CHAPTER 138: HER CALCULATED SILENCE

–Livana–

Now I fully understood how they were receiving a constant stream of new feeds and recordings—it wasn’t just from isolated servers or local intercepts, it was from the very satellites that orbit this fragile planet like vigilant sentinels. Every pulse, every whisper, every trace of code that danced in the vacuum of space was a thread they pulled. Once I had meticulously checked each line of code and the corresponding data packets, the truth crystallized—this wasn’t merely Louie’s operation. No. There were original developers still pulling the strings, silent architects hidden behind proxy after proxy.

A part of me wondered—did my mother’s creations still linger within those clusters of encrypted archives, breathing life into a project she could no longer watch over? Were her digital fingerprints still alive, evolving like an unchecked organism, even though her body had long since turned to dust?

I missed her—dearly. Her absence was like a persistent echo in a vast chamber, you grow accustomed to the sound of your own footsteps, but the silence where her guidance once was? That never fades.

"I bought a lot of new lingerie... and I think we should travel, focus on our honeymoon."

My husband’s voice cut through my train of thought like a blunt blade. He babbled more now than he ever had before. Damon was never the talkative type—once a man of brooding silence and deliberate gestures—yet now he was a cascade of words, spilling them like coins from a torn pocket. Annoying, truly. I caught only fragments, and the most prominent one was his recent shopping spree dedicated to the most predictable of male fantasies: sexy lace and silk he wished to see me in.

I didn’t mind entirely. Seduction was a language I was fluent in, though my dialect leaned towards the understated. I liked garments that whispered rather than screamed, that said "your majesty" rather than "take me now."

"Babe." His hand reached for my face, warm, intrusive, familiar. I smacked it away without turning toward him, still playing my part—the blind wife, polite, composed, ever so slightly untouchable.

"Look, I washed my hands, sanitized them, even wiped them with those ridiculous wipes," he said, almost pleading, and reached for me again.

I tilted my head, but not my gaze. "I know you’re busy with everything," he murmured, his tone tightening, "but you’re growing close to that CEO. Don’t tell me he’s caught your attention."

"Oh, he does," I replied with a smirk, pushing his hands away yet again. "Stop being so clingy. Now, what happened during your shopping spree?"

"There were more secret agents following me. Even to a sex toy shop."

"Sex toy shop?" Caine, ever the opportunistic listener, asked from the front. Laura coughed abruptly, her reaction sharp and telling.

"Yes, somewhere downtown..." Damon added, as if that excused the absurdity. "By the way, I commuted," he added proudly, like a child presenting a drawing to his teacher.

I sighed, a soft exhale that filled the clean leather-scented interior of the car. Caine drove a six-seater sedan, its wheels oversized, its interior obsessively polished save for the occasional clink of coins scattered on the floor—tiny metallic testimonies to his carelessness.

"I need a bathroom," Laura interrupted suddenly, urgency dripping from her voice. "Now!"

Caine veered toward the nearest gas station—a five-minute detour. Damon was the first to get out, his possessive hand already wrapped around Laura’s arm as he escorted her. Caine busied himself with the fuel pump, the faint scent of gasoline seeping into the humid air.

"Laura needs some wipes," Deanne said, her heels clicking softly as she retrieved the wet wipes and stepped out.

And so, for a moment, we were alone. The car hummed with the low music he preferred—strings and faint bass, non-intrusive, calculated.

I crossed my arms, a simple gesture that in my world was equivalent to a warning shot. His hand, predictably, found its way to my thigh, as it always did when his territorial instincts flared. Possessiveness, when wielded subtly, was an art, when paraded, it was a nuisance. He didn’t need to scream to the universe that I was his wife—his every touch already proclaimed it.

But I... I was no one’s property. I allowed him to believe otherwise, because sometimes power is best disguised as surrender.

"Is that your ex-boyfriend?" Caine’s voice broke the quiet.

I did not turn to where his finger likely pointed—my performance required restraint. Damon, however, shifted, the leather seat creaking beneath his weight as his gaze followed the invisible thread.

"Ex-boyfriend?" I echoed. Curious. I had never had a relationship before, not in the conventional sense.

"Your ex-fiancé," Caine clarified. "He’s with Tyrona."

I tilted my head, my lips curling ever so slightly. "Really?"

"Yes. And I was just curious as to why he’s with Tyrona. Isn’t Tyrona best friends with your cousin?"

"Uhuh." I shrugged, a practiced motion. "I care little for their polygamous theatrics. But I am curious why they are together."

