CHAPTER 110: HEARTS, CIGARETTES, AND CONDOMS

–Caine–

I don’t know what’s going on inside that psycho’s head. Well—okay—he’s not technically a psycho... but sometimes, I swear he’s auditioning for the role. What’s he gonna do now? Show up at Tyrona’s doorstep, flash that wicked smile, seduce her, and then slit her throat with his charm? Did Livana even ask him to do that? Knowing her, she’s always ten steps ahead. I doubt she’d kill Tyrona right away. That woman’s too involved in everything that’s gone sideways in Livana’s life.

"Hey." I nudged Deanne. "Stop pretending to be drunk. Let’s go to bed."

"Nah, you go. I’ll sleep here," she mumbled into the couch cushion.

"You sure?" I reached for her hand. She swatted me away like a tired cat swatting flies.

"You shouldn’t stop Damon from killing that bitch," she muttered, voice hoarse—tired, frustrated, maybe both.

"Look, Damon is a firecracker with no fuse. I think Livana knows that. That’s probably why she got the hell out before that lunatic even reached the door."

"Whatever," she rolled her eyes without lifting her head.

I sighed, scooped her up like a sack of drama, and dumped her on the bed—gently, but not too gently.

"Good night," I said, walking to the door slowly, half-expecting her to call me back. It’s our usual routine. We kiss. We make out. That’s all. Mostly when she’s drunk, and somehow, I always end up the responsible one.

But Deanne? That girl’s a fantasy wrapped in sarcasm and oversized shirts. She’s the type everyone crushed on in high school. Still flawless now—even without makeup. Just like Livana and Laura. They’re like different breeds of gorgeous.

"Where are you going?" she asked, lifting her head.

"To Wally."

"Oh. Right." She tugged the duvet over herself. "Good night, then."

She turned off the lamp. I paused at the door.

"Really? You’re not going to stop me from leaving?"

"Why?" she asked, blinking at me like I just asked her to do calculus. Girl’s really clueless sometimes.

I rolled my eyes and turned back. Right. Why would she stop me? We’ve got no label. Just casual chaos.

I left the penthouse and wandered down to the lobby. Maybe I’d buy cigarettes. Maybe not. I needed air, space, something to distract me from thinking. Rooftop, maybe?

And just as the universe loves plot twists—Tyrona stepped out of her car like she owned the damn building. She looked more elegant than usual, dressed to manipulate.

She smiled at me. That fake, poisonous smile that always made my spine itch.

"Caine," she greeted.

I offered her the tightest smile possible without pulling a muscle. "You’re here."

I chuckled dryly. "Ty, I’m not even surprised you rented the penthouse below. Classic."

She sighed like a martyr. "Well, I miss Damon."

Her voice was sweet. Her smile was venom.

"But I think I missed the news about Livana. She can see now, right?"

I tilted my head, thinking. Livana? I don’t think she can see. But then again, if she was faking it, she’s doing a hell of a job. She still stumbles, loses balance, bumps into furniture like a clumsy ballerina. But it happens in very unfamiliar places.

"No," I chuckled. "If Livana knew where you were, maybe she could see. But if she can see, Ty? You might want to be a little more... careful."

Her smile shifted—less sugar, more teeth. A smirk.

"So she did kill my man," she said.

I shrugged. "Well, you got most of his properties, right?" I raised an eyebrow. "You weren’t married, and he still handed you everything like a final peace offering."

I sighed and flicked open my lighter.

"Did you ever love him? Maybe if you’d given him more attention instead of playing villain in Livana’s life, he might still be breathing."

Her jaw clenched behind a smile.

"You’re getting on my nerves," she said through gritted teeth.

I laughed. "I’m just being honest, Ty. We’ve been friends for over a decade. You know how I am."

I smiled wide, showing every damn tooth. "Enjoy your stay."

I know she won’t kill me. I helped her chase Damon back when she thought obsession was love. But that man? He was already drowning in Livana. It only got worse when he started rescuing her from men who wanted to claim her like some prize.

He became addicted. Couldn’t sleep without seeing her.

And Tyrona? She became the same way with Damon.

The funniest part of all this? Livana. That woman sleeps like the world’s most peaceful corpse. While Damon was up all night obsessing, Tyrona was plotting murder, and the rest of us were watching the drama unfold—Livana just... slept. Unbothered. Laura once told me during a group project that Livana had already gone to bed. That’s just her. Unphased, untouched, unbothered.

Like chaos was a lullaby.

