CHAPTER 73: COLD RAIN AND HIS SANITY

–Livana–

It’s cold. The rain is pouring. I’m freezing, and yet this man is still asleep—half-naked. The cold doesn’t bother him at all. I shook him. Since I’m blind... or pretending to be, I still have to depend on him.

"Hmm," he grumbled, turning away from me.

"Turn off the damn AC," I hissed.

He lazily reached for the remote by the bedside and switched it off. Then he turned on the ceiling fan—useless, because it barely moved. I slipped out of bed carefully and reached for my phone. Damon promised me his tracers would work their asses off to find every assassin. The data gets sent to my Pawns through the system, with Logan’s help.

"Livana, let’s sleep more," he mumbled.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"I don’t give a fuck. Get your ass back here."

I scowled and turned toward him. "Go fuck yourself, Damon," I snapped, slowly tracing the edge of the carpet as I walked. I reached for my robe, exactly where I left it—but before I could even put it on, I was swept off my feet and hauled back to bed.

"I can’t sleep a damn blink without you," he groaned. "The weather’s perfect... we both love the rain on lazy days. So let’s just sleep."

I tried to shove his chest, but he pinned me down firmly.

"Fuck! Livana!" he grumbled. Someone clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

"Are you shouting at me?" I raised my brows, glaring.

"Please, just stay, okay? I need more sleep."

He casually pulled the duvet and pillow over my chest. He was heavy—too damn heavy. This bastard didn’t care. He’s insane... completely crazy.

"Come on," he mumbled, guiding my hand to rest on his head.

I rolled my eyes and patted him like a dog. Honestly, he might’ve been a dog in his past life.

My phone vibrated. I reached for the earpiece attached to the case—customized for me, of course—and slipped it on. A live broadcast of the operation played in my ear.

The Pawns? They were doing perfectly fine. No need to kill anyone—yet. The mastermind behind the assassination attempt on me? Just a puppet. There’s someone else pulling the strings. A coward.

What surprised me more was how Damon didn’t deploy the tracers until things escalated. He said he was reserving them for something else. Genius profilers, really. Listening to the broadcast relaxed me. It was like tuning into a podcast or an old-school radio show.

I don’t know how long I drifted off for—but when I woke up, Damon was snuggled against me like a clingy cat. I shoved him off and turned my back to check my phone. Sophia had sent actual photos of the people behind the assassination. I didn’t want them dead. Not yet. I had plans for them.

But... India? They operate in India?

I sighed and rubbed my temples. Ugh. I didn’t want to travel. Too much effort. I was feeling far too lazy for that.

"Babe, I’ll have Kai and Sophia work on this."

"Hmm... whatever, babe," he mumbled.

I called Sophia. She answered almost immediately.

"Visit the site. Take Kai with you."

"Wait, are you sure?"

"Yeah. I’m too lazy to fly to India. Got something else to focus on."

"Fine," she sighed.

"Take it as a business trip with a hottie," I added with a grin.

"Whatever," she sighed again.

"Enjoy." I hung up, placed the earpiece back in the case, and set my phone on the table. Finally, I got up to make myself a cup of warm water.

"Babe, what are you doing?"

"Warm water," I said simply.

"Okay, fine." He sounded irritated. I heard his footsteps behind me.

Maybe he was pissed that I didn’t let him have sex with me after the midnight snack. Why should I? He already got laid multiple times today. This bastard... he’s spoiled when it comes to sex. Maybe I should consider getting him a second wife.

"Are you mad?" I asked.

He didn’t answer—just took my hand and gently placed a warm mug in it.

I brought it to my lips and sipped. Another sip. I sighed. I felt replenished.

"Food?" he asked.

"I thought you’d never ask." I placed the mug down. From my peripheral vision, I saw him move it to the center of the table. I followed the trail of the carpet as I walked. I didn’t wait for him—but of course, he followed shortly and held my hand.

****

Downstairs, Chef Wally had a pre-made meal waiting. You know—the one we didn’t eat, because apparently, timing meals like normal people is too much to ask. Too late for breakfast. Too early for dinner. We’re living in that beautiful void of "no one cares anymore," and yet... the meal looked amazing. Like, seriously gourmet. A full-on feast packed onto one plate. Portions of different complete main courses all in one. Presentation? Chef’s kiss. And yes, I still acted blind, gasping internally at how beautiful the plating was. What a masterpiece. All wasted on my ungrateful eyes.

Meanwhile, my husband—annoyed for absolutely no reason—decided to casually tie my hair up like the loving husband he pretends to be. Oh, how sweet. Saint Damon, the Almighty Hair Stylist. So gentle. So caring. I could cry.

