CHAPTER 24: THE FIRST LADIES

–Livana–

It’s ironic to admit, but I’m glad I’m blind. If I could actually see Tyrona’s face, I’d probably vomit—right onto her. And if that ever happened, I’d aim carefully.

There’s no way I can enjoy a meal with her around. That petty argument we had still lingers in my mind, even though Damon’s loud, intrusive voice tried to drown it out. He kept rambling about already having a house of his own here in their compound. Like I care. Honestly, I’d rather hear his pointless bragging than endure Tyrona’s irritating chatter or even the sound of her breathing.

After breakfast, Damon’s mother took me somewhere. Jane was there too, along with their grandmother. I could tell the older woman still walked under her own power, but her pace was slow, deliberate. So we matched it.

At first, there was only silence.

I found myself wondering: are they planning to kill me? Unlikely. But injure me? Now that seems plausible. There’s always a risk when you walk blind among people who once saw you as a threat.

"I think you’re aware that Damon is obsessed with you," Amiliee said.

"Yes." I nodded, my gaze instinctively tilting downward—toward that little sliver of light that still exists in my world. The colors are faint, distorted, like shapes behind frosted glass. A cobblestone path beneath our feet. Grass brushing lightly against my ankles. There’s always a kind of blockage, like a shadow in the middle of the blur, but around it... I can still catch glimpses. A soft, small loophole into a world I used to see.

"I’ve never seen Damon look so happy," Amiliee continued. She sounded sincere. But sincerity is easy to fake.

"But you and Damon... you’re not right for each other," said Grandma Isabella. Her voice startled me—she doesn’t speak often.

I stopped walking.

"You’re right, Grandma. But he clings to me like a fool," I replied plainly. "I wouldn’t have married him at all—except that I wanted to piss off my father."

"Hmm," Isabella murmured. She reached out, took my arm gently, and resumed walking with me. "He’s still your father, Livana."

"Unfortunately," I muttered.

"What your father did... it was shameful," Amiliee added, her voice soft. "But you don’t have to marry Damon because of it."

They’re not wrong. I’ve thought about it many times. Why did I marry Damon? Was it Laura’s idea? Maybe. But in truth, it was a strategic choice. Damon wasn’t after my assets. He didn’t care about power or control. Just... me. In his own frustrating, possessive way.

Besides, he’s always been horny and too distracted by me to interfere with my business.

"I could’ve married Damien. He was a decent option," I said flatly. "But I think Damon had to kill him if ever I take Damien as my first option."

"Oh dear," Isabella laughed—a dry, knowing sound. "You know him too well. How in hell did that happen? I’m curious."

I considered it. Part of me wanted to tell them. But they didn’t really know Damon.

"He was an asshole. A bully back in high school," I said.

"He bullied you?" Amiliee asked, surprised.

"Yes. Constantly." I paused, a thought catching me off guard.

"He must’ve liked you more than we realized," Amiliee mused. "He once announced—at a family gathering, no less—that he wanted to marry a girl with silver hair and purple eyes. We thought it was a joke. The only girl like that was a Carrington. We figured he had a silly crush on you."

Maybe that’s all it ever was. Obsession.

"It was love at first sight," Isabella added, her voice unusually soft.

I didn’t know how we ended up talking about Damon like this—as if this twisted arrangement had some kind of romantic foundation.

"I don’t know what your plans are," Isabella said, "but we want peace. These men are too hot-headed. Our families weren’t meant to keep feuding like this."

"Then what happened?" I asked, hesitating. "Aunt Amiliee... you were close to my mother. Why? What changed?"

"It’s complicated, dear," Amiliee murmured. "You can call me mother, mom, whatever feels right."

"Mom still keeps a picture of you two in her office," I told her. "Even before she died."

Silence.

I couldn’t see her expression, but I could feel the weight of it.

"People change. People make mistakes," Isabella said gently.

