CHAPTER 172: UNDER HER PROTECTION

–Livana–

I had my team sweep the room for bugs and hidden cameras. We found plenty—most likely installed as a precaution. We replaced every single one with our own devices. My husband was still outside, waiting. I wondered how long he’d remain patient. Grandpa Edward had spoken to him several times, probably to persuade him to persuade me.

But no one—not even my husband—can sway my decisions. I want my father. And that wretched aunt of mine. I know Grandpa Regan has longed to kill his son-in-law. How ironic—my father is the only son-in-law shared by both my mother and her sister. The thought makes my stomach twist in disgust.

"Liva," Damon’s voice called. I turned my head toward him. Though his face was a blur in my sight, I could sense his pout, that subtle tone he uses when trying to win me over.

"Come on, babe. How about food?" he asked, voice softened with charm. "Let’s go out."

"Chef Wally already prepared our meal."

He sighed and approached me, his presence filling the room until his fingers lifted my chin.

"Baby..."

"Go, Damon. I’ll be here until tomorrow."

"I’ll stay," he murmured, his tone darkening. "Your grandpa wanted to kill your dad."

"Hmm. I’m not surprised." My face stayed composed, my eyes unfocused as I continued my act of blindness. My hand rose to his chest, feeling the tension in his hardened muscles before tracing upward to his neck. "My husband," I whispered, my voice silk over steel, laced with just enough seduction to still his breath. I smiled faintly, feeling his body pause. "Do me a favor."

"Hmm? What is it?" His arms slid around my waist, firm but careful.

"Handle the case for me. And about our accident..." My fingers brushed over his jaw, tracing the shape I could not see. "Press charges."

"Oh, okay." He nodded, taking my hand to his lips, kissing my palm and wrist. "Now?"

"Uh-huh."

He kissed my lips. I wrapped my arm around his neck, returning the kiss with purpose. My staff were still in the room, but I didn’t care. Elegance can wait. A kiss is sometimes the best distraction.

"I’ll take care of it," he murmured against my lips.

"Take your time," I whispered.

He nodded, pressing a kiss to my forehead before his hand drifted to my stomach, caressing my small bump.

"I’ll be quick."

"No," I said firmly. "I want you to contact your lawyers and forward everything immediately to the court."

"Okay..." He hesitated. "You’re kicking me out."

"Yes."

"If you feel uncomfortable or dizzy, call me, alright?" His voice softened with concern.

"I have the girls here. And my army."

"Fine." He kissed my forehead, then my lips, one last time before leaving.

When the door closed, silence crept back in. I placed my left hand on the desk and turned to my right, feeling for the chair. I sat slowly, carefully.

"Liva," Grandma Belinda’s voice broke the stillness.

"Grandma, can we talk later? I’m busy."

"It’s your father..."

I turned my head toward her voice, though my eyes didn’t focus.

"I don’t care," I said coolly. "Do you want me to release them? The ones who killed my mother?"

"Please," she whispered, but her pleading only echoed uselessly against the walls of my resolve.

"I think he can post bail. But not that woman." I tilted my head, smirking. "Still, I’ll make sure he finds his way back in there."

"Have you no consideration, Livana? How did you become this cold?"

"I’ve always been this way," I replied softly. "I just froze over completely when you chose to tolerate your son." I paused, gathering my composure once more. "Now, please. Don’t disturb me while I work."

–Laura–

I stood outside the grand study room—once reserved for the head of the Carrington family. The air was heavy, suffocating almost, thick with tension and grief. Through the half-open door, Livana’s voice sliced the silence, her tone as cold as marble. Even without seeing clearly, I could feel Grandma’s heartbreak—the kind that makes your knees weak and your breath shallow. Watching her son be arrested must have been unbearable. But what broke me more was Livana’s numbness. She looked like a woman carved from grief itself—polished, still, unfeeling.

My chest ached; it still does whenever I recall that moment. Livana had endured more pain than anyone should. Father’s infidelity. Mother’s death. Betrayals wrapped in blood and whispers. I remember Aunt Casey’s venom, accusing Livana of murder. The words still echo in my mind like broken glass. And yet, what puzzled me most—why didn’t Mom defend Livana? Why did she only rage when Casey threatened her with the company shares?

Then it hit me. Mom wasn’t scared for Livana. She knew Livana could handle herself, even behind bars. What she feared was losing everything she had built from nothing. Maybe, deep down, she was even proud—that Livana had killed to protect Deanne.

"Laura," Damien’s voice drew me back.

I looked up. His expression softened as he brushed his palm over my swollen belly.

"Your tummy’s getting big," he said tenderly. "You need to relax. I’ll rub your back."

I glanced back toward Livana. Her eyes—those violet eyes—met mine. They were colder now, almost glacial, yet still breathtaking. Even drenched in fury, she was stunning. I pouted at her before my gaze drifted to Grandma Belinda’s retreating figure, her shoulders slumped in silent sorrow.

"Come on," Damien murmured, wrapping an arm around me. "Stop staring. You don’t want to get frostbite from Livana’s aura."

I let out a soft, broken laugh. He led me to my old bedroom in the mansion. Everything was freshly cleaned—new sheets, soft pillows, and that faint scent of lavender and polish that made the place feel sterile. I sat on the edge of the bed, and he knelt to remove my sandals.

My stomach felt impossibly heavy. My back throbbed; even my breasts ached under their weight. Every movement was slow, tender, painful. Thank God Damien was patient, loving. He helped me lie down, tucking maternity pillows around me until I was cocooned in comfort. His hands worked over my back, gentle circles easing the knots, then down my calves and feet.

