CHAPTER 173: EMOTIONS

–Livana–

The transactions I uncovered were staggering. Casey had withdrawn obscene amounts of money—there was even a one-million withdrawal just a day before that incident meant to kill me and my husband. It wasn’t a coincidence. There’s more to it. She’s been making lavish purchases, perhaps to pamper herself—or to cover her tracks. Now, I just need to gather all the deeds for these properties and connect the dots.

"Sophia," I called. She rose from her swivel chair and approached. I handed her a folder filled with property records—villas, townhomes, even one under her daughter’s name. "Track each of these estates. I need to know who she’s hiding."

Sophia tilted her head. "You think she’s funding someone?"

I crossed my arms, my voice like the edge of a blade. "More like assembling her own army."

Sophia nodded grimly. "You should take a break. Think of the baby, Livana. We’ve been at this for hours."

"Livana," Deanne interrupted, setting a box on my desk. "Your husband just arrived. He’s completed the task you gave him. It’s also time for dinner."

I leaned back and exhaled. Right—I’m pregnant. I can’t let the storm inside me consume this fragile body.

"We’ll finish the rest later," Deanne promised. "We can eat here and rest afterward."

A small chuckle escaped me. "Thank you."

The door creaked open. I turned my head slightly, sensing his familiar energy. Damon’s steps—heavy yet eager—approached.

"My love!" His deep voice filled the room. He circled around me, wrapping me in his warmth before pressing a soft kiss on my lips. "Come on! I helped Chef Wally prepare dinner tonight."

He sounded cheerful, disarmingly so. What changed his mood?

He slipped the coat from my shoulders and placed my hand on his arm. Together, we descended to the dining hall. The table gleamed under the chandeliers; every dish meticulously arranged by Chef Wally and Jane, his assistant.

Damon pulled a chair out for me. As I sat, I noticed my grandparents—Edward and Belinda—at the head of the table, untouched plates before them.

"Let’s eat," I said calmly, picking up my utensils and choosing food without bones—simple, easy to chew.

"Grandpa," I began, my tone firm yet elegant, "I don’t hear you eating. Chef Wally went to great lengths to prepare this."

"Hmm." Edward grunted. "I don’t think I have—"

"We can’t all afford to get sick, can we, Grandpa?" I interrupted coolly. "Grandma, you as well. I’ll have a doctor here tomorrow to check on both of you."

"There’s no need, dear," Grandma Belinda rasped.

"No," I replied, unyielding. "That’s our new rule here. Please, eat your meal." My eyes aimed in her direction, though I didn’t meet them directly—still performing the role of the blind heiress. "Don’t be stubborn, Grandma."

I felt Damon’s hand on my thigh—a silent plea to soften my tone.

"My dear, please eat," Edward murmured, coaxing his wife gently.

Dinner carried on in a quiet, disciplined rhythm. By dessert, Damon personally served me the sweet he’d chosen—a small act of worship disguised as care.

"You may visit your son tomorrow," I told my grandparents as I rose.

"Livana, he’s your father," Edward’s voice boomed. "Address him properly!"

I turned toward him, spine straight as a blade. "I disowned him a long time ago," I said evenly—no emotion, no tremor.

Years of pretending to be the dutiful daughter had dulled my patience. Now, I was done with illusions.

"There’s more to this case than you realize," I added, finality in every syllable. "Good night."

Damon took my hand, guiding me toward our bedroom. His touch softened as he sighed, fingers tracing the curve of my back.

"You look divine in that dress," he murmured, voice low and restrained. "Okay," he exhaled, almost to himself, "a year. Maybe a year and a half... I can handle this."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, arching a brow.

"My love, I can’t make love to you as I want to. Not now. We can’t do all those... positions you love."

I chuckled softly, remembering how our passion once felt like a hurricane that tore through sanity itself—that’s how this child came to be.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing my lips before stepping away. "I’ll prepare our bath."

As he walked off, I watched his back disappear through the doorway—my devoted king retreating to serve his queen once more.

–Laura–

It was hard to calm my grandparents. Grandma Olivia had cried so much she fainted earlier, and Grandpa hasn’t stopped muttering apologies since. The sound of his voice—cracked, remorseful—made my chest tighten. I knew exactly why he was sorry. He brought that illegitimate child into our family... the one who killed their only daughter.

