CHAPTER 145: THE THIRD WHEEL - GUARD DOG

–Laura–

I was still stunned by the way scandals could spread like wildfire. Not even twenty-four hours, and the entire internet looked like it had been set on fire, reshaped, and then neatly gift-wrapped in Livana’s favorite brand of elegance and cruelty. But the part that really had me laughing? She didn’t just expose the Dela Vegas’ dirty laundry—she practically bought the whole laundromat, kicked out the owners, and replaced the CEOs of the four biggest Network Agencies who were in bed with them. Smooth. Ruthless. Classic Livana.

"I’m starting to think Livana is in love with Damon," Damien said lazily, sprawled out on the sofa like a cat that ate too many fish and was now regretting life. His hair was sticking up like he had been electrocuted, and yet, somehow, he still made it look like a hairstyle from a men’s fashion magazine. Typical.

"Is she?" I shrugged, grabbed the popcorn bowl, and sat cross-legged beside him. "I mean, it’s not a bad thing. They’re both psychopaths. They can fall in love as deeply and as dangerously as they want. I won’t even be surprised if they conquer the world—like an evil Mr. and Mrs. Smith. But with better clothes."

Damien burst out laughing, nearly choking on a cracker.

"I know, right?"

He patted the cushion beside him and brushed away crumbs like he was some polite prince, when really he was just making space for me so I wouldn’t yell at him later for leaving ants on the sofa. He’d clean it up later, I knew. That was Damien—chaotic and considerate all in one.

Since both of us were technically on a "work break" (which really meant we were avoiding responsibility), our daily schedule had turned into: eat too much, nap too long, complain about being lazy, then repeat. Honestly, I wasn’t used to it. Maybe this is what my sister felt whenever she was forced into "rest." Except she always preferred hacking empires instead of Netflix marathons.

"Let’s go buy books later," I suggested, nudging his shoulder and snuggling into his warmth.

"Yeah, sure." He wrapped his arm around me like a giant koala, eyes still glued to the TV screen. "Your sister is savage, by the way. Like... she doesn’t just stab. She twists the knife. Slowly. With jazz music in the background."

"Yup, that’s her version of savage." I chuckled. "Do you remember when Tyrona and her minions almost killed Livana? And instead of quietly healing from her trauma, my sister hacked Tyrona’s family business until it was clinging to life support. Then mom nearly pulled the plug for good. If it weren’t for your family stepping in, Tyrona would be bankrupt history."

"Ohhh," Damien snapped his fingers. "So that’s what the shouting match at our house was about. I didn’t care enough to listen, but I heard it was epic. My favorite part, though? Damon is dragging Tyrona into the pool and trying to drown her."

"Whoa!" I gasped and whipped around to face him. His grin was way too wide for someone recounting an attempted murder like it was slapstick comedy.

"Yeah," he continued, eyes sparkling. "For days, Damon kept trying to kill her. At her house, at her parties, even when she went grocery shopping. The family had no choice but to ship her off on a vacation just to keep her alive. The only thing that calmed him down was Livana returning to school. That’s also when he had his first ’date’ with her at that fancy Japanese restaurant."

"Date?" I raised a brow. "Livana told me it was just her way of saying thank you. Mom forced her to go."

"Still counts," Damien teased. "Damon looked like he’d just won the lottery. He was floating on air. Trust me, the man was ridiculous."

I tilted my head, smirking. "Does his love have an expiration date? Or his obsession? What does he even see in Livana? She’s basically the Ice Queen from every fairy tale."

Damien leaned closer, eyes mischievous. "Men like challenges. And Livana isn’t just any woman. Damon said once that she’s... different. Like trying to win at chess when your opponent already knows your next ten moves." He touched my chin playfully.

"He’s really head-over-heels crazy," I sighed, then giggled. "Well, I’m not complaining. Pushing my sister toward him wasn’t the worst idea. Those customized luxuries he showers on her? Totally worth the matchmaking fee."

Damien chuckled and stood up, stretching his arms like a lazy cat again. "Alright, how about we go book shopping—and maybe sneak in some baby stuff while we’re at it?"

I touched my tummy and smiled, dragging myself up after him. "Yeah. Maybe we can walk around a bit too."

"And Aunt Amiliee wanted to see us." He was already walking ahead, his usual brisk pace. I waddled after him like a penguin on a mission. Except this penguin was already slightly out of breath.

Blame the twins. Or blame me for begging Damien to "plant his seeds" like I was some kind of fertile farmland. Either way, here I was—pregnant, hormonal, and trying to keep up with a man whose legs worked like Formula 1 cars.

He was rambling about the nursery when I finally stopped to catch my breath, leaning dramatically on the railing like I was about to faint in a soap opera. Damien turned, took one look at me, and started laughing.

"Oh, great," I muttered, glaring at him.

"Sorry, babe," he said between chuckles, swooping me up bridal-style. "Yup, definitely heavier. Either that or the babies are upgrading from small fries to watermelons."

I pouted but secretly melted. Typical Damien.

After changing into casual clothes, we headed to the garage. Damien grabbed the car keys—big mistake. Because just then, Logan arrived on his giant bike, looking like death warmed over. He screeched to a stop, pulled off his helmet, and squinted at us like an angry dad catching his kids sneaking out past curfew.

"What?" Damien asked, already defensive.

"Where are you going?" Logan’s voice was stern, gravelly. Then he spotted the keys in Damien’s hand. "No. Not that car." He shook his head so hard I thought it might snap off.

He stalked toward us, eyes bloodshot, probably from pulling an all-nighter. "And where are your bodyguards? Hm?"

