CHAPTER 128: ELEGANCE WITH A BLADE

–Livana–

I must ensure he isn’t slipping into someone else’s arms—no matter how warm they might seem compared to mine. I had my men shadow him last night. Every word he uttered matched the truth: the CIA is indeed tailing him, and yes, women orbit around him like reckless moths to a flame, each one desperate for a single touch. He, however, would shove them off with a cold hand and have his men escort them away.

Caine, on the other hand, was a charming magnet for those dainty creatures who mistook his courteous tongue for affection. But Damon—he was something else entirely. Dangerous, smoldering, too sharp at the edges—only women who yearned for chaos ever dared to seduce him.

I watched him earlier, surrounded by his band of idiots—Jordan, Ike, and Aaron—gambling away their sobriety. Damon had gotten himself drunk, as though spirits could drown out their taunting. I suspect their jest circled back to me—as it always did. They were obsessed with the topic of their friend’s obsession.

And why wouldn’t they be? I am a spectacle worth whispering about—too alluring for their comfort, too firmly seated in their friend’s mind.

"Fuck," I heard him mumble under his breath. I, of course, remained unbothered, continuing my nightly ritual before the vanity—serum, balm, patience. "Liva?" he called out.

I did not answer. My lip balm required more attention than his drunken lament.

"Livana."

"Yes?"

"My head’s aching."

"There’s water by the bed," I replied flatly, for I had anticipated this charade. I always do.

"Cuddle with me, please."

I rolled my eyes at the mirror, unwilling to squander precious minutes on my petulant husband’s whim. He lingered by the doorway, leaning against the frame like a lost boy who had misplaced his comfort. I, of course, maintained my performance of blindness—an art I had perfected to keep him unsuspecting. My peripheral vision traced his outline, and the faint shuffle of his steps told me more than sight ever could.

It was odd, wasn’t it? To discover the full nature of one’s husband only after months of marriage—like opening a book halfway through, only to realize the plot had always been darker and far more intricate than the cover suggested.

"What?"

"Can we just cuddle?" he asked again, almost pleading.

"Go find someone else to cuddle with." I waved him off, and he trudged toward the toilet. The sound of urination followed—utterly mundane, yet it irked me. Certain acts should remain unheard.

"Wash your hands," I instructed as the flush echoed.

"Yeah," he grumbled. Water ran. He obeyed. Good. Moments later, his lips grazed the crown of my head.

"Want a quickie?" His grin lingered in the air like cheap perfume.

"You still reek of a hangover."

"Sorry."

I turned my attention to my hair, letting the silence stretch. Then came the shower’s hum—his clumsy attempt at redemption. I rose, drifting to my closet—our bathroom’s twin in function—and reached for a dress: midnight black, off-shoulder, its sleeves framing my arms, cinched at the waist, the skirt a subtle balloon.

Robe undone, I was sliding into the fabric when I felt his presence behind me—his arms circling my waist with damp warmth, water droplets still clinging to his hair though his body had already dried.

"Did you even bother with soap?"

"There’s no need for that," he murmured, lips trailing to my neck. "You look gorgeous."

At least he brushed his teeth.

"Before you slip into that dress," he whispered with a grin I could almost hear, "how about a little morning exercise?"

I sighed, weighing my options. Perhaps a brief indulgence. After all, routine devotion might bear fruit one day. Pregnancy is improbable, yes... but impossibility has always been a challenge I wear like perfume.

******

He escorted me to my office, with Deanne trailing behind, her stifled yawns echoing the remnants of a long, indulgent night. I could almost hear the fatigue in her sigh, the kind that follows when one has been... thoroughly occupied. I imagine Caine had her entangled for hours—whatever they call their relationship, it certainly seems to involve a devotion to sleeplessness.

I wondered, fleetingly, how Caine might pout like a neglected infant once Deanne is sent abroad for a mission. Men, when denied their amusements, often reveal their truest shades of immaturity.

"Oh, your parents are here," Caine muttered casually.

"Parent," I corrected without missing a beat. "The other is merely my aunt. My father is no longer my guardian, and the title does not cling to him as it once did."

"My mistake," Caine chuckled.

I remained poised, the picture of cultivated blindness—my gaze soft, my manner elegant, every movement calculated to suggest fragility when in truth I was the steel beneath the silk. Intimidation is most effective when draped in grace.

"Livana." My father’s voice arrived first, laced with a warmth I no longer believed in. How noble he acted, as though paternal affection were something that had ever been untainted. I had admired him once—when I was too young to see the rot beneath the gold leaf. That was before I discovered the truth: that Carrie was no distant cousin, but our half-sister, the bastard child of his half-blooded betrayal.

