CHAPTER 127: THE QUIET BETWEEN FOOTSTEPS

–Tyrona–

I have been sick for days. I don’t even know why at first—perhaps it was the endless bitterness rotting inside me, or maybe it was my body finally betraying me as everything else had. But this time, Carrie dragged me to the hospital. I hadn’t eaten properly in days, growing disgustingly picky with food, my appetite replaced with a gnawing void. They ran their endless tests, poked and prodded like vultures circling a carcass, and then came the result—pregnant.

Could my life become any more twisted?

Carrie drove me back to the house, her face blank yet her eyes prying. I sat in silence, wrestling with a thought that made me sick all over again—should I end it before it even begins? Should I cut it out of me like a tumor? But then, the cruel irony: it was Alejandro’s. The only man who ever loved me, truly and without agenda.

"What do you want to eat?" Carrie asked as she sat beside me, her voice unusually gentle. "You need to take care of yourself now."

I stared at her, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "Should I abort it?"

She rolled her eyes, ever impatient, ever practical.

"We might be monsters plotting to kill Livana, but I am not a child killer. Besides, it’s your body, Tyrona. Your choice. I won’t decide that for you." She sighed, slumping into the couch with the air of a woman already defeated. "I don’t think I’ll ever succeed in taking that company anyway."

"We must," I murmured, voice like cracked glass. "There’s something in that company Mother and Father are after. It’s not just business. It’s power—power that can bend governments across the world." I looked at her, my sister, my partner in this cursed bloodline. "Take it. I will be with you. I know how it feels to be dismissed, to be invisible. Damon has been doing it to me since we were children."

She had tried, my poor Carrie. She had seduced Livana’s fiancé, tasted that brief, hollow triumph, and yet failed to break her. And now... now Damon was beyond reach, locked in obsession with that woman. He could not be lured, not even by a woman as cunning as Carrie.

"Maybe... order some Japanese food?" I said at last, forcing a brittle smile. "I’m craving takoyaki or whatever nonsense comes with it."

"Great," Carrie replied, already pulling out her phone to place the order.

I drifted upstairs, each step a ghostly echo in the house that used to feel alive. Alejandro’s scent still lingered there, trapped in fabric and memory. His clothes remained neatly folded on his side of the closet—I could not bear to remove them. I still wanted his warmth, his presence, the illusion that he might walk back in. But it was far too late to realize I had loved him—truly, painfully, desperately loved him.

And so, I will avenge him.

I will start with his family. That decrepit old man, Pedro—the head of Madrigal. They wear their crowns of blood and power as if untouchable. They think themselves untouchable. They may not stain their own hands, but they always find someone to do the spilling for them.

"Are you tired, mi amore?" I hear his voice again, soft and teasing, lingering in the shadows of my mind. "Once we have a baby, I’ll buy you a diamond. Bigger than anyone’s."

My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe, the memory of his promises a blade I twist in my own heart. My protector is gone, stolen from me, and now I carry the last piece of him inside me like a curse.

I do not know if I should keep living. But I do know this—someone will pay.

–Livana–

It had been an exhausting day, the kind that gnawed at the temples and left a faint metallic taste behind my eyes. I usually thrive under pressure—my energy rarely wanes, not even when steering an entire corporation like a ship through stormy seas. But today... today my head throbbed, a steady, splitting pulse that reminded me that even steel can feel the heat. Still, there was a strange satisfaction in that pain. After three years of not "seeing," of watching my empire through others’ eyes, I finally walked its floors again—blindfolded by choice, yet knowing every step, every whisper, every turn.

"I need a stress reliever," Deanne announced as we stepped into my mansion—the one closer to the company, the one I preferred over the gilded cage Damon insisted we stay in.

Choco, my faithful companion, sat obediently on the marble floor, his tail brushing like a whisper. I kept my sunglasses on, even though the night had already wrapped the world in indigo and the chandeliers painted the room in gold.

I crouched, feeling the soft pull of his leash in my palm. "Alright, boy. Go see Chef Wally for your gourmet supper."

He barked, nails clicking against the tiles as he trotted off like a small soldier on a delicious mission.

"I think they’ll be late," I teased, lips curling. "Might as well use a vibrator."

Deanne scoffed, her smirk audible in the air. "Oh, please. That’s hardly the only kind of stress relief."

"Dinner’s ready!" Damien called from the dining room. "Chef Wally and I made something simple."

"And my husband?" I asked, tracing my fingers along the countertop as I made my way.

"He said they’ll be late."

"Hmm." I nodded slightly. "Then dinner it is."

Still blind in everyone’s eyes, I extended a hand to find my chair. "What’s on the table?"

"Instant noodles. Ramen," Damien said, trying to sound nonchalant.

I tilted my head, brows knitting. "Where’s Chef Wally?"

"He already prepared dinner earlier and left for an errand."

"I’ll have whatever he prepared," I said, unbothered, settling with quiet grace.

Deanne placed the plate before me, describing the meal with that effortless impatience she carried. Four neat portions, squares arranged like a minimalist painter’s obsession.

"Thank you."

I ate slowly, tasting the subtleties, the effort, the faint salt clinging to the edge of the spoon. A light dinner—nothing heavy, nothing loud. Choco was fed too, which pleased me more than I let on.

Later, the routine unfolded like a familiar lullaby. A warm bath, steam curling against my skin as I spoke to my sister over the phone, her voice bubbling about nursery plans and baby blues and the future that seemed to arrive faster than breath. We spoke of having it all—everything for her, for her children.

And yet, the house grew quiet after she left. Too quiet.

No footsteps pacing like a restless predator. No deep, dark voice sliding against my ear with sinful promises. No steady breathing in the hallway that always told me: he’s home.

It wasn’t the first time Damon came home late, but tonight, the silence had teeth.

I lay in bed, pillows cradled like armor, thinking of him despite myself. I rarely do—not because I do not care, but because caring too much about a man who walks with shadows can bruise the heart in ways no bandage can fix. He promised to come early. Yet the clock ticked on, each second an echo.

Then, the door.

The familiar rhythm of his steps—slightly off tonight, stumbling in places where his gait was usually precise. Drunk. My ears traced him: the whisper of fabric, the thud of his jacket. The bed shifted as he sat, a kiss pressed to my forehead, breath laced with alcohol.

Why does this bastard always come home late and scented with the night?

The bathroom door opened, clothes fell, the hiss of the shower began. I closed my eyes again, pulling the duvet closer.

"Wifey," his voice slid against the dark. "My love..."

The bed dipped. Warm hands found my face, lips sought mine.

"You’re drunk?" I asked, my tone a thread between annoyance and indifference.

"Yeah... a little. Celebration."

"You smelled like another perfume when you came in."

"Yeah," he murmured, face buried against my neck, the words heavy. "Strippers. They pushed them on me. I washed it off."

"Did you fuck anyone?"

"No. Of course not." His kiss found my lips again, his hands tracing the silk of my negligee, fingers curling over my breasts with a familiar, proprietary pressure. "Eyes were on me. I couldn’t walk away."

"Who?"

"CIA," he whispered, a shadow against my skin.

"How... unfortunate," I murmured, looping my arms around his neck as though to anchor him there.

"How’s work?" he asked, mouth brushing my cheek.

"A splitting headache, that’s how."

"Oh." A kiss. "Then I know one cure."

I knew what he meant. And maybe I needed it.

Still, the words CIA clung like a thorn. If what he said was true—if they truly had their eyes on him—then perhaps his days of walking the dark should end before the dark walks him first.

But when his hands became fluent, when his mouth drew sighs from me like a skilled composer with his instrument... those thoughts melted like wax.