CHAPTER 125: HONEYMOON & CROSSFIRE

–Laura–

There are few things in this fleeting, scandalously sweet life that could rival the pleasure of lazing in bed with my husband after our wedding night. Not even champagne fountains or diamond-studded tiaras could compare to the warmth of his arms and the delicious ache of knowing he is mine. We were careful, though. Not the kind of wild, tangled, ruinous passion that leaves bruises in places polite company shouldn’t mention—no, not yet. I had other tricks up my sleeve for him, delicate little surprises... and some that hummed quietly in the nightstand drawer.

Oh, the sinful joy of simply calling him my husband. The syllables tasted like stolen honey on my tongue, and every time they left my lips, I felt that impish little squirm of excitement in my belly. I know, I know—we were already married, but heavens, I was still floating somewhere above the stratosphere. My fingers kept finding our wedding ring, that glinting golden promise, as if to make sure it hadn’t all been a dream.

"I was thinking..." Damien murmured, pulling me into the warm fortress of his arms, his breath teasing the shell of my ear, "maybe we should just stay home for months, do absolutely nothing?" His nose brushed my neck, his voice heavy with mischief. "Wife, you’re driving me crazy."

I giggled and hugged him tighter, my laugh slipping into a flirtatious purr.

"Aren’t you enjoying the blast of my honeymoon gift?"

"Babe," he whispered, grinning, "it’s more than I ever imagined. This... this is the best gift ever."

I cocked a brow, lips curving. "Which gift? Don’t tell me you found the one I haven’t given yet."

He reached, reverent and deliberate, for my tummy.

"This," he murmured, his fingers warm, his grin boyish as he kissed my lips. "And this gorgeous soon-to-be mom."

I gaped—mouth open, heart thudding like a rabbit caught in the garden. Surprised didn’t even begin to cover it.

"You," he added, eyes soft and maddeningly sure, "are enough, my love."

My lips trembled into a pout, that foolish rush of emotions threatening to turn me into a weepy, glowing bride cliché.

And then—knock, knock, knock.

A loud rap on the door shattered our fragile bubble of romance. Hearts and halos gone, just like that.

"Alright, lovebirds! We get it. You want to stay in and mate like dogs, but you also need fresh air!" Livana’s voice sliced through the wood like a very polite guillotine. "You forgot you have a family—besides each other."

I burst out laughing and glanced at my deliciously flustered Damien.

"Alright! We’ll be out in a few minutes!" I called, already losing the battle as his lips found mine again and his kisses trailed down, lower—always ending with those soft, possessive kisses on my belly. Somehow, my stomach seemed to grow rounder by the day, as if love itself had started building a home there.

We dressed—reluctantly, sinfully slow—and headed downstairs to face the gathering of our families. By the veranda, Grandma Belinda stood like an elegant relic of a gentler world, gazing at the butterflies that filled the garden in their delicate chaos. In the city, butterflies were as rare as secrets well kept. But here, in Damon’s mansion—the one he had so lavishly given my sister—the butterflies thrived like silken confetti in the wind.

I envied them. I adored them. I wished I had been the one to nurture such fragile, fleeting beauty.

"Beautiful couple, indeed," Grandma Olivia cooed as she enveloped us in her arms. "I can’t wait to see the twins. You should stay with us—back at the old home, where your mother grew up."

A sweet suggestion, laced with the perfume of nostalgia. But memories tied to that ancestral home were not all stitched with gold thread.

"Uhm... I think we’ll stay at Mom’s mansion for now. How about you staying with us?" I asked, offering her a bright, polite smile that only slightly hid my hesitation.

Her face fell just a touch, but she masked it with a gracious nod.

"Sure, I’ll visit from time to time. I’ll arrange your grandfather’s care first, then I’ll stay there with you."

"I’ll be there too, my dear," Grandma Belinda added warmly.

"Really?" I beamed, already sensing the tension that always brewed when too many matriarchs shared one pot.

"I think Laura and Damien can manage," she added slyly. "Besides, I’ll be working with Deanne from now on."

"Hmm, okay." Grandpa Edward’s gaze swept the room like a hawk. "Why not let your sister work in the company as well?"

Ah, there it was. The not-so-hidden dagger.

"Laura’s pregnant and just married, so—" I began, only to be cut off.

"Your sister, Carrie," Grandpa clarified.

