CHAPTER 144: THE MASTERMIND’S VEIL

–Tyrona–

I glared at my father and his cluster of dim-witted advisors as if their mere presence was an offense to my intelligence. They sat there puffing their cigars, tapping their pens, and exchanging those pitiful looks of "strategy," as though this empire we’ve been clawing for could be handled like a classroom debate. They knew nothing. Nothing of what I knew. Nothing of what I had hidden from them.

One detail I had deliberately kept to myself, one I savored like a sweet secret pressed against my tongue, was Livana’s weapon—the so-called device capable of tipping nations into chaos. If handled properly, it could trigger nothing less than a world war. If handled poorly, it could turn its wielder into a god among insects. Alejandro had whispered to me, with that infuriatingly calm voice of his, that if anything ever happened to him, I must seize it.

And it had happened. He died, exactly as he predicted, as though fate itself had folded to his calculations. I sometimes wondered how he knew. Maybe it was intuition. Maybe it was because he had uncovered the truth of his bloodline—that wretched little revelation about his mother’s betrayal and his father’s shame. He was illegitimate, a child born of treachery. That knowledge must have rotted him inside, must have told him his time was short.

If I had known, I might never have let him possess me. And yet, he had been generous in his own ruthless way, generous enough to leave me his loyal men—trained wolves, now mine to command.

"Don’t deploy more, Father," I hissed, my voice slicing through the stagnant smoke that clouded the room. The men stilled at once, eyes flickering toward me. Power—it was always so delicious when they recognized it. "Did you see what happened to those CEOs you so proudly tipped off? Their empires haven’t collapsed. Not yet. The Blackwells will scavenge them, take the spoils. Or worse—Livana herself will strip them clean. And those scandals swirling online?" I leaned forward, lips curling. "That’s opportunity—for them, not us. If we make one reckless move now, we hand them our heads on a silver platter. Lay low until I find the device."

I let the word device linger in the air, though none of them knew what it meant. They only saw the venom in my eyes, the command in my tone.

"I’m sorry, dear," my father muttered, rubbing his weathered hands across his face. He looked older, weaker than he had only hours before, when he had been celebrating like a fool. Just this morning, he had counted down to the supposed downfall of the Blackwells and the Braxtons as if it were New Year’s Eve, his voice rising with every number. Ten... nine... eight... as though the destruction of dynasties were a party trick he could summon on command. Pathetic.

"And how do you think we should handle this?" he asked at last, turning toward me, though the question was not only for me. My gaze slid toward my mother, who sat silently, a queen in exile watching her daughter claim the throne.

"Don’t act without my command," I snapped, eyes narrowing at the two senators seated in the corner. Once, they had taken the Blackwells’ gold during their campaigns. Now they sat here in my father’s house, traitors in expensive suits, chewing nervously at their lips as if betrayal had left an aftertaste.

"Do nothing," I hissed, each syllable a whip crack. "Nothing. Not until I say otherwise."

I turned and left before they could respond, my heels striking the marble floor with deliberate violence, each step echoing down the corridor like gunfire. Their silence followed me, thick and trembling, until I reached the staircase.

By the time I entered my room, nausea had already coiled in my stomach. I pressed a hand against my abdomen, the faintest swell beneath my silk gown, and exhaled sharply. Pregnancy. It sickened me and thrilled me all at once. I had inherited a life, whether I wanted it or not.

The air in my room was heavy with perfume—rose and amber, cloying, decadent. My mother would insist marriage was the only answer, the proper shield for my reputation. But what reputation do villains need? I could raise this child alone if I wished. Still, Alejandro’s voice haunted me. He had promised marriage, promised a future dressed in silk and sealed in power. He had even prepared a surprise, carefully, secretly, as was his way.

I sank into the velvet chaise by the window and let my fingers trail across the fabric, soft as sin. Never in my life did I imagine I would fall for him, even a little. Yet I had. Not in the romantic sense fools in novels babble about, but in the way a serpent might admire another serpent’s fangs. Admiration for his cunning. Respect for his ruthlessness. Perhaps that was love, in our world.

I tilted my head back, closing my eyes. The scent of old smoke still clung to my hair from the war room downstairs. It mingled now with the sweet perfume, and I found myself caught between two worlds—the stench of blood and ambition, and the cloying fragrance of luxury. That balance was me, wasn’t it? Calculating yet spoiled, cruel yet indulgent. My father’s daughter, Alejandro’s lover, is soon to be the mother of something greater.

My lips curved into a smile, slow and venomous. They would all bend to me in time. My father, my mother, those cowering senators, even the Blackwells with their gilded empires. The device was out there, waiting. Alejandro’s death had not ended his game; it had only passed me the board.

And I?

I was never meant to be a pawn.

I was born to be the hand that tips the king.