Naturally, I wanted to annoy him more. What else is marriage for?

I mean, I already know how he’ll react. Seen the show before. But I also know that sex is so much better

when he’s annoyed. It’s like his testosterone spikes the second I tick him off. And every time? Still shocks me how expert-level this man is in bed. Mind-blowing. Earth-shattering. Unfortunately for him, amazing sex isn’t enough to make me stick around 24/7. I disappear occasionally. It’s called self-care.

Besides, we didn’t marry for love—we married for convenience and revenge. He got the trophy wife. I got the mansion. No complaints. But love?

After our little brunch-that-was-supposed-to-be-breakfast-but-ended-up-as-a-shameful-lunch, Damon—being the attentive, overbearing husband he is—"guided" me by clearing a path like Moses parting the Red Sea. Each step was deliberately marked, and I, the obedient blind wife, stepped on each textured trace to tell whether I was going east, west, or wherever the hell this architectural labyrinth wanted me to go.

Just like last night, I noticed (yes, with my miraculously functioning peripheral vision) that there were two-story houses in the distance—security barracks, guest houses, a whole neighborhood built around our drama-filled palace. Picturesque. Fabulous view. Just one problem—it’s all a blur. Literally. I need glasses. But we’re still playing the blind game, so let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we?

"Now, let’s go back to bed," he said, sweeping me off my feet like some swoony bride in a fairytale. So romantic. So not necessary. I weigh like... what? 120? He acts like he’s lifting a porcelain doll.

As we passed by the other living room, surprise surprise—there were Damien and Laura, aggressively making out like horny teenagers. No staff around to catch them, of course. What is this, a reality show? I heard them from the corridor and my husband pretends that they don’t exist. Even Laura’s giggles and horny mumbles.

I tapped my husband, struck by a sudden epiphany.

"Hey, isn’t it dangerous that Laura and Damien are screwing while she’s in her first trimester?"

"Well," he sighed, already done with this conversation, "I think they’re aware."

Oh, brilliant. We walked into the bedroom. He dropped me on the bed like I was laundry.

Then he climbed in, ditched his shirt (for dramatic effect, obviously), and hovered over me like some brooding vampire. And of course, I kept my blind girl act on—blank stare and all.

"No," I said, pushing his chest.

"Fuck," he grumbled, like the world just ended.

"What’s wrong with you?" I tilted my head like a curious cat.

"I want you... badly."

Of course you do.

"Hmm, maybe we should take another wife?" I suggested, sweet as sugar. "I really don’t mind mistresses—as long as you use protection and, oh yeah, don’t kiss her or give her oral. Keep it professional."

"Why the fuck would I take another wife?" he snapped, visibly pissed.

"Because you’re always horny, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to fuck," I said, eyes rolling so hard I almost saw my brain. This man. He just doesn’t get it.

His size? Not average. Not even close. And taking it for hours? Enough already. I love my internal organs where they are, thank you very much.

"Right, you hate me," he scoffed.

I creased my brows. Oh, here we go. Is he seriously being dramatic now? What’s his damage?

"Yeah," he muttered, getting off the bed like he was the most wounded man in the universe.

And then—bam. I froze, eyes widening.

His pajama pants did nothing to hide what was going on underneath. That thing was standing tall, proud, and very, very forward. I quickly looked away, heat rushing to my cheeks. Seriously?

Damn. Really?

Just how hard is he? Like... medically concerning? Is this what happens when they’re hard for too long with no release? Do they turn irritable and moody like oversexed toddlers? Is this biological? Should I let him?

"Maybe I should have another you. What do you think?" he said, crossing his arms.

I stared straight ahead, unsteady. "...Hmm?" I blinked, confused. What the hell is he talking about now?

"A sex doll who looks like you," he continued flatly. "So I can fuck her. And wreck her. Right beside you."

Silence.

Total silence.

It took a solid three seconds to register. And then I laughed. Like really laughed—rolled to my side and cackled like he just said the sky was purple.

Wait. No. He wasn’t joking.

He looked serious. He sounded serious. His eyes were locked on me like this was a real suggestion. He was that desperate to fuck that his brain thought: What if... I got a custom sex doll of my wife and just wrecked it next to the original?

This man is out of his damn mind.

A sex doll. Not a mistress. Not some woman. Not even porn. A synthetic version of me. Because apparently cheating is off the table but plastic clones are fair game?

God, he’s insane. But fine—I’ll admit it. He’s useful. Very useful. Exceptionally good in bed, a human weapon of destruction, and entirely devoted to me. His insanity? Just part of the package.

I rolled my eyes again, still smirking.

A sex doll?

This man would buy a $20,000 replica of me instead of just apologizing and rubbing my feet.

Unreal.