–Deanne–

I headed downstairs to stalk Caine. Yes, stalk. Maybe scare the hell out of him while I was at it. He deserved it. But I didn’t expect to see Tyrona down there, dressed like trouble and reeking of secrets. They talked for a while—her voice syrupy sweet, his smile tight like a man chewing glass—and I waited until she finally slipped into the lobby and out of sight.

That’s when I made my move.

Hood up. Knife out.

Relax, it was a fake knife—the plastic kind used in movies. No sharp edges, just drama. I tailed Caine like some budget spy, footsteps light, weapon in hand. When I got close enough, I pressed the knife to his back, waiting for him to flinch, scream, something.

But he didn’t even twitch.

"Damn it, Deanne!" he groaned, like I was a child poking him with a stick.

I stepped back, baffled. "How’d you know it was me?"

He turned around slowly, smirking like the smug bastard he is. "Your scent and your touch."

I frowned. Excuse me?

"You recognized me by... that?" I blinked, genuinely curious how he could sniff me out like some perfume-sampling bloodhound.

He lowered his head a little, still grinning. That same teasing grin that made women fall and enemies punch.

"Are you like Livana or something? Can you recognize people by footsteps, scent, touch... and breathing?"

He chuckled. "No, I’m nothing like her. She’s a goddess or something. Probably has six senses and a direct line to the heavens."

I pointed to the lighter in his hand. "Are you out here for a smoke?"

"Not really." He extended his hand toward me. "Let’s go for a walk."

I hesitated. But it was Caine. Gentleman Caine. He never pushed, never crossed lines. Just quiet, steady care. I took his hand, and he immediately laced his fingers with mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.

We walked side by side down the quiet street. It was late, the city humming softly like it had secrets to tell. I was surprisingly sober. Weird. No buzz, no haze. Just me and him, walking under the neon glow of street lamps until we reached the nearest 7-Eleven.

I browsed the shelves, looking for... I don’t even know what. Caine stood by the cigarette rack, eyeing it like it owed him something.

I nudged him. "Are you a chain smoker now?"

He tilted his head down at me, that boyish grin tugging at his lips. "I was thinking about smoking... but maybe you could help distract me."

I tapped my chin with my right hand—he still held my left. "What, like a blowjob?"

He froze.

I stared at him like what, too honest?

"I mean, we were just at a strip club," I added with a shrug. "Could’ve just asked—"

"No," he cut me off quickly. "I need a smoke. Badly. Your suggestion is... not helping."

I grinned. "Well, if I did it... would you still want that cigarette?"

"Yeah!" he blurted out, then paused. "But I wouldn’t let you do that. Not to me. Not to anyone."

I blinked. "Wait, what?"

He smiled again—but softer this time. "Because you’re more than that."

What the hell does that mean? Was that... romantic? Protective? Mysterious? All of the above?

I was still trying to untangle his words when the doorbell chimed. We both looked toward the entrance.

A man walked in—tall, clean-cut, radiating that I’ve-seen-some-shit energy. His presence screamed CIA. Or MI6. Or some other acronym that meant business. I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew. The kind of man that doesn’t just enter a convenience store. He surveys it.

Another stalker?

Because if so... I might need a real knife.

I nudged him, and he glanced up—already clocking the man in the round mirror above the counter. We started walking around the shelves, casually, like we were just any other late-night couple hunting snacks. Caine picked something random off a shelf—gum, I think—and handed it to me like we were playing house.

When we reached the counter, I nudged him again, this time with more bite.

"Get a condom," I whispered. "Your size."

He froze.

I grinned.

We had to look like lovers, right? Sell the story. Make it convincing. Besides, it was fun watching him panic.

"Oh babe, are you serious?" he said, all mock-horror. "We can’t do that. We need a wedding first."

I laughed. Loudly. Too loudly. Perfect.

"Duh. This is Las Vegas."

That made him pause. Really pause. He stared at me like I’d just handed him a winning lottery ticket—his eyes softening, something almost romantic brewing in there.

Oh no. No no no.

Whatever that look was, he needed to put it back wherever it came from.

I didn’t mean it like that.

He looked like he actually liked the idea. Marriage. Me. Vegas. Ugh.

But hell no—I made a vow: no rings, no aisle, no fake last names. I was only doing this to distract the stalker-agent lurking a few feet behind us like a bad shadow.

Let him think we were just another reckless couple making impulsive choices in a neon-lit convenience store.

Let him buy the lie.

And if Caine bought it too?

That’s his problem.