing up prey. Pathetic. She’d fail miserably. Damien was already cursed — bound — to love Laura and look at no one else. I turned away, letting my eyes find something far more worthy — Livana’s perfect profile, her right side catching the light like it was crafted for my worship alone.

"I think you should book a hotel room or something. We’re already full in the penthouse," Livana said, her tone disarmingly casual.

Mom’s laughter drifted in, followed by my sister’s voice as they entered, their arms full of shopping bags.

"Sis! I bought fine flats for you," Alyssa announced, only noticing Carrie once she sat beside Laura. "Oh..." Her smile froze.

"I think I should go," Carrie muttered, snatching her purse.

"Don’t you want to wait up for Grandma Olivia?" Livana’s question stopped her in her tracks.

Carrie hesitated — silent — but then slipped out quickly.

"I think she’s afraid of Grandma Olivia," I said.

"She is," Livana replied, as casually as if she were talking about the weather.

"Wow, it’s really a surprise to see her here," Mom said, dropping the bags on the table. "Let’s eat outside. No need to dress up well."

"Here’s your flat. Wear it," Alyssa insisted, helping my wife slip into the new shoes—soft, fluffy, and warm.

I went upstairs, grabbing my wallet, phone, and a cardigan for Livana. Then we left the penthouse—Chef Wally trailing behind us with the dog.

Caine? He’d declared he was eating takeout. Deanne? She and Caine clearly had something planned—they shooed us out like teenagers hiding secrets.

Once outside, Laura spoke up.

"I heard those two bought a box of condoms." She smirked. Livana laughed softly.

"Oh, now I realize what they were bickering about. Caine must have been waving an unopened box of condoms in front of my face."

"He did what?" My frown was immediate. Caine would do that—probably to test her. My wife couldn’t see, and if she somehow could... Well, that would be a miracle worth keeping.

"They were talking about buying it just for show—never using it," she added.

"Oh." I laughed, watching Choco guide Livana as she held the leash instead of her walking stick. The stick dangled from her wrist, a silent weapon if she needed it. "Are you not worried? Deanne’s your biggest asset."

"Hmm, she might be. But I don’t see her as an asset or an employee. Just like Sophia—she’s my friend."

"If she gets pregnant—"

"Does it matter? I’ll take care of her baby," she smirked. "We could adopt the baby."

"Yeah." I nodded slowly. I wanted a child with her—one born from us, ours in blood and spirit. But if adoption made her happy... then so be it.

Because whatever makes her happy... makes me happy. Always.

–Laura–

What boiled my blood? The fact that Tyrona—human migraine in heels—booked a table at the same damn restaurant. Not just the same place, oh no, she had to pick the one facing Damon and Livana. Like she was auditioning for the role of "Most Obvious Stalker in History."

I half-expected Carrie to slither in with her, but of course she wasn’t there. Carrie’s a coward. The moment she hears Grandma Olivia’s in the building, she disappears faster than free champagne at a wedding. And why? Because Grandma can control her like a remote-controlled poodle. Just like she controls Casey.

Which, by the way, is exactly how Carrie’s charming, snake-oil-selling mother managed to manipulate my father and rip him away from Mom.

I sighed. Livana has been through more than enough—Dad’s infidelity, Mom’s death. Sometimes I fantasize about stabbing them all with my butter knife right here, between the soup and the main course. But, alas, I’m not allowed to be both stupid and impulsive at the same time.

"Eat," Damien said, because apparently he thinks I’m one breadstick away from passing out. "Come on, babe. Stop glaring at Tyrona."

I sighed again, this time loud enough for the next table to hear. Grandma turned her head, caught Tyrona staring daggers at Damon, and chuckled into her plate.

"That woman has the nerve to stalk you, Damon. Face to face." Grandma commented.

"What can I say? I’m too handsome, right, love?" he asked, dripping smugness like it was olive oil.

