CHAPTER 143: VELVET CHAINS

–Livana–

Just as I predicted, the media leviathan stirred from its slumber, fangs bared, eager to broadcast its half-baked narrative: Blackwell entangled in the smuggling of firearms. A crude web of allegations, hastily spun, designed to snare not only our name but Braxton’s as well—merely because I, Livana, now helm the family’s empire after my grandfather’s retirement and my mother’s untimely death.

Damon, ever the tactician, had already constructed an alibi—immovable, polished like forged steel. He was at home, visibly, verifiably so, and thus they would find no thread to pull him into their noose. But beneath that still façade, it is indeed his orchestra that plays the darker symphony of our operations. Their so-called "evidence" was a patchwork—fragments of data, doctored manifests, a few digital breadcrumbs scattered to mimic proof. I almost pitied their naivety. Almost.

I was already coiled, ready to strike. Each broadcasting network tethered unknowingly to my threads—fiber optics and wireless channels alike now danced to the rhythm of my code. My pawns, well-placed, well-fed, and well-hidden, had already occupied the battlefield. Some wore suits and ties; others wore grease-stained overalls. Chameleons with dual paychecks: one from their day jobs, one from my shadows.

Before their so-called "breaking news" could breathe, I injected their lungs with poison—corruption reels, scandals of their whistleblower, skeletons from the Dela Vega vault. My upgraded media-control program, a construct of layered firewalls, proxy relays, and digital puppetry, bloomed on the screen like a serpent uncoiling.

I lifted my porcelain teacup, the peach and mango oolong swirling with aromatic heat, its tangy sweetness lingering like victory on my tongue. Across the table, Louie’s gaze betrayed his unease, darting at me as though I had just rerouted the currents of an empire. Perhaps I had.

"I can’t believe you did that," Louie chuckled, though the laugh was thin, strained at its edges. "Now the U.S. or even the Russian government will take notice. They’ll suspect you still have the Compass."

"Let them suspect," I replied, my voice soft yet edged with iron. "I knew from the beginning they never trusted my words. They’re trained to profile a criminal mastermind—and I play my part well."

He scoffed, shaking his head like a man reading a riddle he could not solve.

"I don’t think you should gamble this recklessly, Miss Livana."

A faint smirk curved my lips. "I don’t gamble, Louie. I reprogram outcomes."

On the screen, the largest network spiraled into chaos. Their anchors faltered, their CEO filmed his panic on his phone, desperate to salvage a narrative already deleted, rewritten, erased by my pawns. Watching them scurry—journalists shouting, cameramen fumbling, producers unraveling—was almost symphonic.

I tapped the keys and queued the dossiers of each CEO who dared push Dela Vega’s script—each one now stripped, exposed, their scandals ready to be drip-fed into the public bloodstream like digital cyanide.

"It’s getting late," Deanne sighed, her stomach giving her away. "I’m hungry. Would you like to join us for dinner, Louie?"

"Sure," he said, still stealing a glance at the quiet storm in my chair. I signaled Sophia to continue monitoring the broadcast and began closing my fortress—documents slid into my vault, desk cleared with clinical precision.

Deanne returned from the washroom, drying her hands, the faint smell of citrus soap lingering as she handed me the eyedrops Dr. Andersson prescribed. He insists I am ready for the second surgery—Lasik, to restore a vision I no longer truly lack. But I am not ready to abandon my blindness—not yet. The veil serves me well. My husband clings tighter when he thinks I cannot see, and his obsession is a cage I can slip through only when I appear vulnerable.

We departed, the city night buzzing with distant sirens and the faint static of neon lights. At Damien’s restaurant, the air was warm with truffle and thyme, the polished marble whispering under our steps as we were escorted to the VIP table—its shadows deeper, its privacy far richer than any corner window seat.

Finally, a moment’s reprieve. Away from Damon’s watchful eyes.

–Damon–

I made sure my alibi was airtight, every timestamp accounted for, every traceable digital footprint scrubbed clean. Yet the police still came—uninvited, empty-handed, their presence a hollow performance without a single concrete charge to anchor it. The documents they waved around were worthless—swapped, perhaps, or fed with false data that dissolved the moment it touched light. It was like watching a magician’s trick in reverse—evidence appearing only to vanish in the same breath.

And now, the headlines pulsed with filth: scandals blooming like rot across the networks. CEOs stripped bare, chairmen dragged through the mud. Only two or three broadcasting giants dared to remain silent—too cautious, or too frightened, to broadcast whatever bile Dela Vega had paid them to spew.

"Is this your wife’s doing?" my father asked, handing me a glass of martini with that knowing look of his.

