CHAPTER 105: CALCULATIVE

–Livana–

The wedding is near. We can’t afford to mess this up.

Though it’s meant to be intimate, we’d already altered the date. Besides, no one in the family knows the exact time or place it will happen. I’ve secured the venue—down to every detail—and even the bride and groom have no idea where the ceremony will be held.

I ended my call with the Black Bishop after he confirmed that the private plane had landed safely. Relief settled in my chest. At least that part was under control.

"Dear," Grandpa called out, his eyes still fixed on a few documents.

"Yes, Papa?"

"About your husband—do they know he’s the one who executed the plan?" Grandpa Reagan asked, his voice deep, authoritative, and never uncertain.

I gave a small nod. "The Dela Vegas are aware of Damon’s so-called ’Shadows.’ That group of assassins he built."

"So... is he included in the protection contract?"

"Yes," I replied calmly, reaching across the sofa with practiced fingers, my hand gliding over the textured fabric, searching for my phone. My face remained composed—serene, unreadable. I had to stay in character. The blind Livana. The fragile one. The one they underestimated.

But I could see—just enough. Enough to survive.

I already knew what Grandpa would ask next. It was inevitable.

Alejandro.

Ever since Pedro Madrigal, head of the Madrigal family, gave the quiet order to eliminate one of their fake bloodlines, it was only a matter of time. And Alejandro? He was the sacrificial pawn.

I heard whispers that his mother had been cast out—disgraced and discarded like spoiled wine. But she’s alive. And worse, the lover remains. Those who loved him will seek vengeance. It won’t be long before the blame circles back to me—and to my husband.

Let them try.

"I see." Grandpa let out a breath, heavy and thoughtful. "And your eyes, darling... is there a possible operation?"

His voice softened, touched with that paternal affection he shows in public. But I still don’t know if it’s genuine. I don’t trust it.

"I’ve spoken with Dr. Andersson," I said, letting a note of quiet hope enter my tone. "He’s still working on the research."

"Is there progress?"

"Hmm. I believe so."

I don’t need to lie—just bend the truth like a reed in the wind. Make it sound like I’m still waiting, still in limbo.

"Can you see even a little? Any light at all?"

I paused, keeping my breathing steady, tilting my head as if thoughtful. "He said the toxins are still being cleansed from my system. It might take time."

That was true—months ago. Now, I can see enough to know who’s lying. Who’s hiding something. Who’s looking at my husband the wrong way.

"I see." Grandpa nodded. "All I wish is for you to see again."

"Thank you, Grandpa," I murmured, my tone warm but distant. Controlled.

But behind the softness, my mind sharpened like a blade.

I don’t know if Grandpa knows what his daughter, Aunt Casey and Carrie did to me. I still lack the proof. The right recording. The one piece that will light this empire on fire. And if I show them the recording of Carrie’s conversation with Richard—the one about the eyedrops, the toxins, the plan—then all hell will break loose.

Grandma Olivia might snap. She might kill Carrie herself.

And that would only be the beginning.

But I’ll wait. Because once I uncover the truth behind my mother’s death, I won’t need a war.

I’ll be the war.

"Love!" Damon’s voice broke my thoughts. I turned slightly toward the sound—just enough to catch him in my peripheral vision, not fully.

"Yes?"

"I messed up and burned the pesto!"

Grandpa let out a long sigh.

"Why did you marry my granddaughter if you can’t even cook pesto pasta?" he grumbled like a true villain in-law.

"Where’s Deanne?" I asked.

"She said she was going to sleep, and I had to cook," Damon muttered, clearly defeated.

"Hmm," I hummed. "Let’s just go down to the block?"

"Yeah, I don’t trust his cooking," Grandpa said, already standing as he opened a drawer and pulled out his wallet.

Damon untied his apron.

"Check the stove. Make sure it’s turned off," I reminded him gently.

"Oh—right." He disappeared back into the kitchen.

I reached for my walking stick and stood up. I felt the weight of my coat draped gently over my shoulders—Grandpa had placed it on me. "How about the diner?"

"Well... full of fatty food and extra carbs," Grandpa mused as I giggled.

