CHAPTER 170: HEARTLESS

–Damon–

Since we’d slept for more than three hours that afternoon, Livana and I still had plenty of energy left that night. But no, we didn’t make love after dinner—not yet. Instead, we took a walk around the mansion grounds, hand in hand beneath the cool night breeze. The moonlight shimmered over the two-story doghouse that I had built for Choco and other guard dogs.

Choco came bounding toward us, a leash dangling from his mouth. I crouched and took it from him with a small grin, watching his tail wag in excitement.

"Don’t you think it’s cold?" I asked, glancing at Livana.

She wore a soft cardigan over her usual silk maxi dress, elegant as always, the fabric whispering against her skin as she moved.

"I’m fine," she said casually.

My eyes drifted to her belly. A quiet sigh escaped me. "There are three names for our children," I said, unable to hide the grin spreading on my face.

She smiled faintly. "Then we’ll make another after our firstborn."

That made me ridiculously happy—boyishly happy, the kind of joy I could barely contain. I wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her softly.

"I’m happy," I whispered against her lips. "So damn happy."

"You should be," she teased, her voice lilting with amusement. "And excited for tomorrow."

I tilted my head, curious as we strolled through the garden filled with blooming hyacinths. Their scent was heady, intoxicating. "Hmm, what’s happening tomorrow?"

"We’ll be visiting my father at the Carrington ancestral home," she replied coolly.

Ah. That must be about her so-called big revelation—perhaps something involving Carrie’s ruined reputation.

"Yes, and guess what?" she said with a small grin. "Grandma Belinda set Carrie up to marry into the Knox family."

"Ohhh," I chuckled darkly. The irony wasn’t lost on me. "So both of their reputations are ruined, and they think marriage can save it? How poetic. Which Knox is she marrying—your ex?"

"Maybe. But I think someone else will take over. I don’t really feel bad for Carrie. She’s... pitiful."

Pitiful. The word didn’t quite fit her tone. Livana rarely showed pity, at least not outwardly. Maybe she felt it for me once—who knows? But watching her smile, even a little, always melted the walls inside me.

Then she sneezed unexpectedly. I frowned. "Alright, let’s go back."

Choco obediently took the leash in his mouth and followed us inside. At the back entrance, I crouched down and wiped his paws clean before unhooking his collar. I hung the leash beside the others—organized neatly, thanks to Grandpa Reagan and Alyssa’s endless pet gifts.

I led my wife upstairs, turned off the AC, and left the fan on low. I guided her to the bathroom, assisting her through our little nightly ritual—brushing teeth, washing faces, skincare. I mimicked her every move, as always.

Afterward, she chose to wear my oversized pajama top while I pulled on the pants. She didn’t bother with underwear, and I swear she did it on purpose. Her teasing was subtle but lethal. I brushed her hair carefully, even though I secretly missed how long it used to be. Short or not, she was still devastatingly beautiful.

"Damon," she murmured as I helped her onto the bed.

"Yes, love?" I climbed in beside her, glancing briefly at Choco snoozing on his grand bed.

"If I have to go abroad for work after the baby’s born, take care of our child for me, okay?"

I kissed her lips softly. "Of course. But you won’t be gone long, right?"

She smiled faintly. "No, not really."

She lay down, and I nestled behind her, sliding my hand under her top to caress her tummy.

"Duvet," she whispered.

I pulled it over her, pressing a kiss to her earlobe. "Can I go down?" I asked, grinning against her neck.

She smirked. "Are you aching that much?"

"Yes," I whispered with a low chuckle.

Before anything else could happen, loud laughter echoed down the hall. I glanced at the ornate wall clock—it was past midnight. Then came a heavy thud. I sighed, trying to ignore it, but Livana nudged me to check.

Reluctantly, I slipped out of bed and opened the bedroom door. The sight that greeted me was chaotic: Logan sprawled on the floor while Jane stood over him, and Deanne and Sophia were laughing uncontrollably. All of them—clearly drunk.

"Kids," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Keep it down, alright?"

Logan cackled, rolling over like a fool. Chef Wally appeared, arms full of handbags and high heels, distributing them like a tired caretaker.

"Jane, take him to his room," I ordered, exasperated. Caine and Kai were already helping their partners to their rooms.

"I think he can manage," Jane said, stepping back as Logan tried—and failed—to crawl upright.

"How much did he drink?" I asked.

"A bottle of whiskey," she muttered, then looked up at me seriously. "Boss."

"Yes?"

"Let me go out for a bit. I have to check on something."

Her tone changed—firm, urgent. Whatever it was, it wasn’t trivial. I simply nodded.

–Livana–

Making love to my husband again that morning was gentle—unusually so for us. It wasn’t our usual intensity, but it was enough. Two orgasms were more than sufficient. He had this way of worshipping me when I least expected it. It made me both weak and... strategic.