"Hmm," Livana replied—no extra words, no extra energy. My sister is a masterclass in weaponized indifference. She kept eating without looking down once, every movement graceful. Damon, of course, had plated her food personally, like she was royalty.

Thoughtful, yes—but only when it’s her. For the rest of us? He wouldn’t plate us a sandwich if we were starving.

I forced myself to eat. No second helping. Not because I’m watching my figure but because my appetite died somewhere between Tyrona’s face and Damon’s smug grin. At least Chef Wally was into it—sampling every dish, nodding to himself like he’d just solved world hunger, then typing God-knows-what into his phone. Which means tomorrow he’ll be in "culinary genius" mode. That’s one thing to look forward to.

"So, did Carrie come by?" Grandpa Reagan asked, shoving a conversational grenade into the middle of the table.

"She did," Livana said.

"Hmm. Why didn’t she stay?"

Grandma’s voice came cold and sharp. "Do you really want her to stay? I sent that girl to Europe, and now she’s here, lingering. She’s probably with that woman at the other table."

I groaned. "Let’s not talk about her, Grandma. Let’s not turn dinner into a crime scene."

Grandpa shut up, but I could tell—he still cares about Carrie. Of course he does. She’s his granddaughter... from his illegitimate

daughter. Both illegitimate.

And my mom—God rest her soul—had to live through that circus. Casey’s manipulations. The humiliation. And yet, Mom never confronted Dad directly. Not because she was weak, but because she was strategic. She made sure he wouldn’t get a single cent from her inheritance or assets. She was twenty steps ahead while he was still figuring out how to tie his tie.

Grandpa Edward never tolerated Dad’s crap, which was a blessing. But after Mom died, Livana had to take over the company. She hadn’t even finished college, and yet our grandparents tried to hand it over to Dad or our aunt.

She said no. She fought. She won.

To me, she’s a warrior. A queen. And every time I see Tyrona, my rage gets a little louder—because I know she had a hand in orchestrating my sister’s near-death.

And one day, I’ll stop being "rational" and "reasonable," and Tyrona will regret ever learning how to spell my family’s name.

After dinner at a fine restaurant, no one seemed ready to call it a night. Someone mentioned a bar, and plans started forming, but honestly, I was tired. Tired enough to want my bed, but not so tired I wanted to miss out.

Instead of the bar, we detoured to a Taiwanese café that was still open until ten. A much better choice. I’ve always loved their bubble tea, and by the time we walked in, I was already craving one like my life depended on it.

Damien, of course, turned into a hawk the moment they started making my drink. He leaned against the counter, eyes narrowed, scanning every step like it was a security operation. And when the cup finally landed in my hands, he didn’t let me take a sip. Not until he tasted it first.

He does that with everything I eat or drink. It’s not just chivalry—Damien has this unnerving ability to detect poison, like some cursed sommelier. I have no idea how he does it, but I don’t question it.

"All good, baby," he said with a grin, finally passing it to me.

Across the street, neon lights spilled from a bar, music thumping in the distance.

"Do you want to go there?" I asked.

"Nope. Smells too much like bad decisions in there, babe." His grin widened.

"So... home?"

"Yeah."

The walk to the penthouse was only a few blocks, and I was already picturing my pajamas. But the moment we reached our floor, something was off. The hallway felt too quiet. The penthouse lights were off, shadows swallowing the rooms. And worse—mess everywhere.

Damien’s hand found mine in the dark. His grip tightened as he guided me toward the living room.

That’s when we saw him.

Caine. Lying on the floor. Unmoving.

Damien nudged him with his foot. No reaction. My stomach twisted. Then, without warning, Caine gasped—a sharp, desperate sound—and bolted upright.

"Deanne!" he shouted, voice raw.

"What happened?" Damien asked, his tone low and edged.

"Where’s Deanne?" Caine was already on his feet, still unsteady, eyes darting wildly around the room. He stumbled toward the hallway, calling her name again. "Deanne!"

I stood frozen, heart hammering. My gaze locked with Damien’s.

Did... Deanne just got kidnapped?