"Just for today, Grandpa. But not too much."

"Okay." He reached for my hand and placed it on his arm. We made our way to the door—leaving Damon behind on purpose. Grandpa enjoys pushing his buttons. "Let’s go," he said, helping me slide into my boots.

I giggled as we headed out. Damon’s voice echoed behind us, but Grandpa was already laughing as we neared the elevator.

Damon managed to catch up and pressed the button ahead of us. He shot a glare at Grandpa.

"Seriously, Gramps? Really?" he hissed, stepping into the elevator and taking my other hand.

"You were too slow. And we’re starving," Grandpa replied flatly.

"Whatever."

We walked across the residence to a nearby diner. Damon opened the door and helped me remove my coat. We sat down at a booth, and a young waitress quickly approached. Her smile was bright—but aimed entirely at my husband, who was still scanning the menu.

I kept my expression neutral, though I could sense her body language with ease. Even without looking directly at her, I could feel the subtle shift—the way she leaned in just a little too far, the flutter of her lashes meant to draw attention. She wanted him to notice her.

Of course she did. Damon is dangerously attractive. The kind of man who could make a woman forget her morals and her manners in a single glance. He’s drop-dead gorgeous—cut from the sharp, enviable lines of the Blackwell bloodline, with a touch of aristocratic grace from my mother-in-law, Ameliee.

Every woman’s panties would probably hit the floor just by hearing him say their name. But I think his features are enough to make them aroused.

But he’s mine.

And he knows better.

"What about you, love?" Damon asked. "I know you don’t like steak, but maybe just for tonight?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, placing my hand on the table. He scooted closer, his warmth brushing against my side.

I’m not the type to get jealous. My husband doesn’t flirt—not unless it’s for a calculated reason. But that was before we got married.

Grandpa gave the waitress his order, then Damon followed without even glancing at her. He pulled out his phone, checked something, and then made a call.

"Caine, we’re having lunch at the diner across the building."

I placed my hand gently on his lap. I felt his grin before he threw an arm around my shoulders.

"Haha. Stay with the groggy Ice Queen," he joked, setting his phone down.

"Let the kids play," Grandpa muttered, humming as he checked his own phone. "Your grandmother is watching me like a hawk. She thinks I’ll run off with a young wife."

I laughed. "Grandpa, don’t tease her like that."

"I love it when she gets jealous, you know?" he sighed, gazing down at his phone. "She’s still so gorgeous."

"Wow," Damon said with a chuckle. "Grandpa’s a lovesick oldie." He leaned in and whispered into my left ear before planting a kiss on my forehead.

I know people make mistakes. Grandpa’s biggest one? Getting trapped by an illegitimate child.

He acknowledged that child—Aunt Casey. My stepmother.

The audacity she has... trying to take everything that once belonged to my mother. She’s never had any shame. For years, she played the victim so well, Grandpa tolerated her. I suppose I can’t fully blame him. Aunt Casey and her mother were relentless. Always guilt-tripping him, always twisting the narrative.

She even claimed he forced himself on her mother. But I don’t really know the full truth.

What I do know is that Grandma Olivia handled it. And by handled, I mean she made Casey’s mother shut up—with money.

Quiet scandals buried under layers of wealth. Just another day in this family.

Our food arrived just as Caine and Deanne entered the diner. Deanne wore black sunglasses and her hair was up in a messy bun.

I sighed and nudged my husband. He understood the signal immediately. Without a word, he pulled out his phone and checked the penthouse cameras. I slid my hand over to his other thigh and leaned in closer. He reached for my head and gently patted it.

I couldn’t help but smirk.

I always have a contingency plan. The English alphabet has 26 letters—and from plan A to Z, I know at least two will work.

Even though we were out, we couldn’t afford to let our guard down. They were still looking for whatever they believed I’d hidden there.

But the truth is—they’re looking in all the wrong places.

It’s almost amusing, really. Planting agents to monitor our every move, shadowing our daily routines, hoping to uncover something... yet consistently walking away with nothing.

They’re wasting resources chasing ghosts.