CHAPTER 47: THE ART OF DESCEPTION

–Livana–

I heard their business isn’t doing well. Richard must be devastated—crushed beneath the weight of expectations he never had the spine to carry. A shame, really. He failed to secure me as his wife. I’d rather burn in hell than be tethered to a demon who now treated me like a goddess.

"Your ex," Damon sighed, voice laced with disdain. "He’s giving me a headache, Livana. Should I get rid of him?"

"It wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying if you did it too easily," I replied coolly, slipping in my earrings with practiced fingers—my preferred pair for meetings like this. Perhaps it’s the closure I seek. Or maybe I’m simply curious to hear what pitiful excuse he’ll offer.

Not that I don’t already know. He was a puppet from the beginning, tangled in strings pulled by my cousin—my so-called step-sister—who manipulated him like a trained dog. The irony is almost poetic. Our family thrives on manipulation, but between the two of us, I always win. Even between me and Laura. I was always one step ahead.

"I can’t let you go there without a bodyguard."

"Mmm." I gave a nonchalant hum, as I often do when Damon attempts to assert control. His possessiveness is one of the many reasons I married him. Laura’s influence helped, of course—her advice was laced with venom and brilliance. She may have handed me to the devil, but it was the perfect revenge against our bloodline.

"We’re expected at the family dinner later," he murmured with a weary sigh. "Back at the estate. But I can’t accompany you to your meeting with your ex-fiance."

"Good. I won’t let you."

His sigh deepened, threaded with hesitation. I understand. His obsession with me makes him restless. The thought of another man merely breathing near me unsettles him.

"By the way... will your bastard cousin Brandon be at the dinner?"

"Mother told him to stay away."

"Doesn’t matter to me if he shows up. I can’t see him yet..." I trailed off.

"No. He won’t be there," Damon said flatly. "Damien might beat him senseless... or Laura might get to him first. And frankly, I’m afraid she’d kill him on the spot."

I laughed, turning to face the mirror. I could only see a blur, but I sensed I’d grown fuller—my appetite’s improved since we hired the new chef. Nothing tastes laced or poisoned. Damon feeds me well.

"Let me put on your lip balm," he said, stepping closer. His fingers found my chin, and then his mouth followed—pressing into mine with the kind of hunger he barely bothers to conceal. A moan slipped out of me before I could stop it.

"I still can’t touch you," he whispered against my lips, his arms tightening around my waist.

He’s been patient lately. It’s been two days since my menstruation ended, yet he still cares for me like a devoted servant. Warm baths, gentle massages, nourishing meals—small offerings from a man I once thought shallow, a boy who mocked me with flirtation back in our youth. And now, here he is—tending to a blind woman as if I were sacred.

He’ll grow tired eventually. They always do. So I let him spoil me, knowing I might crave this care more than I should. But I cannot allow myself to grow dependent on it. On him. I wiped my lips.

"Get the balm."

He leaned in again, and I pressed my palm against his chest.

"Damon." My voice held a warning. He sighed again, that familiar sound—like a heartbroken colossus mourning his own restraint. I can handle him. I always could.

"I want something deeper in color," I murmured. "Something darker... or cherry-toned."

"Mmm," I parted my lips as the cool jelly touched them. I smoothed them together. He added another layer, and then his lips replaced his fingers—pressing over mine. This man. I truly don’t think he could live without me. And I want to see how far that devotion can be stretched.

"All right. I’m leaving now."

He reached for my hand, slid my purse onto my wrist, then placed my walking stick gently into my grasp. His hand lingered at my back, guiding me downstairs toward the car.

"Have fun!" Laura called out. Her voice danced with mischief.

I smirked.

Inside the van, Jane settled beside me.

"You too," I said with a matching smirk. "I wonder where Damien went," I mused aloud, just loud enough for Kai, my driver, to hear.

"He went jogging," Jane replied. "Probably passed out somewhere just to avoid Laura. Your sister’s crazy—you know that, right?"

"Mmm." I shrugged, lips curving. We’re all a little mad. Where’s the thrill if we aren’t?

"See you later, love," Damon said from outside.

I crossed my arms as the door slid shut.

"Let’s go, Kai."

