CHAPTER 134: THE PRODIGY

–Livana–

The kitchen greeted me with its sterile chill, the faint hum of the refrigerator a low whisper in the background. I traced my fingertips along the edge of the counter before pulling the door open, letting the cold air bloom against my skin like a forgotten winter. The scent that drifted out was dry, metallic, and faintly sweet—nostalgia in its own peculiar way. I extended my hand inside, my fingers brushing against the cold, crinkled edges of wrappers and containers. Behind me, I felt his presence—steady, warm, unrelenting as always.

He didn’t need to ask what I was looking for; Damon never does. I felt his arm move beside me, his body heat mingling with the frosty breath of the fridge, until something cold and crinkled brushed my hand. His fingers, rougher than mine, placed it in my palm.

"I think this is it," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble behind my ear.

I let my thumb graze the wrapper, the thin foil whispering secrets against my skin, and lifted it to my nose. A familiar aroma unfurled—rich, dark chocolate laced with something more illicit beneath. A mixture with an ulterior motive.

"Ah." My lips curved slightly. "A chocolate laced for desire. No wonder they were screwing like rabbits." The words slipped out like smoke, amused and unhurried.

"Hey, I can hear you," Laura chimed from somewhere behind us, her tone laced with mock offense. I turned my head slightly in her direction, though my gaze remained unfocused, drifting past her as I always let it.

"I always enjoy your games, sister," I said with a faint smile, passing the wrapper to Damon, who crumpled it with a careless flick. "But unfortunately, Deanne has fallen for your trap once again."

"They’re having fun," Laura giggled, unbothered by the accusation.

"Fun, yes. Until it becomes chaos," I murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. "Come to the office with me."

She perked up at that, her footsteps a quick staccato as she headed upstairs—likely to change into something more respectable for the day.

"I wanted to stay with you," Damon’s arms coiled around me from behind, his voice low, "but I have to check on a few sites. My boys are occupied with their lovers... who do you think I should bring with me?"

"Francis, perhaps?" I tilted my head, a shrug dancing over my shoulders. "Go and work. And clean up something for me."

"Sure," he said easily, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

"Wait." My hand rose instinctively, halting him. "I think you should stay home."

His body stilled. "Why?"

I turned my face toward him but not my eyes—those, I kept distant, vague. "Aren’t they tailing you?" The ’they’ needed no elaboration: the spies who lurked like scavenger crows, hoping to snatch proof to corner me, to barter for that cursed compass they so desperately desired.

He hummed low in his throat, thoughtful. I stepped forward carefully, nearly grazing the edge of the counter before his hand closed gently around my arm. A silent guide, as always. He led me upstairs, our steps in quiet rhythm, the faint echo of Laura’s movement ahead of us.

"Are you angry at your sister?" he asked, breaking the soft silence.

"No. She’s merely... bored." I let a yawn escape, covering my mouth before dabbing the tears from my eyes. He handed me a dress—one I hadn’t worn in years.

My wardrobe is a kingdom of excess: countless garments, half of them born not of my choosing but of his indulgence. Damon had a habit of buying dresses as though he were trying to dress a doll—ordering more from designers, paying them handsomely. Odd, for a man whose family runs an underground empire, that he insists on paying taxes diligently, feeding the same greedy politicians who pretend to scorn his existence. But that is how the world spins: hypocrisy well-oiled with gold.

Many politicians had tried to coax the Braxtons’ support for their campaigns, and my grandfather Reagan often played the emissary, urging me to agree. But I had declined, every time, with proof as my shield. Blackwell, however, they embraced the politicians—wrapped them in silk ropes and pulled the strings until those men danced like marionettes. They played dirty, always, and their tempers ran hotter than fresh blood.

"Perhaps you’re right," Damon mused softly. "Staying home might be perfect."

"What’s with the sites you’re visiting?" I asked, my tone nonchalant, though my fingers busied themselves, tracing the familiar landscape of my dresser.

"Remember the one Alejandro and Tyrona tried to invest in with me?"

"Yes?" I turned slightly toward his voice, careful to keep my face angled just enough to mimic blindness, my eyes never quite meeting his.

"They sold it. Tyrona sold it—it was under her name. I had someone buy it for me at the auction." His fingers found my jaw, his lips brushing mine, his touch warm against my cool skin.

"And what grand plan is brewing in that head of yours?"

"They wanted a racing formula track," he said with a grin I could hear. "But I think it will make a better golf course."

"A golf course... on a graveyard?" I quirked a brow. "What about the bodies buried beneath?"

"Well, we already had them removed..."

"Isn’t that bad luck? Building something where the dead once lay?"

He sighed, a puff of amusement and fatigue. "I don’t believe in such things. But if it eases your mind, I’ll have experts bless the land."