"Probably," I murmured, a low chuckle escaping as I let the rim of the glass brush my lips. "Dela Vega made the wrong move this time. But what intrigues me is the hand behind them. The precision—the choreography of it all—it’s beyond their league. I’d bet it’s someone bigger than Madrigal."

"I thought Madrigal already pledged allegiance to Livana?"

"They did." I took a sip of whiskey instead—martini forgotten on the table. The heat traced a line down my throat, sharp, satisfying.

"Hardin," my mother’s voice cut in, sharp as a blade. We turned to her. "Whiskey? We haven’t even had dinner yet."

We both hid our glasses like guilty boys.

"It’s just one," my father offered, but she shook her head, unimpressed.

"Where’s Livana?" she asked, her tone half curious, half probing.

"At the office," I said. "Or maybe somewhere else. Let her be. She probably wants time away from me." I exhaled slowly. "She didn’t want me leaving the house today. Her men are already stationed outside."

I had tried earlier. Tried to leave, to breathe outside this gilded cage, but her men blocked me—shadows with her scent all over them. My own men bristled, nearly drew steel, and I had to intervene. Livana’s word outweighed mine in this house now. Her orders rang louder than my impulse.

Dinner came. I obeyed my mother’s summoning to the table, as did my father. Alyssa arrived from school, her presence like a breeze of something soft in this heavy house. She threw herself at me, and I kissed her head, breathing in the faint scent of chalk and perfume that clung to her hair.

"How’s school?" I asked, surprising even myself. I rarely asked about such things.

She brightened instantly, words spilling like beads from a broken string. "You know I used to dance ballet? We practiced again today! But Tyrona’s sister said awful things—told me our family would be ruined before I got home. So I rushed back! Did you see the scandals? Geez! Those disgusting old geezers!"

"Uhuh." I nodded, pulling her chair out like a dutiful brother while the maid whisked away her duffel bag.

"So what really happened? And where’s Liva?"

"She’s at the office. Or... somewhere with her people."

Dinner passed with the slow clink of silverware and the low murmur of old conversations. When it was done, I retreated to what was once my room—now ours. Hers, really. Every shelf bore her presence: her skincare lined in rows like sentries, a mini fridge humming softly with her masks and serums. Even my mother made sure they never ran out.

I didn’t care for such things—never had. But when my mother warned me half-jokingly that Livana might divorce me if I let myself grow "ugly," I found myself studying those bottles, wondering if their promise of youth could also buy devotion.

I bathed, steam curling around me, and checked the line of products she used. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try. Maybe I wanted her to look at me and never flinch.

The door opened just as I was toweling my hair. I stepped out, damp, bare-chested, to find her there—my wife—fingers brushing the side table as she set her purse down with practiced precision.

"Liva!" I called, unable to hide the hunger in my voice.

She flinched, nearly jumped. "The fuck!" she hissed, her face twitching into that sharp line I both feared and adored.

I crossed the space in three strides, wrapped her in my arms, kissed her cheeks, her temple, the corner of her lips—showering her face with a desperation I never truly learned to tame.

"You smell like steak," I teased, grinning against her hair.

"Yes. Dinner with Deanne and Louie," she said coolly.

"Okay." I knelt, unbuckled her shoes, lifted her as if she were weightless, and carried her to the sofa. "I was about to try that skincare routine of yours... but now, I’m too damn restless. I still taste what we did at your office."

She sneered, pushed at my chest. "No."

"Oh, come on!" My voice cracked into a boyish complaint I hated in myself.

But I followed her anyway—into the bathroom, into the warmth of the shower where steam curled like jealous fingers around her silhouette. I adjusted the water, bathed her, touched her as though she might dissolve if I didn’t hold tight enough. Under that downpour, I could not help myself. She was too close, too soft, too maddeningly alive beneath my hands.

She was mine.

Our love-making blurred the edges of time—sweet, fevered, addicting. I emerged hungry still, but sated enough to follow her lead in something else: skincare. We stood together before the mirror, her fingers cold and precise as she applied toner, serum, cream—layer after layer, ritual after ritual.

Skincare: check.

Bedroom massage: check.

Second round: check.

Finally, the night deepened. She lay beside me for a moment—only a moment—before slipping out again. I kept my eyes closed, pretending sleep, while her voice murmured into the dark.

"Sophia, we can’t kill yet."

My brows drew together. Kill? Who?

A flicker of heat, sharp and poisonous, burned behind my ribs. Was there already a target? A name on her list?

That should be my burden, my blade to draw. Not hers.

Sometimes, I hate how independent she is—how she moves the chessboard without letting me even touch a pawn.