He approached and hugged me lightly, the kind of touch meant to perform sincerity.

"I heard you are managing the company well," he said.

"Yes," I replied, my voice a ribbon with a hidden blade. "Let’s talk inside."

"So, Damon," my father turned to my husband, "don’t you have a business to attend to?"

"Yeah, I do," Damon’s smile was the kind one wears when they wish to strangle instead of speak. "It’s here—hovering around my wife’s office."

I could hear the weight of disappointment in my father’s sigh.

"Hmm, perhaps you should attend to your empire. Politics, and all that," he muttered bitterly.

"I don’t dabble in politics," Damon replied, holding the door open for us.

We took our places upon the sofa. Shortly after, Andrea, my assistant—Laura’s former shadow—approached with a whisper.

"Ma’am, you have a lunch meeting with the board."

"Thank you, Andrea," I said, dismissing her with a slight nod. I heard her heels retreat, pausing only to exchange quiet words with Deanne.

"Dad, Auntie," I began, folding my arms like a queen resting her scepter. "What is it this time?"

"Well, Liva, it’s not what you think," my aunt began, her voice oiled with false concern. "About Carrie—we thought your grandfather was right, so we’ve been speaking with a few companies to—"

"No." My answer cut through the air, cold and precise. "If Carrie wishes to work in Grandfather’s company, she may apply like anyone else. She will not be ushered in on a silver spoon of recommendation."

"I meant this company," Aunt Casey pressed, her persistence as predictable as mildew. "This was your mother’s company. She is my sister. My blood. I deserve my place here."

My lips curved, a serpent’s smile.

"I thought we were clear on the terms of my mother’s will," I replied, crossing my arms. "You are her half-sister. That does not grant you dominion."

"Livana, that’s no way to speak about your mother—"

"She is not my mother." My sigh was heavy with the exhaustion of repeating truths to deaf ears. "She is my half-aunt. And I have made that perfectly clear, father."

"I’m offended, Livana. My sister and I were close," she said, feigning injury.

I watched her closely, noting every twitch of her act. Victimhood was her favorite costume, and she wore it well.

"Yes," I murmured, tilting my head, "too close to have lain with her husband."

My father stood abruptly, his voice rising like a storm that had already lost its thunder.

"Livana!"

I sighed, unimpressed. "I think you should leave. Stop embarrassing yourself, Casey. I have far subtler ways of dismantling you, and I would rather not demonstrate them today."

"Greg," Casey clutched my father’s hand, retreating with her usual mix of wounded pride and quiet calculation. He, poor fool, followed. I am ever grateful I inherited nothing of his intellect.

"Let’s go," she hissed, and the door closed.

Caine exhaled sharply. "Wow."

"That was intense," Deanne giggled, while Damon slid his arm around me like a possessive serpent.

"You were sexy. Too sexy," Damon murmured.

"Oh, please. That is hardly the correct word," Deanne scoffed. "Must you always sexualize her?"

"She’s my wife," Damon retorted, smug. "It’s called praise. You should try it, Caine. Maybe she’ll stop being grumpy."

Caine merely cleared his throat—wise enough not to prod the tiger further.

I chuckled softly, rising to my feet. "Leave," I murmured, peeling Damon’s hand from my dress. "Caine, take your friend away. Now."

"Sure." He kissed Deanne’s hand and cheeks before pulling Damon along, though my clingy husband still lingered to litter me with kisses.

Once they departed, I turned to Deanne. She was smirking—arms crossed, legs folded like a woman watching the world burn for entertainment.

"Are you certain you don’t want to play with your cousin—wait," she grinned, "half-sister, I mean. Perhaps hire her. Let her frolic here for a while."

The thought had crossed my mind. But that would only give them the illusion of leverage, and illusions, if left unchecked, breed arrogance. I know what my father plots. I know what his second family schemes are. Tyrona, too, breathes beneath their shadow, feeding their ambition.

"Hmm." I slid off my sunglasses, letting a slow smile curl my lips. "You’re giving me deliciously wicked ideas, Deanne."

She laughed. "Well, it would save us from paperwork. And perhaps entertain us a little. Casey really believes she has you wrapped around her crooked finger after she stole your ex-fiancé."

"I care nothing for that man," I said with a dismissive wave. "She may keep the trash she collects."

"She tried to play with you—and failed. But really, do you still need to keep up with the eyedrops? They almost blinded you permanently."

"I’ve already ensured that mistake will not repeat itself." My voice cooled, remembering the betrayal that had once cost me my sight. The nurse they used was served her justice—boiling, swift, and plated for her sins. I imagine she is rotting now, where the sun never reaches.