CHAPTER 139: HOPELESSLY CRAZILY

–Damon–

I already felt that gnawing ache of homesickness, not for the walls of our house, but for her—for my wife—though the night was young. It was a ridiculous thing, really, to miss someone this much when the clock had barely passed midnight. But this is business, and business thrives in the dark, with alcohol dulling tongues and secrets dripping between glasses. They had their women draped on their arms, ornaments they could exchange like cufflinks. I let them have their little spectacle. I didn’t bring mine, because she doesn’t enjoy circuses like this. My Livana—she doesn’t play pretend for men who think the world is theirs just because they can sign a deal over whiskey.

Still, I imagined her here—seated beside me, her cold elegance slicing through this stale smoke-filled room. Her hand resting on my thigh like a quiet leash. Her eyes, those blind yet unnervingly sharp eyes, would have cut Tyrona’s smug little smile into ribbons. I would’ve liked that.

Instead, it was just me and their cheap company.

"Are you bored already?" Tyrona’s lips curled in a way that begged to be slapped off.

"Go on," I said, swirling my martini with a faint smirk. "I’m listening."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Caine slinking toward the bar to drool over Deanne. Pathetic. I clenched my jaw, not from jealousy, but from how easily men degrade themselves for attention that means nothing.

Tyrona leaned closer, the stench of her perfume already overstaying its welcome. "We all know you purchased the land," she said, a playful malice in her tone. "What are your plans with it?"

"A cemetery?" I said lazily, letting the word sting like a thrown dart.

Aaron chuckled bitterly. "That’s not for a cemetery. We’re building a racing track and a country club."

"Hmm," I crossed my arms, leaning back. "Then my wife will decide on that."

"My wife." I liked saying it out loud. I liked watching their expressions twitch every time I reminded them that I belonged to someone—willingly, desperately.

"Your wife?" Tyrona scoffed. "Why isn’t she here, by the way? Isn’t she afraid someone will steal you? That you’ll cheat?"

Stolen. Cheat. The words rolled in my head like sparks near gasoline. Cheat? Never. I would sooner carve my own heart out than let another woman plant her filth on it. But stolen... oh, that was an interesting thought. I imagined being taken, forced into someone else’s grip, just to see how Livana would react. Would she burn the city down for me? Would she wrap her delicate hands around someone’s throat and smile while doing it?

She isn’t possessive—not outwardly. She’s too clever for that. Too regal. But sometimes I wish she was. I wish she would cage me like I cage her—in thoughts, in hunger, in the way my blood boils when she’s away too long.

They were watching me now, waiting for a reaction like dogs waiting for scraps.

"Well," I finally said, a dark smile curling on my lips, "I’d like it if she became possessive of me. I’d enjoy seeing her claws come out." I set my glass down and let my voice drop like a blade. "But cheat?" I laughed—loud enough to make Tyrona flinch. "Tyrona, I would never cheat on my beloved wife. Not even if hell itself offered me a throne."

Jordan cleared his throat, a desperate little sound meant to break the simmering tension at the table.

"Uh, by the way, since when did those two hook up?" he asked, his chin jerking toward the bar where Deanne and Caine were practically devouring each other, kissing as if the world was ending and the bar counter was their altar.

"Las Vegas," I replied without much effort, swirling the ice in my glass as if it mattered more than their public display.

Jordan let out a low whistle. Ike leaned forward, eyes glinting with that familiar mix of curiosity and barely hidden envy.

"Can you believe your eyes? The school’s fantasy girl—Caine’s girlfriend?" Ike asked, shaking his head. "I still can’t."

I didn’t bother to look at them. I just watched their expressions from the corner of my eye—awed, yes, but more than that... hungry. Men like them always were. They didn’t just admire Deanne; they devoured her with their stares, stripped her with their thoughts. They spoke of her in locker rooms, in hallways, behind closed doors—fantasizing, sexualizing, reducing her to the curve of her hips or the rumor of her lips.

I always walked away when I heard them talk like that. Not because I was some saint, but because I already had someone far more dangerous occupying every inch of my mind. And Caine? He was different. He would silence them, shut them up with one look, sometimes with a threat that carried the weight of fists behind it. I knew why now. He was already in love with her, long before any of them had the guts to even look her in the eye without stuttering.

But if only they knew the truth about their so-called goddess. The fantasy sex icon they drool over... pitiful doesn’t even begin to describe her back then. A girl caged, bruised, molded by a monster who called himself her stepfather.

And the irony of it all? It was my wife—my elegant, ruthless Livana—who ended that Chapter of Deanne’s life. Permanently.

I can still remember the night as if it were tattooed beneath my skin. The metallic tang of blood clinging to the air, the way her hair fell across her face while she moved with a precision she was never trained for. Killing wasn’t her craft—not then. She wasn’t a born butcher. She was silk turned to blade for one night, just to help me tie up loose ends, just to help me clean the world of something rotten.

Helping my dream girl commit that crime... I’ll admit it without shame—it was one of the happiest nights of my life. Pathetic? Maybe. But what is love, if not choosing someone even in the darkest room?

She was magnificent that night. Not because of the act, but because of the look in her eyes—calm, unflinching, almost detached, like she was cutting a thread from the tapestry of fate rather than a man’s lifeline. Her hands trembled only once, when it was done. And I held them. I kissed them. I told her she was divine.

You see, that’s the thing about Livana. People look at her now and they see the poised wife, the untouchable woman draped in my name, wrapped in power like a second skin. But I remember the version that no one clapped for. I remember the girl who didn’t need a stage to own a room, who could command chaos with a whisper.

And I... I loved her for that. Still do.

Even now, as I sit here surrounded by men who measure masculinity by how many women they can buy drinks for, I can feel the absence of her hand in mine like a phantom limb. My wife is not here—and that’s a problem. Because nights like these, I want her at my side not for show, but for balance. She anchors me when the world starts to feel like noise.

Tyrona’s laugh cuts through my thoughts—shrill, invasive. They think teasing me with women will tempt me, as if I’m built like them. As if I’d trade an empire for a whore’s perfume. Fools.

Deanne giggles by the bar, her dress too tight for her own comfort, her lips swollen from Caine’s desperation. Jordan nudges Ike again, whispering something about how lucky Caine is.

Lucky.

No. Lucky is the man who has someone waiting at home who would burn cities to the ground for him. Lucky is the man who knows that even when the world offers him a thousand warm bodies, none of them would ever measure up to the one woman who can kill beside him and still sleep soundly in his arms.

That’s my kind of luck. That’s my Livana.

Sometimes I think about that night too much. The way her breath quickened as we dragged the body, the way her fingers intertwined with mine afterward—not out of romance, but out of a wordless pact: We did this. Together.

That’s what bonds people. Not the flowers. Not the kisses in the daylight. It’s the blood on the floorboards, the secrets that rot if shared with anyone else. That’s why I will never cheat. Because my fidelity isn’t just a moral compass—it’s a graveyard of our shared sins. You don’t cheat on someone who’s buried a part of themselves with you.

I raise my glass again, eyes lingering on the amber liquid as if I could see her reflection there. "Las Vegas," I repeat, quieter this time, almost amused. Let them have their little stories. Let them gawk at Deanne like she’s a trophy.

My trophy is at home. Breathing. Waiting. Maybe seething, because I didn’t take her here. God, I hope she’s seething.

Because the only thing more intoxicating than her love... is her wrath.