"They’re probably bored," Damon chuckled, a sound meant to lighten, never to illuminate. He leaned in and kissed my forehead—ritualistic, habitual, possessive. "By the way, Caine and I have to work tonight," he murmured, "so rest and sleep tight, alright? Tomorrow, we can visit Dr. Andersson for your checkup."

"Hmm," I nodded, slow, controlled.

Dr. Andersson. A name wrapped in dual loyalties. To Damon, yes, but more so to me. It was I who secured his discretion, I who held the thread of his conscience.

I could not afford for Damon to glimpse the truth—not yet. Whether he suspected I could see or not, his doubt was a tool I sharpened with patience. My plans were delicate things, fragile but lethal. One crack in their casing, and they could shatter before their time.

I had already shown a fraction of those plans to Louie Lancer—a man I barely knew, but one I intended to understand intimately, down to the rhythm of his ambition. Trust was a currency, and I was willing to counterfeit it until the real notes came into play.

Louie held more than information. He held leverage. The kind that could tip governments, spark wars, rewrite economies. A man like him could sell his data to the highest bidder and watch the world bleed for the price of his silence.

And me? I intended to find out who held the other end of his leash before that leash strangled us all.

–Damon–

Another night, another victory beneath my sheets. Making love to my wife—no, claiming her—was satisfaction that clung to my bones like a second skin. It was early, barely seven in the evening, only thirty minutes after dinner, and yet she was already asleep. Probably worn out. I didn’t bother with a shower. I wanted her scent—soft, expensive, maddening—to linger on me, to remind every cell in my body that she was mine.

I slipped into my usual uniform: crisp long-sleeved shirt, tailored trousers, black leather shoes polished enough to catch the dim light of the hallway. The empire never sleeps, and neither could I, not entirely. There were important matters to attend at the club—meetings disguised as leisure, power draped in neon lights and whiskey.

Deanne was already dressed to blend—something between proper and tempting. She never failed to toe that line perfectly. Caine, on the other hand, as usual, had three buttons undone on his shirt, exposing just enough chest to attract females... and probably a few adventurous men.

"Why are you coming with us, again?" I asked Deanne, not that I minded. Her presence was entertaining—like a knife you kept close, sharp but familiar.

"I just want to enjoy the club," she shrugged.

Damien passed by carrying a tray of snacks—married life had softened him a bit, either added a layer or lost a few muscles. Hard to tell.

"Aren’t you coming with us?" I asked him.

He shook his head with a satisfied sigh. "Nope. I’d rather binge-watch movies with my wife."

Lazy bastard. Marriage made him soft—Livana allowed him to be for Laura. If my Livana ever carried my child, I’d leave every meeting, every contract, every deal, and attend to her every need without hesitation. We wouldn’t go broke; nine months of indulgence wouldn’t dent my empire, nor my investments, nor the countless safety nets I’ve built. Luxury doesn’t evaporate overnight.

"Put on some coats," Caine muttered protectively as he draped one over Deanne’s shoulders.

"I’m fine," she brushed it off, stubborn as ever.

I rolled my eyes. Always independent. Always putting on a show.

When we arrived at the club, the air was thick with bass, smoke, and envy. The boys—my so-called friends, those vultures—swarmed like flies, their gazes latching onto Deanne. Her dress wasn’t scandalous; it was elegant. Yet to their depraved minds, they were already stripping her naked.

This—this was exactly what Livana warned me about. Now I understood. Deanne, in their eyes, was a temptation. In mine, she was like Laura—a little sister, a piece of family I’d rather shield than touch.

Caine’s glare cut through their lechery, and the boys flinched, pretending they hadn’t been caught.

"Go," Deanne ordered him casually, like a queen dismissing her knight.

I don’t think they knew about Caine and Deanne. Not yet. So when Caine leaned in and kissed her lips, the boys gaped like starving dogs watching someone eat the last steak. Their jealousy was almost art.

I nearly laughed aloud. Their expressions reminded me of high school days—pathetic, fumbling, lust-driven idiots. They used to sexualize Deanne back then, too. I remembered it well because Livana—my Livana—had stepped forward, back straight, voice cold as a blade, and she beat them into humility. I didn’t stop her. Why would I?

I watched, leaning against a wall, arms crossed, amused and fascinated. Seeing her defend someone with such precision, such force—it wasn’t just justice. It was dominance. It was her.

And it was, God help me, so sexy.

That moment stayed burned into me. Not because of the fight, but because it was the moment I knew: if the world wanted to burn, I’d gladly light the match, as long as she was mine to keep in the flames.