CHAPTER 142: STRINGS, BLOOD, AND SILENCE

–Livana–

News of the billion-dollar operation being dismantled reached me like the sharp edge of a paper cut—small, but it lingered. I rubbed my temple, considering the implications. Should I intervene? Part of me whispered yes, but another part—colder, older—reminded me that Damon is not a man who easily collapses under pressure. He can stitch up his own wounds. Or at least, he should.

Deanne’s gaze burned into me from across the room, her patience thinning like the wick of a dying candle.

"So?" I finally asked, raising my eyes to meet hers. "Do you have anything else to say?"

She stepped closer, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor. "Hmm," she murmured, eyes narrowing. "Do you think it would be better if you divorced him?"

I laughed—softly, but the sound had a blade’s edge—as I leaned back into my swivel chair. "Are you jealous?" I asked, lips curving into a faint grin meant to provoke.

"Oh, please," she scoffed, folding her arms. "We all know you’ll divorce him eventually. Do you really plan to have children with that man?"

"That’s—" My voice faltered as I turned my gaze away, fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest.

"You don’t love him, do you?" Deanne pressed, her sigh carrying both pity and warning. "Livana, he’s obsessed with you. Obsessed to the point of madness. Don’t break what is already broken."

I had no reply. Damon knows very well that divorce was always a card on the table. Our so-called ’children’—those heirs we speak of—are nothing but living chess pieces, one to secure his legacy and one to carry mine. This marriage was never built on love. It was forged in the furnace of strategy, stitched together with power and necessity. That is how the underworld operates: hearts are just collateral.

"Unless, of course... you fall in love," Deanne added, her tone deceptively light. "There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, it would make things easier. Imagine it—you and him, in love, ruling together. An empire with two hearts beating as one. Unstoppable."

I exhaled slowly and shook my head. "Stop putting ideas in my head," I hissed, and she chuckled softly, clearly enjoying her little game.

"Well," she said, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips, "I’m only reminding you. Damon may look like a fortress—sturdy, impenetrable—but that’s only because he already surrendered his heart entirely to you."

"Wow," I scoffed, my words soaked in sarcasm. "How poetic. And what if I do fall for him? What difference would it make? We still need an heir. We still have an empire to uphold."

I returned my attention to the papers before me, pen gliding across the page as though it could distract me from the whirlpool forming in my mind. I almost forgot how to write, how to stay composed. My fingers pressed against my temple again. These thoughts... they were a poison creeping in. I shouldn’t care. I wasn’t raised to care. I was sculpted to be cold—stone under silk, steel beneath skin. Damon’s feelings were never meant to concern me. And yet... somehow, they started to.

A headache formed—sharp, insistent.

"So, are you going to call your husband and clean up his mess?" Deanne’s voice pierced through my thoughts.

"Hmm," I tilted my head, eyes narrowing. "This will probably stir the President’s hounds."

"Dela Vega is still sitting in the Senate Cabinet," she reminded. "He might drag this into his theatre."

"Oh," I chuckled, leaning back with a languid sigh. "My poor husband has quite the mess to mop up."

I reached for my phone, dialing his number. Busy. Of course. Damon was probably already spinning his web over the line. I called his driver instead—he always answers.

"Good day, Mrs. Blackwell," came the respectful voice.

"To my husband," I said simply, reclining as a knock on the door interrupted the exchange.

"Yes, love?" Damon’s voice slid through the receiver. "I’m on another call."

"Do you need my help?" My tone was casual, like a dealer shuffling her deck.

"No. I can handle this."

"Hmm." My gaze flicked toward Louie as he entered, briefcase in hand, moving like a well-oiled machine—flexible, efficient, always one step ahead. "Oh, so you don’t really need me."

A soft exhale from Damon. "Alright, my love. It’s a big mess."

"Hmm." I smirked faintly. "Do you have a lead on the whistleblower?"

"Not yet. But we have suspects."

"Good. I’ll give you names now." I rose from my chair and settled onto the sofa beside Louie. His fingers danced over the keys, prying open the NBI’s vault of secrets, eyes flicking from satellite feeds to office cameras, rearranging angles like a puppeteer adjusting his marionettes.

"We’ll send the package now," I said. "Clean it fast, Damon. Our family name must remain stainless."

"Yes, my love. Thank you."

I ended the call and allowed the silence to settle. My breath came slowly, deliberate.

"Now," I murmured, "let’s find out who really killed my mother."

The memory crawled up my spine like an unwelcome guest. I watched her fall. The cameras in the loft were wiped clean—suspiciously so. They said it was an accident. They said she slipped down the stairs. But my mother... she was never clumsy. Grace was stitched into her bones.