"It must be really hard for Liva," I murmured. "I wish I could comfort her. But you know how she is—she never shows weakness. She didn’t even cry at Mom’s burial."

"Her eyes were full of rage," Damien muttered, voice low.

I nodded faintly. He was there that day—holding me while I broke apart. Damon had been there too, distant but grieving. I think Mom always knew Damon would be her son-in-law. Maybe that’s why she trusted him with Livana.

My throat tightened. The images played in my head again, vivid and cruel. My tears slipped before I could stop them. My chest burned; my whole body trembled.

"Hey, baby..." Damien whispered, but his voice was distant.

I was back there again—back to the night everything shattered. The metallic scent of blood. The sound of my mother’s body hitting the floor. Her head bleeding, her arm twisted unnaturally. Livana screamed until her voice broke.

During the burial, Livana didn’t sleep for days. She worked instead—calculating, planning. Her eyes were red but unblinking. She didn’t cry. Not once. She stood guard beside Mom’s coffin like a soldier at war. And when she returned home, still in the same clothes, she stared at Casey and Dad with a gaze so murderous it could’ve burned them alive.

It must have torn her apart—to hold it all in. To bury her grief so deep it turned to ice.

"Shh," Damien whispered, pulling me back to the present. He wiped my tears and handed me a tissue. I sniffled and took his hand, placing it over my belly.

"Are you feeling better?"

I nodded weakly.

"I’ll get you some water. You need to stay hydrated."

He helped me sit up, went to the mini-fridge, and returned with a cold bottle. He took a sip first, then handed it to me. The coolness soothed my throat, if not my heart.

Then—knocks. Quick and deliberate.

Damien opened the door. Deanne stepped in, looking immaculate and businesslike, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor. Her presence alone meant something serious.

"Miss Livana requested that you stay at the Braxton Residence," she said politely.

"What?" My voice trembled.

"She said it’s to be done immediately. I’m sorry, Laura." Her tone softened. "The chopper’s ready."

My lips wobbled. "Livana hates me?"

"Absolutely not." Deanne sighed, the professional mask faltering.

I sniffled, trying to steady myself.

"She just... needs space to handle everything. I’m sorry you had to witness that. Livana didn’t want you there."

"No. I needed to see it," I whispered, exhaling shakily. "Can I speak to her?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Deanne’s eyes lowered, full of sympathy.

And that’s when I realized—my sister isn’t just cold anymore. She’s beyond it. She’s frozen solid.

As I slipped my cardigan over my shoulders, Damien helped me slide into my sandals. His fingers lingered on my ankles, warm and gentle, as if afraid I might break. I gave him a faint smile before walking out, one slow breath at a time, toward the other side of the mansion—toward Livana.

But before I could reach her door, two guards stepped in front of me, their movements hesitant yet firm.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Braxton," one of them said, bowing slightly. "Miss Livana gave strict orders—no one may enter right now."

I froze, my heart stinging at his words. I couldn’t even speak to my own sister?

They repeated their apologies, but their voices blurred, muffled under the swell of my chest tightening with hurt.

"She’s okay," a calm voice interrupted. Sophia appeared from the corridor, her poise sharp yet graceful. "I’ll handle the punishment for this command."

I pressed my lips together, trying not to cry again, but they trembled anyway. Sophia’s expression softened as she guided me by the arm.

"Come," she murmured. "I’ll take you to her."

The heavy door to the study loomed before us—polished mahogany, cold to the touch. Sophia opened it slightly, the faint scent of ink, paper, and Livana’s perfume slipping out.

"Please wait for me, handsome," she said teasingly to Damien.

He smiled, patient as always, and nodded. "I’ll be right here."

The door shut softly behind me.

Livana sat at the grand desk, pen moving swiftly across documents. The only sound was the soft scratch of ink on paper and the faint hum of the air conditioning. Her presence filled the room—steady, commanding, distant.

"Laura," she said, her voice even and unbothered as her eyes lifted briefly from the page.

"Sis," I hiccuped, trying to hold back the tears. "Can we go home together? I want to snuggle with you."

"Next time," she answered flatly, her pen pausing.

I stepped closer. "Are you really going to push them?"

"Yes." She stopped writing completely and met my gaze. "Are you going to stop me?"

I shook my head. "No. Even if it’s Dad... I want him to suffer."

"Good." Her sigh was faint, almost a whisper. "Because there will be war soon enough. I have to secure everything. I have to secure you."

I nodded, understanding the weight of her words. Livana never spoke without reason. Every sentence was a plan. Every glance, a calculation. Even Damon had to leave the country to move funds, to prepare for what was coming.

Damon once told me he wanted to adopt our twins, but I’d already written it down—if something ever happened to me or Damien, Damon and Livana would become their guardians. Their names? Damon had chosen them himself, long before they were even born.

"Stay with Grandma Olivia," Livana said quietly. Her tone softened, finally, like frost melting under a candle’s light. "Just for a few days."

"Yes," I whispered. "Got it."

Silence fell between us, heavy but not hostile. I knew she wasn’t pushing me away out of hatred. It was her way of protecting me—from the chaos, the danger, the ghosts that haunted our family’s name.

I looked at her one last time—my sister, my protector, my storm—and thought of Grandma Olivia and Grandpa Regan, their hearts breaking somewhere under the same roof. The pain ran through generations now, but in Livana’s eyes, I saw one thing that had never died—resolve.