Livana’s soft hum cut through like a cello string snapping. She moved her walking stick with the poise of a queen feigning blindness.

"It’s in Mother’s will," she said, her voice a low, commanding music. "And I make the rules now. No family in business—except for the two heirs our founder appointed."

Her tone silenced the room.

"Besides," she added, lips curving like a cat with a cream bowl, "can she even handle the underground?"

No one answered.

"Let the girls handle their mother’s empire," Grandma Olivia declared firmly. "We all know this rule. If Carrie wants to work, let her do it elsewhere. Prove herself. She hasn’t even graduated, not after all those years of... breaks, isn’t that right, Casey?"

Aunt Casey shot me a look sharp enough to slice silk, then turned her gaze on Grandma Olivia.

And when Grandma Olivia spoke, the men usually fell silent—Grandpa included.

This was meant to be a cheerful family lunch, the third day of our stay in this villa. But the moment Damien and I stepped out of our honeymoon cocoon, it turned into a courtroom drama. I sighed inwardly, wishing—just for once—we could go back upstairs, shut the door, and play pretend a little longer.

–Deanne–

The family gathering was heating up like fine china left over a simmering flame—too delicate to crack openly, but you could hear the hairline fractures forming if you listened closely. I lounged at the far end of the veranda, draped like a well-fed cat with claws sheathed but ready, watching the spectacle unfold. Caine occupied the loveseat swing beside me, one long arm lazily thrown over the backrest, a bowl of fruits in his lap as though this was theatre and he had paid in grapes instead of coins.

Alyssa flitted over shortly after, her curiosity as subtle as a flashing neon sign, and claimed the remaining cushion with the ease of a girl who had mastered the art of appearing harmless while gathering all the dirt. Together, we became the quiet, unholy trinity of spectators—three pairs of eyes taking in the drama where Livana, in all her poised ferocity, reigned as the family’s accidental matriarch.

Her father? Please. The man had the posture of someone who once believed himself to be the pillar of this dynasty and then woke up one day to find his daughter building a fortress around the throne. He was iron, and she—Livana—was steel. And we all know which bends first.

Even the stepmother, that eternal mistress turned legitimized ornament, had long since surrendered any illusion of power over Livana. She had likely vowed her life to tame that girl, but it was like trying to braid the wind. Livana did not bend; she folded others, origami-style, until they resembled something that looked like cooperation.

"Look at Damon—look at that smug face," Alyssa whispered, and her voice had that delicious venom only youth could coat in sugar.

Caine and I snickered, unbothered by Aunt Amiliee’s sharp hush. We were past the point of pretending this wasn’t a circus.

"It also seems Laura regrets leaving their bedroom," Alyssa added with a smirk.

"I regret letting you leave the bedroom," Caine murmured, his voice low enough for my ears alone. "I know exactly what Laura and Damien feel."

I turned my head slowly, a predator’s glance over my shoulder, and skewered him with it. Alyssa, catching the tail end of his suggestion, made a face worthy of a cautionary tale and promptly stole the fruit bowl from his hands as if to disinfect the conversation. Teenager she might be, but even she understood the indecent ripple beneath his words.

After the verbal sparring match simmered down, the herd migrated to the dining table. Damon, ever the devoted shadow to his wife, performed the ceremonial offering of dishes to the elders after presenting the best to his newly crowned queen. Our chef—the same artisan who had orchestrated every edible masterpiece since this whole wedding saga began—hovered in the background, pristine in apron and hairnet, his team moving like a well-oiled brigade. Even our security detail dined like kings; it was that kind of household.

I let my gaze drift to the lawn, where Sophia and Kai were just returning from yesterday’s mission. Their boots still kissed with travel dust, their shoulders carrying secrets. I was eager—though you’d never see it on my face—to hear the whispered poetry of their report, preferably one that ended with Tyrona and Carrie licking their wounds after failing to sabotage the wedding.

"Don’t get too excited," Caine’s voice coiled around my ear, warm and dangerous. He leaned in, lips nearly grazing my skin. "Let’s slip away, laze in bed, maybe make babies?"

I nudged him with a calculated shove, the kind that says not yet, wolf.

"There’s no way you’re planting anything in me," I said lightly, sweet as champagne with arsenic at the bottom of the flute. "Not now."

Though, if I were honest with the silk lining of my own mind... perhaps one day. Just not while the air still tasted of family intrigue and slow-burning vendettas.