CHAPTER 184: WHEN THE DEAD BEGIN TO WHISPER

–Logan–

I chucked the pink faux thong and bunny ears into the trash like a losing bet, slung my arm over David’s shoulder, and swaggered for the stairs. He stumbled a little trying to keep pace — understandable. When I move with intent, the air pressure adjusts out of courtesy.

Perfect timing: Kenzo appeared like a man who had been personally sponsored by good hair and divine timing.

"Kenzo!" I boomed, clapping him on the back like we’d just secured a championship title. "Jane has officially transformed into a hermit because of assassins. So—her loss. Let’s bring the club to the villa, yeah?"

He blinked once, processed, and then grinned like I had just handed him a strategic advantage over fate itself.

"That’s actually... brilliant. I’ll have the staff set up the main hall — lights, bar, speakers. We just need a DJ and mixers."

"Perfect," I purred, rubbing my hands together like a Bond villain in Prada. "Loud enough to disturb the neighbors. Chaotic enough to ruin Jane’s chill. Classy enough that your dad won’t exile us."

Kenzo nodded. Efficient. The kind of man who could turn a broom closet into a five-star lounge and still ask if you’ve eaten. No wonder people assume he’s secretly husband material. Rumor also says he’s nursing a crush on Jane — which makes this twice as fun. Never underestimate emotional leverage.

I could already see it: Jane’s eyebrows twitching in disbelief. David is panicking about glass versus crystal. Keiko planned her entrance like a Vegas headliner. Beautiful.

"Make it subtle at first," I added, lowering my voice like I was pitching a heist. "Dim lights, then escalation. Mocktail station on the veranda. And—have backup costumes. For... flair."

Kenzo smirked. "Then you’ll handle guest entertainment."

I grinned so wide I could feel it in my spine. This was going to be art: a villa coup disguised as nightlife diplomacy.

"Ready to shame her into joining us?" I asked David.

He gulped. "Only if you hold the door open while I escape through a window."

"You do that," I said, and the plan began to blossom — fast, dramatic, and gloriously unnecessary. Just how I like it.

Everyone got busy prepping, and by the time dinner rolled around, Jane showed up looking calm and unbothered — a doomed state, given what was coming. Chef Wally had made a gorgeous meal. We, of course, acted like we weren’t planning domestic sabotage disguised as hospitality.

I gave Jane my signature grin. She gave me her signature death glare.

"Okay, you are definitely planning something," she said flatly. "Did you screw up?"

"Oh—shit!" David blurted.

"No cursing at the table," Chef Wally scolded without looking up. David mumbled compliance like a chastised altar boy.

Jane flicked her suspicion toward Kenzo.

"So... you’re in on this?"

"No." Kenzo didn’t even blink. Just ate like a monk in a Gucci catalog.

"Mm-hm." She nodded slowly and finished dessert with suspicious elegance. Then she thanked us and walked out.

I waited until she disappeared down the hallway before leaning in.

"Can we also have fine men with muscles?" I asked.

"We are fine men with muscles," David replied.

Chef Wally stood up and flexed like he had just remembered he also had abs. I nodded, satisfied. Good team morale.

After dinner, I strolled straight to Jane’s room and knocked. No answer. Knocked again. Still nothing. Knocked until the wood considered filing a restraining order.

She slid the door open — annoyed, sleep-tangled, and seconds away from assault.

"Logan," she deadpanned. "Stop pestering me."

"C’mon," I said with a grin. "Fresh air. Socialization. Moral corruption."

She sighed like I was personally responsible for global inflation. "Fine. What do you want?"

"We’re having a little party. You should join."

"No. I’m tired. I want to sleep."

I glanced at her futon. Then back to her.

"You’re comfortable sleeping on the floor?"

"I am

comfortable," she snapped. "The only thing ruining it is you. So~~"

"Alright then." I smirked. "Come out anytime. We’re going to have a blast." I winked.

She tensed. "Shit..." she muttered under her breath as realization dawned.

I waved a finger over my shoulder as I walked away.

"See you downstairs."

Her annoyed face later? Oh, that was going to be my headliner performance.

–Livana–

I gently caressed Laura’s hair while she snuggled against me. She needed this — not just the warmth, but the reassurance. Postpartum leaves a woman hollow in places she cannot name, especially when Mother is no longer here to fill them. She simply needed to breathe again after the twins fed.