From what I heard, the Blackwells nearly bankrupted us. The country turned against us. After Mom’s death, I locked everything down. Not a single transaction without oversight. I kept Laura clean from it too. She doesn’t touch the dirty parts.

They said the presidential candidate we backed ended up siding with the Blackwells. That we were framed.

But was that the truth?

I was too young then. Abroad. Detached.

"Hmm," I hummed. "I can’t verify anything. Everyone has their own version of the truth." I sighed as we walked further, eventually entering a space fragrant with earth and floral sweetness. Jasmine... roses?

"This is one of Damon’s favorite places," Amiliee said.

"Now, dear. I know it’s hard for us to approach your family. But... what about divorce?" she asked.

"Did you bring divorce papers?" I asked dryly.

She laughed and guided me to a seat. Wood beneath my fingertips—solid, old.

"No, of course not. You’ll file it on your own. I’m assuming you will."

"I was planning to." I placed my hand on the table’s surface. "But first, I need him to hate me."

A scent drifted closer—familiar.

"Here’s a purple rose," Isabella said.

I reached for it. Thorns pricked the stem.

"Careful with the thorns," Isabella said, gripping my shoulder with surprising strength as she used my arm for support. "Damon used to pick these. I always scolded him."

I brought the flower to my nose. The scent confirmed it—it was the same rose.

"I think he meant to give it to me once," I murmured. "I turned him down. Still, it ended up in my bag. The color was unique. Laura placed it in a vase and I just... stared at it all night. Wondering what on earth Damon was thinking. I thought he was just bored."

They laughed—an unexpected, full sound.

"He was always lazy," Amiliee chuckled. "But when he met you, he started showing up to school just because he announced he’d marry the girl with silver hair. It was the first time in years that I spoke to your mother again. We laughed like we used to. Forgot the mess between our families, even if just for a little while."

I wonder, if ever mom is still alive, would she approve it if I marry the crazy bastard, Damon Blackwell? Would she still sell me off to the Knox family as a trophy wife?

–Tyrona–

My stomach twisted the moment I saw Grandma Isabella linking arms with that silver-haired bitch. The way they strolled together toward the botanical garden, like they were suddenly family, made my skin crawl. I followed at a distance, my heels silent against the marble floor. When I heard them laugh from the foyer—laugh—I had to step away.

I gritted my teeth. I should kill her. No—too fast. Too obvious. I’ll ruin her instead. Break her piece by piece. Make her ugly. Let her rot in silence like the ghost she pretends not to be.

I stormed back to the mansion, straight into my room. My drawers held secrets. Bottles, vials, toxins. I’ve used them before. I know how much to use. I’m a chemist, after all—not just for show, not like her. She probably thinks sunscreen is a personality trait.

My fingers hovered, but I chose the most potent one—the one that left angry red welts, not just hives. She won’t show her face for weeks after this.

I slipped on my gloves and made my way to Damon’s room. Empty. Perfect. I knocked twice, out of habit, waited for silence, then eased the door open.

His bathroom was neat, almost obsessively so. On the counter, her products sat like trophies. Fragile. Vain. Vulnerable.

I unscrewed the caps of her lotion and sunscreen, measured precisely two milliliters into each, and shook them vigorously. No residue. No trace. Just consequences.

Then I vanished, back to my room, sliding the vial into the false bottom of my drawer and locking it. Click.

I moved to the balcony and leaned forward, watching them in the distance. Livana, walking between Amiliee and Isabella. Laughing. Or at least, they were. Livana wore that same bland, unreadable expression. Like she’s too good for emotions. Like the world owes her gentleness.

My nails dug into my palm as Isabella reached out and brushed one of Livana’s silver curls. That touched me in a way I didn’t expect—twisted something sharp and hot inside me.

She doesn’t deserve any of this.

"You’ll die soon," I whispered, voice low and bitter. "If Damon hadn’t shown up that second time, you wouldn’t even be here now."

And next time?

Next time, no one will be there to save her.