Afterward, I returned to my morning routine. Brushed my teeth. Washed my face. Applied my skincare with precision. But today, I made sure to look extra elegant—impeccably composed, beautiful enough to disarm anyone. Damon was busy downstairs, likely on another call, so I took my time.

From my wardrobe, I chose a red-bean–colored maxi dress with a low U-cut back and slender straps. The V neckline exposed the curve of my fuller breasts—one of pregnancy’s few benefits. I turned before the mirror, adjusting the natural curls of my short hair until they fell exactly as I wanted. A soft sigh escaped me.

Then I picked up a white coat and draped it over my shoulders, more for power than for warmth. My two-inch heels followed, comfortable but dignified. The moment I fastened them, my phone rang.

"Yes, Louie?" I answered smoothly.

"Everything’s settled. The team is on standby."

"Good," I said, lips curling. "Wait until we reach the residence. And remember—my father has money and influence. She won’t rot in jail that easily."

"Just ring me when we’re on cue," Louie replied, his tone barely containing excitement.

"You sound more thrilled than I do."

"Of course I am. Your mother was like a second mother to me. How could I not be?"

I paused for a moment. My mother—always gracious, sharp, emotionally intelligent. She had been the true Carrington force. I missed her presence, though I had learned to weaponize that absence.

I picked up my sunglasses and my walking stick, sleek and polished. It wasn’t just a stick—it had its uses. With the glasses on, I maintained the façade of blindness as I descended the stairs.

Damon was on the phone, his voice commanding yet affectionate in tone. Jane stood behind him, tablet in hand, reporting stock updates like an efficient shadow.

"Let me help you," Logan murmured, taking my hand and guiding it to his arm. I followed gracefully, counting each step out of habit. My husband didn’t look up—too engrossed in his call—until I reached the last step. Then, as if suddenly aware, he turned sharply.

He crossed the room in an instant, pulling my hand from Logan’s grasp with possessive force.

"Wow," he breathed. "You look stunning."

"Did you change into your red-bean top?" I asked, my tone smooth and deliberate.

He looked at himself, confused. "No."

"Put it on," I said simply, turning toward the sofa with the measured tap of my walking stick.

Five minutes later, he returned wearing a red-bean polo and white pants. He grinned, proud of his coordination, and leaned down to kiss me—like a boy who thought he pleased me.

"Let’s go," Logan yawned, reminding us of the hour.

Indeed, it was time.

The drive to the Carrington mansion was long and quiet, the city skyline gradually surrendering to the sprawling estate. When we arrived, Damon mentioned my grandparents were already waiting outside. I hadn’t expected Laura to be there too.

For a moment, I froze. She shouldn’t have come. But perhaps fate—or irony—wanted her to witness what was about to unfold. She was heavily pregnant, and I had no desire to provoke her too much.

"Livy!" Grandma Belinda exclaimed, embracing me and kissing both cheeks. Her perfume—sweet and nostalgic—clung to me as I forced a polite smile. Carrie was there too, looking uncomfortable. Perfect.

"Damon," Grandma acknowledged, and he bowed slightly, every inch the respectful husband.

"Grandma," he replied softly, almost like a dutiful son.

Inside, Grandpa Edward was already talking about the new garden and how he’d renovated our room. The family gathered in the grand sitting room, where tea and snacks awaited on silver trays.

"Everyone," I said with a composed smile, my voice calm yet commanding. "Let’s all settle down."

"How about Grandpa Reagan and Grandma Olivia?" I asked.

"We’re here, dear," Grandpa’s familiar voice came from the doorway.

"What’s with the family meeting?" Laura asked between bites of grapes, tone casual but wary.

"Is everyone here?" I asked Damon quietly.

He leaned close, his breath warm on my ear. "Yes. Including your father. Ten o’clock, across from you."

"Hmm." I hummed. Then, in a clear voice, "Deanne."

Carrie frowned. "Why are they here?"

"Deanne is like my mother’s adopted daughter," I explained smoothly. "And since tomorrow marks the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death, I wanted everyone to see something."

The large television flickered to life. A recording played—the confrontation between my mother and her betrayer. Her voice, raw and breaking. The other’s, venomous. The room grew colder with every second.

Behind my sunglasses, I watched their reactions unfold like theater. My father’s face turned pale. Grandma Olivia screamed, lunging toward the illegitimate child she’d taken in. She grabbed Casey’s hair and struck her across the face, sobbing and furious.

"Livana, stop that!" my father shouted, but the chaos had already begun.

"You’re heartless," Damon muttered beside me, voice low, almost broken.

I heard Laura start to cry softly. Good. Let them cry. They should feel it—all of it.

I felt... nothing. No pity. No guilt. Only the faint tremor of satisfaction beneath my calm exterior.

"You killed my daughter!" Grandma Olivia screamed, her voice laced with anguish and hate.

I bit the inside of my cheek, swallowing down the tears that threatened to betray me. Not now. Not in front of them. Not when the moment I’d crafted so carefully was finally complete.

I orchestrated this chaos—and I would not ruin it with emotion.