"Liva," she murmured, voice small and tremulous. "When I was in the hospital, I dreamt of my mom. She spoke to me... so softly."

My curiosity pricked awake. "And what did she say?"

"She told me, ’Laura, you did well. I’m proud of you.’" Her lips wobbled, and before I realized it, her tears fell freely. "It felt so real, like she was holding me. It was... the kind of comfort I didn’t know I was starving for."

"Did she say anything else?" I whispered, stroking her hair.

"She promised she would protect me and the twins. No matter what." She sniffled, and I nodded.

"At least Mother has begun visiting us in dreams," I sighed, though the words carried a weight I did not voice. "Gather your strength. Those little ones are going to demand your arms again soon."

"Mhm." She breathed out shakily. "Damien barely slept, and he’s still looking after my angels."

I chuckled softly.

"Don’t worry. Damon and I will take turns too. And you know Mother’s best friend has practically adopted them — blood or not."

"She really is a mother to Damien," Laura said with a grateful half-smile.

I reached for a tissue and dabbed away her tears.

"I wanted to bring one of the twins with us tonight," she muttered, "but I haven’t pumped enough milk yet."

Her stomach growled, and she sighed dramatically.

"I don’t want to eat too much — I’ll ruin my body shape — but I don’t want them drinking formula either."

"Then you’d better start pumping," I replied, handing her the brasserie and the pump. "I’ll ask the maids to prepare whatever you’re craving."

I reached for the phone — but a soft knock interrupted us. Damon entered with an entirely unnecessary grin painted across his face.

"Chef Kimura is here," he said, far too proudly. I shifted my head toward him — never directly at him — maintaining the illusion I still needed.

"Oh, perfect," I murmured.

"I want the best ramen," Laura announced immediately. "Dumplings... and sea urchins. And salmon rolls. And sakura mochi—"

Damon sighed.

"Why are you shaking your head?" Laura snapped lightly. "Take notes."

"Fine," he replied dryly. "I’ll just tell him to cook the entire menu." He started to walk away, then doubled back with a smirk. "By the way, I look fantastic in this apron. I hope your sister appreciates that."

He roared with laughter — of course he did — and I could practically feel his amusement radiating through the room. I would have rolled my eyes if I were not still pretending blindness. Laura, however, made up for my restraint by lifting her phone and snapping picture after picture of him posing like an overgrown model. The moment he left, she sent all of them to my phone.

I checked them.

Of course he looked unfairly good — white tank top, open sides, muscles barely contained. Classic Damon: aesthetically shameless.

"He works out early now that he can’t make love to you," Laura said with a teasing grin. "Damien used to do that too... or bury himself in work."

I slipped off the bed, gathered the bags and pumps, and helped her to the sofa. We settled in front of the big screen, though neither of us was really watching. Shortly after, Damon returned with a dining cart.

He set everything down, then showered me with far too many kisses — lips first, forehead second — placing my hand deliberately on his bare chest.

"Ugh," Laura groaned in theatrical disgust. "Stop! I will lose my appetite!"

I pinched his side. He just laughed and kissed my neck again.

"So these are breast pumps?" he pointed, feigning innocent curiosity. "Looks like a very elaborate... bra?"

"Yeah, you can’t even see my tits here," Laura replied dryly, making Damon break into another grin.

"I only glanced," he said, kissing my cheek and rubbing my waist. "Alright, more is coming. Eat first, hm?"

"Go," I waved him off.

Once he left, I turned on the air vent, and Laura shuffled slowly to the chair. The aroma filled the room — warm, comforting, nostalgic.

"Liva..." she asked gently, "did Mom ever visit you too? In dreams?"

"Many times," I answered softly. "When I was in a coma. I could even smell her — as if she had never left."

She nodded slowly. "Now that you said it... I think I smell her perfume sometimes. Maybe we just miss her too much."

"Perhaps," I murmured — though my mind did not accept coincidence so easily.

"Or maybe..." she whispered, hesitating, "because the hearing is near, and she is still fighting for justice."

That explanation sounded too human for something that felt... heavier. A pattern. A warning.

Dreams are rarely dreams when the dead speak with intent.

And lately, the coincidences have begun lining themselves up like puzzle pieces — relentless and almost deliberate.