CHAPTER 169: THE OTHER VERSION

–Livana–

Hmm. I still don’t understand how it happens. But whenever Damon is with me, the intimidating, shadowed presence he carries—the darkness etched in his features—seems to fade away. Tonight, he is carefully arranging our meal, one that Chef Wally had already prepared.

He serves my plate with precision, portioning it neatly into four equal slices as though cutting pie, and instead of sitting across from me, he settles by my side. I would have liked to use my eyes freely and eat without restraint, but I cannot. My husband still believes me blind, and so I remain within the role he knows, watched over and fussed over by a man who does not realize I see every detail.

"Are you eating?" I asked softly, tilting my head toward him. I had not even noticed him lift his fork or spoon.

"I’m admiring you," he replied, his grin almost audible, as though I could see it without sight.

"You know well I dislike such glances," I reminded him, my tone even, cool—though there was no true bite behind it.

"Yes," he murmured, still smiling, his hand sliding warmly along my side.

"Then let’s eat."

I ate quietly, savoring each bite, and he mirrored me. Usually he is silent during meals, but tonight he filled the space with gentle words, light conversation, and far too often, his hand resting upon my abdomen. What is he doing—measuring whether my belly swells with each mouthful?

I almost rolled my eyes. Protective? Certainly. But bordering on madness? Perhaps.

When we finished, Damon cleared the table and washed the dishes himself. He carried dessert in one hand, and with the other, he guided me toward the music room.

"I’ve been reading a great deal about pregnancy," he said with unguarded earnestness, "and I think soothing music will help you."

"Yes, I agree," I replied smoothly. "You should play me something I’ve never heard before."

"Alright," he said. He eased me onto the sofa and pressed a plate into my hands—a creamy cheesecake, cool and velvety. As I took my first bite, savoring the richness that dissolved on my tongue, the sound of the piano filled the room.

The melody was unfamiliar. Perhaps his own creation. Soothing, tranquil, like a quiet stream in moonlight. I became lost in it without realizing I had already finished my cheesecake. I longed for another slice, yet I hesitated to move, unwilling to interrupt his playing, unwilling to risk breaking the illusion of blindness I had maintained.

But my desire won out. I wanted more. Desperately.

And then he stopped playing. I heard his steady footsteps approach.

"Why did you stop?" I asked, startled.

"I can see you wanted more of that cheesecake." He slipped the plate from my hand, then returned with the whole dish and placed it before me. I couldn’t help but laugh, soft and unguarded, especially when he pressed a warm kiss against my cheek.

"I’ll continue playing then," he whispered, and moved back toward the piano.

It struck me then—this was what I had been missing for three months. Not merely his presence, but the way he spoils me, indulges me, and knows me so thoroughly. I had been unfair, I realized, for not allowing myself to love him, for not bothering to know him as deeply as he knows me.

The music resumed, gentle and pure. Perhaps a composition he had written long ago, or perhaps one he birthed in this very moment for me. I tilted my head toward the grand piano, my eyes—unseen by him—finding his form. He probably assumed the gesture was instinct.

There he was: my husband, his hands gliding over ivory keys, a foolishly radiant smile lighting his face. A man hopelessly in love. And for the first time, my frozen heart began to thaw.

–Logan–

I stood up, flicking my lighter open as I strolled toward Scott—the man of the hour, or at least the man too clueless to understand boundaries. I plucked a cigarette from my pocket and rolled it between my fingers while sizing him up. Next to him stood that other Logan—Jane’s ex-boyfriend, the original knockoff version of me.

"Man..." I sighed dramatically, like an overworked actor in his last scene. "I know you own this place. Damon’s also a big investor here, isn’t he?"

"Y-Yes," Scott stammered, bobbing his head like a nervous pigeon.

"Good. Because we rented this VVIP room to keep our ladies off other men’s eyes." I flashed my most self-satisfied, narcissistic smile. "So I think you don’t mind if we skip the small talk, business pitches, and introductions, do you?"

Scott’s spine went limp. He nodded and apologized immediately.

"We are so sorry," the other Logan piped up, glancing at Jane. "Since Jane’s your friend, I thought we should accommodate you well—"

Jane’s eyes flicked up, sharp and bored. She glided forward, every move precise, like she was born to cut men down with a look.