I felt tears sting my eyes again. I sniffled, trying to keep myself composed. I couldn’t cry anymore—not now. I was pregnant, and Damien kept reminding me how our twins didn’t deserve my stress.

After the doctor confirmed Grandma was fine, Damien finally convinced me to rest. He pampered me the way he always does—running a bath, drying my hair, massaging lotion into my skin. His hands were so gentle that it almost lulled me to sleep.

There’s a faint stretch mark on my belly now, just a whisper of silver against my skin. I have to put that lotion on every day. When he handed me a glass of warm water, I took a sip, exhaled, and crawled into bed beside him.

The television flickered as he flipped through random channels. I slid closer, tucking myself against his side, and slipped my hand under his shirt to feel the warmth of his chest. I started tracing lazy circles, then pinched his nipple just to tease him.

"Laura," he groaned softly. "You do know it’s dangerous to touch your husband like that?"

"Hmm," I pouted, my voice playful despite the heaviness lingering in my heart. "Come on, Damien. We haven’t made love for two weeks now."

He sighed, half amused, half exasperated. "You need to accept that we can’t always make love. Your... constant appetite is what got you pregnant in the first place."

I rolled my eyes, grinning. "Oh, please. You’re the one who couldn’t resist me that night in the jacuzzi."

He chuckled and slipped out of bed. I frowned, thinking he was escaping, but then he returned with fresh towels.

My cheeks flushed immediately. Oh. So he wasn’t running away—he was preparing.

"Okay, my love," he smirked, voice dropping to that familiar low tone that made my pulse race. "You know what to do."

He leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "That’s right... I missed tasting that flower."

I couldn’t help but giggle softly through the warmth rising to my face. Even in the chaos of our lives, he still knew how to make me blush.

–Carrie–

I brought everything for my parents—food, clothes, toiletries. The guards barely let me in before my mother burst into tears, begging me to bail them out. My father, in the next cell, said nothing. He just sat there in silence. The place was awful—no air-conditioning, not even a bed. Certainly not the kind of place my mother could survive a night in.

I glared at one of the police officers, who ignored me completely.

"There isn’t even a fan in there. It’s boiling!" I snapped.

The officer lifted his head lazily. "What do you expect, Miss? This is a prison, not a hotel."

I rolled my eyes and exhaled dramatically. "Unbelievable."

Turning to the maids I’d brought with me, I ordered sharply, "Go get some air coolers. Now. At least one for each cell."

"Don’t worry, Mom," I said sweetly, flashing her a reassuring smile. "I’ll have them bring one for you soon."

"No, Carrie—get me out of here!" she sobbed, gripping the bars.

I rubbed my temple in frustration. "I’ll talk to the lawyers," I muttered.

"There’s no need," Dad’s voice came from the other cell, deep and calm.

I turned to him with a raised brow. "Why? Do you think Livana will let you out by tomorrow? No, she won’t." My tone sharpened. "But don’t worry, I already asked someone for help."

I looked back at my poor, disheveled mother, trapped in that filthy, stinking cell. It made my stomach churn. She didn’t belong here. We didn’t belong here.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone familiar. Logan.

He walked straight past me and toward my father’s cell, handing him something through the bars. No words. No greeting. Then he left, ignoring me completely.

"What the hell is wrong with that guy?" I muttered under my breath.

When I turned back, Dad was standing, watching me with an expression that made me shiver. His silence was worse than anger.

"Leave now, Carrie," he said coldly.

"Dad..." I stepped closer. "I’ll get you out, I promise."

He scoffed and shoved something through the bars. I frowned and took it from him—it was a photograph. My blood ran cold.

"You drugged Livana," he said, voice low and shaking, "and hired men to rape her?"

My heart stopped.

He grabbed my wrist so tightly it hurt. "Did you and your mother hire someone to kill her? To make her blind like that?"

"Dad—Dad, that hurts!" I whimpered, trying to pull back, but his grip only tightened.

"You!" His teeth ground together, eyes blazing with disgust. "Did you try to kill my daughter?"

"What are you talking about?" I stammered. My hands trembled as I looked down at the photos—proof of something I didn’t even remember... or maybe didn’t want to. The faces, the timing—it was real.

"Dad, please," I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

For the first time in my life, I saw my father’s rage—and it terrified me more than any prison cell ever could.