CHAPTER 29: FORBIDDEN MARRIAGE

–Laura–

I think they assumed Damon was Livana’s boyfriend. But as soon as we sat down, the food was served. Chef Wally—who’s been preparing Livana’s meals ever since the salmon incident—had taken care of the dinner tonight. He placed a specific plate in front of her: four neatly portioned sections with a cross-shaped divider in the center.

"Thank you, Chef Wally," Livana said softly.

"Always a pleasure, Miss," he replied, bowing slightly.

"Just like you requested—four portions," Damon murmured beside her.

I caught my dad frowning. My grandparents looked genuinely startled, not just by Damon’s attentiveness but the quiet intimacy between them.

Everyone knew Damon had always been obsessed with Livana. He’d once come here asking for her hand, but that ended in disaster. That was nearly ten years ago.

"So..." Dad began carefully, "what’s this dinner really about?"

I glanced at Livana’s ring finger. She had subtly turned the stone inward—clearly saving the surprise for later. But then she just smiled.

"Let’s eat first," she said, picking up her utensils with Damon’s help.

She navigated the plate gracefully, clearly enjoying the meal. I had to admit—Chef Wally outdid himself. I savored every bite. He even prepared breakfast and snacks for me sometimes.

But amid the quiet clinking of cutlery, I noticed one thing—Carrie wasn’t eating.

"I think it’s rude to ignore a meal the chef prepared so carefully," Livana said calmly, not turning toward her.

Carrie narrowed her eyes. "So, you’re not blind anymore?"

"I just guessed," Livana replied, her tone light but cutting. "Your silence usually means disapproval."

I smirked, chewing a perfect piece of sushi.

"The chef you brought really knows what he’s doing," Grandma Belinda said offhandedly. The table had a strange energy—each side of the family carrying their own tension, their own histories.

"I’m glad you enjoyed it, Grandma," Livana replied.

After the main course, Chef Wally brought out dessert, mango cheesecake—everyone’s favorite. The moment they tasted it, conversation stopped. Then Livana twisted her ring and cleared her throat.

"I have an announcement," she said, her voice calm and deliberate.

Carrie didn’t miss a beat. "Let me guess—you’ve been screwing a Blackwell?"

Livana laughed. "That’s an understatement. But yes, we’ve been screwing, if that’s what you really wanted to know."

Damon took her left hand and placed it gently on the table.

"We’re married," he announced.

Utensils clattered. The silence was deafening. All eyes locked onto Livana’s hand, then back to their faces—while my best friend Damien was just asking for a second slice of cheesecake.

Even the staff froze.

"We actually stopped by my house first and—" Damon began.

"Divorce him. Immediately."

Everyone snapped their heads toward Grandpa Reagan. Usually the quiet one, his voice now boomed with a harsh authority. "Or I’ll kill him, Livana."

"You can try," Livana replied coldly. "I married him because I wanted you to be angry. You sold me off to the Knox family, and now you think you can control my life again? I’m not your pawn anymore."

"Get out," Grandpa Reagan thundered, slamming his palm on the table. "Get out of this house! And take your filthy husband with you."

He turned his fury on me. "Is this your doing too, Laura?"

I didn’t even get a word in before Livana stood up so fast her chair toppled over.

"Blame Laura again for my decisions? Maybe if you spent half as much time disciplining your own daughter and granddaughter, we wouldn’t be in this mess." Her hand pointed unerringly toward Carrie and Casey. "All you do is blame. But guess what, Grandpa? I don’t need this family name. I don’t care. And you know what I’ve become."

A chill shot down my spine.

"I rule the underworld now."

The room fell completely still. Even Damien stopped chewing.

Livana—calm, controlled Livana—had just declared open war.

And Grandpa Reagan knew it.

Casey, pale-faced, looked away. Carrie sneered, but her hands trembled under the tablecloth.

I nudged Damien to maybe cool it, but he finished his plate, wiped his mouth, and stood with casual grace.

"Thanks for the meal," he said politely, as if nothing had happened.

"Let’s go," Livana said, reaching for her walking stick. Damon was already by her side.

"Bringing a Blackwell into this house was taboo," Grandpa Reagan said bitterly. "But marrying one? That’s unforgivable."

"That’s exactly why I did it," Livana said without turning back.

I braced myself for the fallout. It was going to be ugly. But I expected this.

I glanced at Carrie and Casey and couldn’t help a smirk. Damien pulled me toward the exit, still thanking the chef like it was just another dinner party.

We climbed into the van. Damien let out a loud burp.

"Chef Wally, that cheesecake was unreal," he said. "Can we get post-snacks at Livy’s place?"

"Certainly, Mr. Damien," Wally replied from the front seat.

I pressed a hand to my stomach.

"This... this is going to blow up everything. Even Dad was speechless."

