CHAPTER 141: THE CHESSMASTER’S OBSESSION

–Damon–

The bed was cold. Too cold. I reached out for my wife, expecting the warmth of her body, the curve of her form pressed into the mattress beside me—but there was nothing. Just empty sheets that had gone cold long ago.

I sat up, a low curse rolling off my tongue, the room swimming with that eerie quiet that makes the night feel like a damn ghost town. My mind prickled—pins and needles, agitation crawling up my spine.

"Livana?" My voice cut through the room, deep and commanding, but all I got in return was the faint hum of the bladeless fan.

She always set the room on a timer—the air conditioning would go off at three in the morning, and I must’ve woken because of it. The curtains shifted like restless spirits in the early dawn.

I swung my legs off the bed, bare and restless as usual, and reached for my robe. Her scent still lingered faintly on the pillows. But the laundry basket already held her negligee. That meant she left deliberately.

I went downstairs, jaw tight, steps heavy against the marble. The kitchen light was on. Sophia and Kai were there, too comfortable for my liking—her feeding him as if he were some helpless child.

"Where’s my wife?" My voice came out like a command, arms folded across my chest.

"She had an urgent meeting," Sophia said casually, slipping a piece of toast toward Kai’s mouth. He was injured, sure, but his damn hands still worked fine.

"She didn’t wake me?" My tone sharpened.

"What do I know?" Sophia shrugged, too nonchalant for my taste.

"Fuck," I growled, rubbing my jaw.

"Hey, chill out. Drink some coffee, okay?" Kai chimed in, only adding fuel to the fire.

I shot him a glare sharp enough to gut a man. "Don’t spoil him too much, Sophia. Kai might forget how to use those hands of his. Or should I cut them off so he’ll have a real reason to stay useless?"

I didn’t wait for a reply, but his voice rose behind me.

"Chill out, bro! That’s a damn serious threat!"

I stormed upstairs, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and changed. My patience was running thinner than a blade’s edge. I called my men—my Shadows—told them to locate her. Not a trace.

Stepping out of the mansion, my gut told me something wasn’t right. I slid into the back seat of the car and dialed Dr. Andersson’s office. The phone rang, then clicked.

"Andersson Eye Clinic." The nurse’s cheerful tone grated against my mood.

"This is Damon Blackwell. Is my wife there?"

"Oh, good morning, Mr. Blackwell! Yes, your wife had her check-up about an hour ago. She requested an early appointment—shuffles in her schedule."

I exhaled slowly, forcing my temper to stay leashed. "I’ll be there shortly. Have Dr. Andersson prepare her full records. I expect transparency."

"Certainly, sir. I’ll inform him."

I ended the call, my fingers tapping against my knee. "To Andersson Clinic," I ordered the driver.

While on the way, I dialed Livana. It rang—no answer. Again—ringing, until someone picked up.

"Damon, it’s Deanne. Call back later."

My jaw ticked. My wife’s secretary. I could snap her in half with one word, but I let it slide—for now. I know that Deanne is powerful on her own.

At the clinic, I didn’t bother with reception. I walked straight to Dr. Andersson’s office, my presence enough to make him stand before I even spoke.

"Mr. Blackwell."

"My wife’s files. Now."

"Yes, of course." He scrambled, pulling folders from his cabinet.

I flipped through them with impatient fingers. "Tell me, Andersson—can she see now?"

"She’ll need surgery. For now... she perceives light, shadows maybe. That’s progress."

"Then schedule the damn surgery."

He raised his hands slightly, a doctor trying to tame a beast. "That’s up to your wife. You know how she is. My hands are tied."

I laughed—low, dark. "Of course. My wife threatened you, didn’t she? Yet here you are, handing me her records."

"Yes," he admitted.

"So, the eyedrops worked?"

"Yes. It’s gradual, but effective."

I leaned back, lips curling. Light or not, she could see a little. That’s enough to make my blackened heart stir. She’d see me—even just a silhouette of me.

I left the clinic, instructing the driver to head to her office. As we arrived, the conference room doors swung open—Deanne leading the way, my wife following, regal even in her detachment.

Deanne’s eyes scanned me like I was a mess she had to clean. "You look like hell, Damon."

I smirked, straightening my jacket. "Still sexy enough, right, my wife?"

Livana tilted her head slightly. "Are you?" Her voice was cold as winter steel. "You spoke to Dr. Andersson?"