No, she didn’t tumble down those stairs. I saw her fall from the second floor. I heard the argument moments before her body hit the tiles. And yet, the investigation was cut off—swiftly, surgically—because my father, in all his foolish devotion, shielded that two-faced serpent of an aunt I was forced to call family.

And I, Livana Braxton-Carrington, have never forgotten a single step of that dance.

–Damon–

I never expected the knife in our back to come from hands we once fed. The betrayal was close—too close. The same people we bankrolled, the ones we carried through their elections, now dared to bite the hand that built their thrones.

I drove straight to the family compound. The night air was heavy, like a storm waiting for a signal. My grandfather was already by the door, his electronic wheelchair humming faintly against the gravel. Wilbert Blackwell—old wolf, sharp fangs dulled only by time, never by mercy.

"Do you have names now?" he asked, his tone gruff as we made our way toward the study.

"Yes," I said, my voice low but steady. "My wife has provided the necessary details."

"Then let’s wipe them clean." He spoke like he always did—without hesitation, without ceremony. Savage as ever. But I knew better. Livana’s methods were not of brute force. They were of precision. Knives wrapped in silk. Her plans may look like mercy to the untrained eye, but they cut deeper than any bullet.

I opened the study door and shut it behind us. "Grandpapa," I said, walking toward the sofa, "Livana told me not to kill them."

He scoffed, his wrinkled face turning toward me. "Livana... she’s too kind."

I let out a dark chuckle as I sat down, elbows resting on my knees. "Kind? No. She’s never been kind, Grandpa. She’s calculating. She laid out every thread of blackmail against them—each senator, each handler. Even the President is dancing on a leash she tied. An invisible string wrapped around his neck, and he doesn’t even feel it tighten yet." I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "She does it so elegantly... so damn seductively."

"I see." His old eyes gleamed as a thin laugh escaped him. "She got her mother’s old tricks, then. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree." He leaned back, fingers steepled. "So, how do we clean this up?"

"I have a few ideas," I said, voice lowering into a whisper that carried weight. "But the leak—the one feeding the information—it’s Dela Vega. I’m almost certain."

"How about meeting that old friend of yours?" he asked, the corner of his mouth curling—not in warmth, but in mockery.

I met his gaze, understanding the venom behind his words. Tyrona was no friend; she was a viper we let slither too close, a guest at our table who counted our silverware as we fed her.

"Tyrona?" I raised a brow. "She’s grown powerful since Alejandro’s death. Took his men, his routes, his influence... and made it her own. Living under our roof all these years, she’s been weaving her net while we entertained her as family." I shook my head. "But we can’t touch her yet. Not now. I have half the secret service breathing down my neck as it is. One wrong move and they’ll paint me red."

"Oh," he scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping. "Look at you—our big shot now. To have the government’s dogs tailing your every step. How far you’ve climbed, Damon."

I hummed, sliding a thick dossier across the table toward him. "Grandpa, will you reach out to your friends in politics for me? Quietly."

"Why not ask Reagan or Edward?" His gaze flicked to me sharply.

"I can’t." I sighed, fingers drumming against the leather armrest. "I want to. But Livana warned me—one of them may already be playing for the other side. If I show my hand too early, we risk cutting our ties with Braxton entirely. Dela Vega may be the one pulling the strings, but there’s no concrete proof that Garrison himself—or his father—lit the fuse."

"Hmm." Grandpa’s brows furrowed, his mind wandering into old dust-covered corridors of memory. "I always thought this was their way to force Ines into the Carringtons."

I paused, frowning. "What?"

"Ines was meant to marry someone else," he murmured. "But the Carringtons had Braxton’s leash wrapped around their wrists. Just speculation, mind you. I never wanted to dig deeper—I had my own wars to fight. But Ines... she knew the game. Kept her ties with us, sent gifts to your mother during holidays, played the dutiful niece. I hold no hatred for the girl. But her husband? That man—I would see him buried under the weight of his own sins."

He sighed, the air in the room shifting. "Let’s move forward. I’ll call them out to our residence."

"Thank you, Grandpa." I leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind already drawing routes like red threads on a wall. "I need to create an alibi. Dela Vega will try to trace this to me—of course he will. I handle the underworld branch. Dad and David must remain untouched. They must stay clean."

The old man nodded, his fingers drumming slowly on the armrest of his chair. "Then move like a shadow, boy. Leave no prints behind."

I stood, straightened my cuffs, and smiled faintly. "I never leave prints, Grandpa. I leave ghosts."

Because in this world, it’s not the bullets that rule—it’s the secrets. And tonight, I hold theirs.