"Scott, let’s talk outside," she said, her voice sugar-dipped steel. That other Logan’s mouth curved into a hopeful smile, but it looked pathetic on him.

The trio left the room. Behind them, Caine adjusted Deanne’s dress with the kind of resigned sigh of a man who’d seen this circus before. This is why our bartender’s a woman, and so are the servers.

I flicked ash from my cigarette and followed Jane out, curious as a cat. She was talking with the two of them when I arrived.

"How about you join us, Jane? It’s been a while," other-Logan said, doing his best to sound suave. Jane gifted him one of her polite, plastic smiles—the kind she used right before verbally slitting throats.

"No, thank you," she replied sweetly. "But aren’t you the one who told your friends I’m bad in bed—and that you had to get your fix with your female best friend?"

I froze mid-step. Ouch. Jane’s tone had blades hidden under velvet. Scott vanished like smoke, leaving the two to spar. I stood there, grinning like a hyena.

"Jane, you misheard—"

"Right," she scoffed. "I think your female best friend also thinks your size isn’t enough."

Oh, kill shot. Other Logan’s face darkened. Jane pivoted toward me, eyes like a hawk’s.

"Don’t say a word," she hissed.

Too late. I cracked up. Her glare could’ve flayed me alive, but it only made me laugh harder. She flung open the door, storming back inside. Naturally, I followed.

I roared in laughter as she stalked toward the bar counter.

"So that’s why you two broke off?" I asked, dragging out every syllable. "Did you actually enjoy that man?"

She ignored me. Dangerous move. It only made me push harder.

"We don’t know what happened, but it’s kind of intriguing," Sophia chimed in, sliding up next to Jane. She smirked at me. "And by the way, when I say ’Logan,’ I don’t mean you," she chuckled, throwing me a look. "I meant the other Logan. I mean, Jane, you’ve got good taste physically. He’s not bad at all. But is he good in bed?"

Jane shrugged.

"I never know, actually."

"What?" I blurted, leaning my elbow on the counter like I was settling in for a show. "So what you said was..."

"I’d seen his dick, and yeah," she shrugged again.

I barked a laugh, joined by Sophia, who laughed like a sailor, not a lady.

"But you never actually—" I waved my hand, baiting her to finish.

"God, no! Why would I sleep with a cheater? Better to hire a gigolo."

"Agreed," Sophia said, signaling the bartender. "I’ll have a mojito, please."

I turned to the bartender with a grin. "But do they serve gigolos here?"

She smiled politely. "No, sir."

"Oh, that’s a bummer. No gigolo for you, Jane." I laughed, just to piss her off. She shot me a glare as I strolled over to Chef Wally, who was busy playing video games with Kai while chugging beer.

"I don’t need a gigolo," she rolled her eyes, snagging a non-alcoholic drink from the bar. She headed out. Naturally, I followed. Annoyance is an art form, and I’m a master.

She glanced at me. I grinned back.

"What?"

"I’m just making sure you’re not drinking alcohol. You’re our getaway driver."

We descended to the second-floor balcony, where the club below pulsed with neon light, bass-heavy music, and sweaty bodies grinding. In the shadows, couples were already making out like the world was ending.

Jane sighed, leaning against the rail and scanning the floor.

"There’s Carrie Carrington," she murmured.

I squinted. Sure enough, Carrie was at a table, speaking with someone I didn’t recognize.

"Who’s she speaking with?"

Jane produced her phone, flashing me a file from what looked suspiciously like the CIA. Filipino CIA?

"What the hell..."

"I noticed that person a while ago, but I didn’t expect Carrie to be talking with them. Could be that agent approached her—but I doubt it."

We both watched as Carrie handed over an envelope. Not exactly standard CIA procedure. A setup? My money was on Tyrona. She’d been tangled with Alejandro before.

Jane turned and leaned back against the rail. I mirrored her, one arm resting across her back on the other side, casual but alert.

"Good timing we’re here," I said with a grin, pulling out my phone and pinging all of the Black Pawns inside the club. Notifications popped like fireworks.

"Livana’s Pawns are really handy for this kind of work," she said, a hint of admiration curling her lips.

"And Damon’s Shadow Beasts are even handier when it comes to eliminating," I shot back with my own crooked smile.

Her lips curved into something dangerous and beautiful. And for a second, we were both in sync—two predators in the same jungle, just waiting for the next move.