"Everyone was," Damien chuckled. "God, I missed this chaos. Remember when we used to be the ones breaking the rules?"

I laughed. We high-fived—our old, defiant gesture from when we were kids.

But as the van pulled away, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Livana said.

She rules the underworld now.

She never told me the details. Said it was the first born’s burden to carry.

I watched Damon guide her into the seat beside him, her hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

I climbed into the back, and Damien squeezed in beside me, throwing his arm over my shoulders.

"I’m still hungry," he muttered. "Even if everyone was staring like I was chewing glass."

–Livana–

Colors. I love colors. After gaining a little sight back, I often wonder what the world truly looks like now. Has it been three years since I lost it? Or more? Hard to tell. Tonight’s dinner was intense—leaving them speechless wasn’t exactly my goal, but I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy the silence.

"Wife," Damon called out, voice low. "You said you’d take over this time."

He was talking about the new S-shaped leather sofa he had custom-placed at the edge of our bed. I ran my fingers along its curves—smooth, cold, indulgent.

"I liked how you handled Grandpa Reagan, my love," he said.

"Hmm. He’s always been a tyrant. Laura’s suffered enough under him," I said, pushing Damon back. He knew exactly where to lie. I straddled him, dragging my fingers across his bare chest.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned as I untied my robe.

"Babe, you know foreplay means you gotta—"

"Shh." I pressed a hand over his lips—well, more like his chin—and let my fingers trace his jawline. That rugged, sharp edge with just the right amount of stubble. I ground myself against him slowly, deliberately, eliciting another deep moan.

He reached for my left hand, lifting it to his lips and adjusting my rings with reverence. I paused, letting his hands caress my waist, feeling the hunger in his touch.

My phone rang.

"Calling: Henchman," the AI announced crisply.

Damon sighed as I pulled away. I walked to the nightstand, picked up the phone, and answered with a single word.

"Speak."

Returning to the bed, I reached out. Damon took my hand and guided me back atop him.

"Boss, it’s the man from the portrait," came the voice.

I resumed stroking Damon’s length as I listened, enjoying the sound of his restrained breathing.

"We found him in Seoul, Korea."

"Hmm." I rubbed against him again. He nearly moaned, but I clamped a hand over his mouth. "Alive. I want him alive. Hunt him down."

"Yes, my Queen."

I ended the call, tossed the phone to the bed, and reached for Damon’s throat. My fingers wrapped around his neck, tightening.

He didn’t resist. He never does.

"You’re so fucking sexy when you talk like that," he groaned, aroused beyond measure.

I know. He gets off on my control. It’s his kink—being dominated by the Queen of the underworld. I lean in and aim for his lips, but kiss his nose instead. He laughs softly before our mouths connect, desperate and hungry.

My phone rang again.

"Calling: Henchman," the AI chirped.

I sighed and answered without missing a beat.

"Speak."

"Five men down, Miss. This one’s an assassin. Orders?"

"One million dollars on his head. Alive. Cut off his limbs if you must. Keep the tongue. I want him to speak."

"Understood, My Queen."

I hung up as Damon grabbed my ass with both hands, fingers digging in.

"So you really do run the underworld," he said, sounding both awed and turned on.

"They call me the White Queen," I said coldly. "And they’ll know."

"Who are you hunting?" he asked, brushing his lips along my shoulder.

"Someone who knows the truth," I replied, sliding off him.

"That makes me want my face between your thighs," he growled. "But maybe I should let you ride me to hell first."

He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me toward the sofa. My phone rang again. I grabbed it mid-air as he lowered me.

"Calling: Hand," the AI announced.

I answered while Damon knelt between my legs, already moving his mouth like he was starving.

"Speak."

I bit my lip to contain the sounds threatening to escape.

"My Queen, your father is making demands. Some of our men are nervous... they’re questioning your marriage to Blackwell."

I laughed—a dark, low sound—and gripped Damon’s head, pressing him in deeper.

"Then they should end their own lives. I have no use for anyone who doubts my choices."

"Your words, My Queen."

"I don’t owe them explanations," I said, voice sharp, composed.

"No, you don’t."

"If anyone leaks anything about my orders—kill them. Painfully. You know what to do."

"Understood."

I ended the call, tossed the phone again, and let myself sink into the sensation Damon gave me. My climax hit hard, his mouth never faltering. And just as the rush faded, he scooped me into his arms again and carried me back to the sofa.

"You sounded so goddamn dangerous," he whispered, kissing me with heat.

I reached down, wrapped my fingers around him, and guided him inside me.

I gasped—the stretch was perfect, almost painful.

"I love you, Livana," he said, voice rough with truth.

I might have heard it before—but this time, it sounded real.

Still, I felt... nothing.

I kept moving. Kept riding. Kept claiming.

Because I didn’t need to feel love.

I needed control.