–Richard Knox–

I reserved the entire café. A place I imagined Livana might love—quiet, minimalist, drenched in soft light. The staff had been instructed to prepare whatever she could possibly want, even if she didn’t ask. Everything had to be perfect. Just the way she deserves it.

I kept fidgeting, checking my wristwatch over and over again. Thirty-two minutes late. But she agreed to come. That’s all that matters. She’s coming. She has to.

Livana doesn’t know it—maybe she never will—but I’ve been in love with her from the start. Even if I tried to convince myself otherwise, even if I buried it under every excuse I could manufacture. I just... needed to let off steam, to explore other people, other bodies.

They’d call it cheating. But how could you cheat in something that never really started? Our marriage was arranged, transactional. And she? She had no interest in me. None.

Carrie—her half-sister, technically a cousin from her aunt’s side—she was different. She was a wildfire. Insatiable. Skilled in ways that drove me insane. She made my body feel alive, like I was the only man in the world. The way she took control, the filth she whispered in my ear... she was perfection between the sheets. Like a trained courtesan.

Then again, her bloodline is full of them. Her mother was a whore. Her grandmother, too. Credit where credit is due—they passed down their talents like heirlooms.

But even with all that—Carrie, the sex, the games—there’s one thing I never had. The one thing I always wanted.

Livana.

God, I wanted her.

I glanced at my watch again. Thirty-five minutes. Still no sign.

I opened my phone, half-expecting a message from Carrie. Nothing. Probably locked up somewhere—either by her own delusions or someone else’s hands. Who knows anymore?

Then, the door chimed. I looked up—and time seemed to slow.

She walked in like a silent storm. Effortless. Commanding. Wrapped in lavender.

Livana.

She wore her signature sunglasses, but nothing could hide the way she moved—gliding with elegance only someone born into power could wield. Her platinum blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the afternoon light like strands of silver silk.

The lavender maxi dress she wore clung gently to her figure, its delicate straps revealing her flawless, pale skin. Skin I had dreamed of tasting. Devouring. She was ethereal. Untouchable. And yet, right there in front of me.

Every time I saw her rare violet eyes, I forgot how to breathe.

"Livana," I said quickly, jumping to my feet as she approached.

"Richard." Her voice, calm and smooth, wrapped around me like velvet.

I pulled out the chair for her as her nurse—Jane, I think—guided her to the seat.

"Jane, do they serve milk tea or bubble tea?" she asked.

"I’ll check, Mrs. Blackwell."

Mrs. Blackwell. The title hit me like a slap. I pressed my lips together, swallowing the bitterness that word stirred inside me.

She removed her sunglasses with grace, placing them next to her walking stick. Her posture, her poise—everything about her was untouched by the years or by the scars of the past. She was still the Livana I could never reach.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" she asked, cool and measured.

"I know you’re married to a Blackwell. And I heard what happened to Laura."

"What about it?" Her tone was casual, uninterested. Or perhaps she already knew more than she let on.

"Aren’t you... curious?" I leaned in. "A Blackwell could easily choreograph that entire set-up."

"Hmm." She shrugged, perfectly unaffected. But her indifference only made me want her more.

"Why are you telling me this?" Her voice didn’t betray a hint of emotion.

"The Blackwells are diving into high-level tech. I’ve looked into surveillance footage from that day, and—"

"The Blackwells?" she cut in with a soft scoff. "What a shame. I’m a Blackwell too, even if I don’t use the name."

"Livana, please. Listen to me. I know what I did. I know it was unforgivable. But Carrie—she seduced me. You never gave me a chance. You never gave me attention."

She laughed, and it was devastating. Melodic. Cruel. It dripped with irony, as if the idea of me begging for her forgiveness was some tragic comedy she’d already seen before.

"Oh, wow," she said, amusement curling at the edge of her voice. "Are you hearing yourself?"

"I—tsk, I’m sorry." I raked a hand through my hair, trying to recover. "I’m telling you the truth. The Blackwells... your husband’s family... they’re dangerous. Your family is worried about you. About Laura. You’re both involved with a Blackwell."

She went quiet. That silence—cold and contemplative—stretched between us.

"I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, Livana," I said, voice softening, "but you’re not safe. You’re in danger. Being with a Blackwell puts you at risk."

"I’m listening," she murmured.

That was all I needed.

She was listening.

And I was going to make her believe me—because I couldn’t let her go. Not again.