–Livana–

My husband’s gaze lingered on my eyes, unblinking, searching, as though he expected them to flicker with some hidden light. Perhaps he thought blindness had gaps, tiny cracks where sight might slip through. Poor fool. He has no idea that I see him far clearer than he sees himself. His features sharpened with worry, with desire, with that maddening insecurity he tries so hard to bury beneath charm.

He cupped my face as though holding a fragile porcelain mask and pressed his lips against mine.

"You know what?" he murmured, the words trembling between confession and plea. "You are right. I can’t force you to have that surgery. I’m afraid... afraid you’ll leave me once you regain your sight."

Idiot. I scoffed inwardly, though my expression remained serene. My blindness was the leash he thought bound me to him, when in truth, it was his own devotion that tethered him like a dog at my feet.

"I like it when you still roll your eyes," he teased, grinning against my lips. "Even when you’re blind." His kisses became hungrier, his hands impatient, roaming as though mapping a territory he already owned.

I pressed against his chest, halting him. "By the way, where are your asshole cousins?"

His laugh was low, strained. "They won’t dare show their faces in front of you. And Jardin—he left the country. He’s managing the company abroad. The head office is in Italy, as you know. The Blackwells built their legacy from America, branched into Italy, and finally planted roots here in the Philippines. A long, storied empire."

He brushed his hand gently down my spine, a touch rehearsed to soothe. "Tomorrow, how about we visit Dr. Green? A routine check-up. You know... to prepare. So we can start creating babies soon." His lips returned, insistent, his tongue invading as though he could drink the very refusal from me.

"I have a very important meeting," I said, pulling away, tone clipped but polite. "Do you mind?"

He sighed, shoulders deflating, then nodded like a boy denied his favorite toy.

"Continue the charity work for now," I instructed smoothly. "Volunteer with Mother and Alyssa. Keep it low-key. I’ll handle the staging for the release."

He tilted his head, brow furrowed. "Aren’t you joining us?"

Perhaps I should. A well-placed appearance at a charity event could sweeten reputations, polish our name. But timing was everything, and now was not the time for glittering masks. My husband must shine in his own light before he drowns in mine. His brother already occupies Forbes’ glossy pages; soon the family name will glitter across them all.

Forbes had once featured my mother, the iron matriarch in silks. They’d reached out to me too, years ago, branding me as a "young leader." My sister had basked under the same spotlight, her brilliance a mirror of mine. Our bloodline was inked in magazines long before the Blackwells sought their crown.

"I will miss you," Damon whispered, softer now, almost tender. "Let’s get something to eat."

"It’s midnight," I replied dryly, lips curving faintly.

"Babe, you need to gain a little weight." His grin was boyish, as if coaxing. He kissed my forehead and pulled on his pajamas. I watched, feigning blankness, as he returned to me, guiding me gently into a robe and slipping fluffy slippers onto my feet. His hands, always too careful, too devoted, led me downstairs into the kitchen.

The air shifted. I inhaled, catching the savory curl of something unfamiliar yet oddly tantalizing. My stomach responded with an almost embarrassing pang.

"What’s that smell?" I asked, tilting my head with practiced curiosity.

Damon chuckled, equally curious. "What’s that, David?"

David’s voice carried a note of disbelief, as though speaking to children. "Instant noodles. Stir fry. You’ve never tasted it?"

"We don’t really do instant noodles," Damon admitted, amused. "But cook more for us."

David obeyed, performing the ritual of boiling, draining, and seasoning as though unveiling ancient art. Damon leaned closer, watching intently as if he might memorize every step. The packet lay there with its printed instructions, yet David narrated each movement with pride, the way common people do with the simplest luxuries.

We ate together, the taste salty, cheap, and yet oddly delightful in its rebellion against the richness we were accustomed to. My husband beamed, savoring the novelty, while I savored the moment—playing blind, playing docile, yet orchestrating every detail in silence.

Later, we strolled the garden, the night air heavy with the scent of jasmine, before retreating once more to the bedroom. And there, under his eager touch, I surrendered—not unwillingly. I wanted it too. Not merely his passion or his expertise, though both were undeniable. I wanted what lay beyond the act. A child. A legacy.

But legacy is a cruel word for me.

Since I was young, doctors had warned me: pregnancy was a distant dream. My eggs, they said, were barren things—immature, infertile, incapable of bearing fruit. So I had long shaped my future around my sister. She would lead with me; she would bear our heirs. She knew it, accepted it, as naturally as breathing. She did not need marriage. She did not need chains. A womb is enough. I would never mind. We both wouldn’t.

Still, in quiet corners of my mind, I saw another path. Damien. He loves her—silently, foolishly. And she him. Their fear is the only wall between them. If I could nudge them toward one another, it would be not only a kindness but a strategy. Love married with legacy: a dangerous, perfect combination.

"What are you thinking?" Damon asked softly beside me.

I only hummed, my lips curving in the dark. Let him wonder. Let him ache to understand. For now, silence was my most elegant weapon.