"Yes." I closed the distance, ignoring the assistant’s judgment. Deanne opened the office door, and I ushered Livana inside. I guided her to her chair, knelt on one knee before her, and took her hands in mine—strong, possessive, gentle only for her.

"I spoke to Andersson. About surgery—"

"No." Her reply was sharp, immediate.

My brows furrowed. "Why not? The sooner, the better."

"I will decide when, Damon."

"Babe—" I started, but she cut me off with that icy calm.

"What’s the rush?"

And that’s when it struck me like a blade sliding between the ribs—when she sees clearly, would she still want me? Or would she discard me, treat me like I’m no longer useful?

But even if she regains her vision, nothing changes. I’ll still bathe her, run warm water down her skin, smooth oils along every curve of her body. I’ll dry her hair with my own hands, comb through every strand, and pamper her like the untouchable goddess she is—because that’s my vow. Her vision won’t make her any less mine.

I let out a breath. "Alright. I’m sorry." I kissed her knuckles, staring into those haunting purple eyes—blank, unseeing, yet they pierced me all the same.

"Let’s have breakfast," she said, withdrawing her hands.

"She’s never that sweet," I thought, a bitter chuckle in my mind. Cold, dominant, distant—but mine.

"I had Chef Wally prepare breakfast. It’ll be here soon."

"You sound disappointed," she noted, turning her swivel chair back toward me, extending her hand. I took it, kneeling again before her throne.

"Why are you disappointed?"

"Are you going to leave me when you regain your vision?"

"It depends." Her lips curved slightly. "If you don’t screw up our marriage."

I huffed a laugh. "So far, I haven’t, have I?"

"Hmm." Her head tilted—if only she could see the hunger in my eyes.

I rose, cupping her jaw, and kissed her. She kissed me back—brief, unhurried.

"This is getting gross," Deanne muttered from the door.

"I’ll leave after breakfast, don’t cry about it," I grinned, sweeping my wife off her chair and settling her in my lap instead.

"Oh, come on! This is an office. Stop this nonsense." Deanne continuously complained.

"This isn’t nonsense. This is my comfort," I murmured, nuzzling into her neck, breathing her in.

Deanne rolled her eyes and left. Good.

"You left me in bed," I muttered against her ear.

"You were sound asleep. How could I ruin your rest?" She spoke so calm and so elegant.

"That’s sweet. But I’d rather you ruin my sleep—with kisses, with you on top of me."

She gave a soft hum, adjusting herself over my lap, brushing against the part of me that twitched for her.

"Your ovulation’s next week."

"Wow. You keep track now?" Her smirk was dangerous—adorable, too.

"We can’t give up, my love." I kissed her jawline.

"Of course. Even though we already have twins..."

"We can’t steal them from your sister," I chuckled, and she giggled—light, rare.

Breakfast arrived. Wally and Deanne set the table, and after our meal, I kissed her goodbye far more times than was necessary—because I could.

Stepping out of that building, I looked up at the sky. Would she ever be warm to me? Romantic, even? Or was this coldness her way of keeping me hooked, addicted, burning for her? Maybe I needed that. I was a cold man, but around her... I was on fire.

"Sir?" my Shadow called, opening the car door. I stepped in.

He handed me a tablet. The footage stopped me cold—a warehouse, one of ours, ransacked.

"This live?" I asked.

"No, we’ve recovered most of it—half a billion lost."

I clenched my jaw. "Who tipped them?"

He shook his head.

"Do we inform your wife?"

"No. Clean it. Fast." I handed it back, arms folded, mind spinning.

I should tell her... but this is my empire—built on blood, bullets, and betrayal. I only let her glimpse the edges of it, enough to shield her from the filth beneath. Never enough to stain those delicate hands.

Yet, a thought coiled in my mind like smoke. My wife has her own game pieces—Pieces of Chess. They move in the dark, unseen, pulling strings, retrieving data even ghosts can’t hide. Maybe... just maybe, she could turn the tide for me.

I exhaled, closing my eyes for a moment. We have our own network, sure, but they don’t operate with the kind of precision hers does. My Shadows? They track fast. They kill faster. They obey without a second breath.

But the whistleblower—the rat gnawing at our roots—he reeks of military discipline. That’s where I’ll dig next.

And Dela Vega? Even after cutting them loose, I can still smell their stench in this mess.