"We don’t need them," I said sweetly, batting my lashes.

Logan nearly combusted. "No. No! No! Absolutely not!" He clicked his tongue like a disapproving grandpa, grabbed the Hummer keys, and practically herded us toward the bulletproof beast. He opened the back door for me like a chauffeur.

I hopped in. Damien tried to follow, but Logan barked at him to drive instead. Then Logan tossed something from his bike into the passenger seat. Was that... a gun?

My eyes widened, but before I could ask, Logan slid into the shotgun seat and buckled up like he owned the place.

I pulled out pillows from under the seat and set them on either side of me. Logan, without hesitation, snatched one for himself. I gasped. The audacity.

He just slid on his sunglasses, leaned back coolly, and flicked his hand at Damien. "Drive."

"Our bodyguard’s basically turned himself into a third wheel," I whispered loudly.

"I think he’s just mad he’s the third wheel," Damien chuckled, starting the engine.

"Don’t even think about music," Logan grumbled when Damien’s hand hovered near the radio.

"You are such a bummer," Damien whined, dragging out the words.

As we pulled out of the driveway, Damien suddenly smirked, then—oh no—placed his hand on Logan’s knee.

The look on Logan’s face was priceless. He didn’t flinch right away, but a vein popped on his temple. Then, slowly, menacingly, he pulled out a Swiss knife.

Damien yelped and jerked his hand back like Logan’s knee was lava. I burst out laughing, clutching my belly.

"It’s fun to tease him," Damien said between snickers, though his voice cracked.

Logan muttered something under his breath, gripping the knife like he was already planning Damien’s funeral.

"Relax, Logan!" I giggled, waving at him. "You’re safe. Damien just thinks he’s auditioning for a comedy skit."

"Comedy?" Logan snapped, glaring at Damien. "I’m two seconds from carving your hand off."

"Don’t worry, babe," Damien winked at me, ignoring the death glare. "He’s just jealous."

Logan gripped the dashboard so hard I thought it might break.

I leaned back against my pillow fortress, sighing dreamily. "Honestly, I should record this. A sitcom starring Damien and Logan. Title: The Gay Chicken Chronicles."

Damien burst out laughing again, while Logan groaned like his soul was leaving his body.

And me? I just sat there in the backseat, queen of my own little chaos kingdom, loving every second of it.

It was quite a drive. Long enough that the hum of the tires on the road became a lullaby. Logan, the self-appointed grumpy chauffeur, had started stiff and alert, but after a while... his head leaned against the window, mouth slightly open, and then came the soft, ridiculous snore.

Damien and I glanced at each other, then immediately snickered like kids in class trying not to get caught.

"Do you think he knows he snores like a walrus choking on a harmonica?" Damien whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief.

I nearly choked on my laughter. "Shhh! He’ll hear you!" I whispered back, even though Logan’s snores were loud enough to drown out a marching band.

For a while, I just enjoyed the comedy of Damien mimicking Logan’s snores under his breath, adding dramatic flair like a professional sound effects artist. I giggled until my belly hurt. And eventually, the rhythm of the car lulled me to sleep too.

When I woke up, it was to Damien’s hand gently shaking my shoulder. His smile was soft, a rare calm in the middle of his usual antics.

But then my eyes shifted to the front seat. Logan was still dead asleep, sunglasses tilted down, lips parted, looking like the poster child for "overworked mafia babysitter."

And then—oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Damien leaned closer.

Not just closer—he bent right into Logan’s personal space, his lips hovering dangerously close to Logan’s cheek like he was about to whisper sweet nothings.

My hands flew to my mouth, muffling a squeal of horror and amusement. If Damien wasn’t my husband, my soulmate, and my best friend in the world, I would’ve started to question his orientation right there and then.

But no. This was Damien. And Damien had one eternal hobby: pissing off Logan.

"Get off me! Asshole!"

Logan jerked awake so violently that he almost headbutted Damien. Sunglasses flew off, eyes narrowed in absolute fury. I completely lost it. My laughter bubbled out uncontrollably, echoing in the car.

Damien sat back innocently, like he hadn’t just staged an almost-kiss. "Morning, sunshine." He patted Logan’s lap with mock affection. "Let’s get you some coffee, alright?"

Logan smacked his hand away like it was contagious. "Touch me again and I’ll break your wrist."

"Promises, promises," Damien drawled, wiggling his eyebrows.

I was practically crying with laughter now, shaking my head at both of them. "You two are impossible. Honestly, if anyone saw this, they’d think I was married to both of you."

"Polygamy isn’t legal here," Logan muttered, glaring at Damien.

"Pity," Damien sighed dramatically, leaning his chin on his hand. "Imagine how fun that’d be. One wife, one guard dog."

"Guard dog?" Logan snapped.

"German shepherd, to be exact." Damien grinned. "All bark, but secretly wants tummy rubs."

Logan growled low in his throat. "I have a knife."

"And I have a pregnant wife who laughs at my jokes," Damien shot back smugly.

I squeaked, covering my face. "Stop! You’re going to make me go into early labor from laughing too much."

Both of them shut up instantly, turning toward me like synchronized robots.

"Sorry, babe," Damien said quickly, stroking my hand.

"Sorry," Logan muttered, though he glared daggers at Damien the whole time.

The silence lasted all of thirty seconds.

Then Damien leaned just a little too close to Logan again and whispered, "So... still want that coffee, sweetheart?"

Logan’s hand twitched toward his knife holster. I squealed with laughter all over again.