My lips pursed. Tyrona was too cunning to sell land without reason. Did she intend a trap? Or was Damon playing a deeper game? The land was a lure for Alejandro and his ilk, men obsessed with speed and destruction.

"I think you just took their bait," I murmured, fingers sweeping over the vanity in search of my lip balm. "Gambling your life with a patch of dirt."

"You think so?" He retrieved it for me, ever attentive, and turned me gently toward him as he applied it. His fingers were tender, almost reverent.

"Watch it," I said quietly. "I won’t have you tangled in their mess."

"Right." He kissed my forehead. "I will be careful."

"If they catch you, I won’t be able to bail you out. They want my mother’s creation in exchange."

"Of course," he murmured with a crooked smile. "I will come back to you."

"Hmm. Perfect." I tapped his chest lightly, dismissing him. "Carry on."

Time to prepare for work.

*****

Upon arriving at the office, the scent of freshly polished floors and the faint trace of brewed coffee greeted me—morning in its most corporate attire. My husband had promised, with a kiss against my temple, that he would fetch us something from Starbucks, along with whatever indulgence Laura craved. She, as I suspected, had left her husband tangled in bedsheets, most likely still asleep.

The familiar hush of the CEO’s office wrapped around us like a sealed envelope as we entered. Papers rustled in neat precision; the air conditioning hummed a steady tune against the tall glass windows. Louie Lancer, the man himself, rose to greet us with a warm smile. His handshake, I imagined, was firm—his voice held a composure that had been polished over years of practice.

He looked younger than his age. A body well-kept, shoulders broad, presence unassuming yet calculated. Thirties, I estimated—not quite the age his reputation whispered. But his file told me more than his face ever could; I had already taken the liberty of dissecting his background days ago.

"So, Louie, how’s your work going?" Laura asked lightly, perching on the edge of the leather chair, her tone dripping with an almost performative sweetness.

I turned my head slightly, catching the outline of him through the gentle ripple of air. His voice returned, respectful, rehearsed.

"It’s going well, Miss Laura. We’ve increased profits by ten percent this quarter. The bonuses you approved have certainly lifted morale among the employees."

"Well, that’s perfect. Did you hear that, Liva?" she asked, looking toward me with that mischievous tilt of hers.

"I’m not deaf," I replied smoothly, crossing one leg over the other. The faint brush of silk against my skin was grounding, steadying. "So, Louie. How long had you been working with my mother?"

There was a pause—a fragile glass set upon a hard table. Louie hadn’t expected that question; I could feel it in the way the air seemed to hold its breath.

"Pardon?" he asked, his composure flickering.

"I remember you," I continued, tilting my head. "Years ago, in my mother’s study, in her mansion. A boy then, full of youth and borrowed confidence, giving suggestions as if the world would pause to listen."

I felt his gaze sharpen, fixed upon me. I lifted my chin slightly, allowing my unfocused eyes to rest on his face—blindness does not mean absence of presence, and that usually unsettles those who think they can remain unseen.

"I wonder," I said softly, "why you applied here. You’ve drifted across several branches... yet you anchored yourself here, at the Head Office."

His lips twitched—a falter, then a chuckle that tried to disguise itself as casual.

"You got me," he admitted.

"What?" Laura blinked, surprised at his sudden confession.

I leaned back, fingers brushing against the cool armrest, the faint scent of old leather rising as if to listen with me. "What are you looking for, Louie?"

"My work," he said, his tone shifting, sharpening. "And my father’s work. Your mother sealed it here. Somewhere in this office."

I heard the subtle rattle of metal, the familiar combination of digits pressed against the vault. A moment later, a heavy thud: a document placed on the table. Its presence filled the room with a weight that even the air seemed to acknowledge.

"That dangerous device your mother created," he continued, "along with all the information we gathered—I need it."

"Why?" I asked, though my voice was steady, calm—a ripple across still water rather than a storm. I needed to hear his reason, not his performance.

"Livana, you can trust me," Louie said, the audacity of the statement brushing against my patience like sandpaper. "Where’s the device?"

I gave him a smile that did not reach my eyes. "I don’t trust anyone, Louie."

"Not even your sister?" His head turned toward Laura, and I heard her gasp—dramatic, predictable.

"She knows better," I replied, the smirk touching my lips before the words even finished their course.

He chuckled, the sound dry. "You’re not blind."

"I was," I said, turning my head just so, letting the words curl like smoke. "But sight has many forms."

His breathing shifted, barely perceptible, a man recalculating. "Who are you working with, Louie?"

"No one. I work for myself."

"Liar," I murmured, my smirk deepening as the silence that followed thickened like syrup.