CHAPTER 140: " STOP WORRYING ABOUT WHAT YOU CAN’T MAKE HAPPEN,"

Abigail leaned back against the couch, her fingers drumming against the armrest.

Each tap was sharp, deliberate, like the ticking of a clock.

Her lips moved before her voice followed, as though she were savoring each word.

"They all think he’s untouchable now... Grand Lisa, the great Thompson family, even that fragile little doll he parades around as his wife." She spat the last word like it was bitter.

"Wife." A humorless laugh cut the air. "She’s nothing but a temporary amusement. A shadow standing where I should be."

Her eyes narrowed as her nails scraped against the fabric, leaving faint scratches.

"She doesn’t know him like I do. She hasn’t seen him at his weakest, broken under my hands, begging to clear his name while I..." A smile curved slowly, cruelly. "...while I destroyed him with a single tear."

She rose from the couch, moving toward the window, her silhouette outlined in the pale city glow.

Her reflection stared back—wild hair, fever-bright eyes, a face both beautiful and terrifying in its determination.

She leaned close, whispering to the glass as though speaking directly to him.

"You belong to me, Roman Thompson. You were marked the day I chose you. And I will mark you again."

Her hand pressed against the cold pane, her fingertips trembling with excitement.

"She will fall. That sweet-faced Julia—Julienne, or whatever name she wears now—will fall. The family will turn on her, society will tear her apart, and when she’s crushed under their weight, where will you run?"

Her voice dipped lower, husky and venom-laced. "Back to me. Always back to me."

She turned away sharply, pacing again, her laughter slicing the silence. "I know where to press. Which strings to pull.

One whisper here, one scandal there... they’ll never see it coming.

And when the pieces scatter, I’ll be the only one standing beside you, like I was always meant to be.

Abigail sat again, folding one leg over the other, her posture suddenly calm, elegant, as if nothing had cracked inside her moments ago.

She tilted her head, eyes glittering with a predator’s patience.

"They think I’m forgotten. They think I’m finished." Her smile deepened. "But I’ve only just begun."

***

Lisa sat in the wide, sunlit parlor, her glasses perched low on the bridge of her nose.

A sheet of fine stationery rested on the low mahogany table before her, her neat handwriting filling the page in careful lines.

She leaned back in her chair, tapping the end of her pen against the paper, her lips curving in a satisfied smile.

"I will make sure everything happens according to my plan," she murmured, her voice low but certain.

Her eyes sparkled with that rare mixture of authority and excitement—the look of a woman who had orchestrated countless family gatherings yet still found joy in every detail.

Turning slightly, Lisa glanced at the maid standing just behind her. "Rosa," she called.

The young maid straightened instantly, her hands folded neatly in front of her apron. Her face, soft with youth, lit with attentiveness. "Yes, madam?"

Lisa held out the folded paper, the faint scent of her perfume clinging to it.

"Have the list and call the event planners," she instructed, her tone gentle but leaving no room for hesitation.

Rosa bowed her head, her dark braid swaying as she stepped forward to accept the paper.

"Yes, madam." Her voice was quiet, respectful, and she moved quickly toward the hallway, the faint click of her shoes fading as she went to make the call.

The silence that followed was warm, filled with the ticking of the old grandfather clock and the soft rustle of pages as Lisa adjusted her list once more, her eyes scanning over the carefully penned names and arrangements.

"My woman is so excited," Denovan said at last, his deep voice breaking through the hush.

Lisa turned her head toward him, finding him seated across the room in his high-backed chair.

His expression was serious, almost stern, but there was a softness hidden in the lines around his eyes.

He wasn’t mocking her—he was studying her, as he always did, quietly watching.

Lisa chuckled lightly, setting down her pen. "And why shouldn’t I be? It isn’t every day one gets to bring the family together. It isn’t every day we celebrate with both joy and purpose."

Her fingers smoothed the edge of the paper as if sealing the importance of her words.

Denovan’s lips twitched, almost but not quite a smile. He lifted his teacup, the faint steam curling into the air, and said nothing more.

The air in the room seemed to hum with anticipation.

Lisa could already picture it—the chandeliers glittering, the tables set with crystal, the murmur of voices rising in the grand hall as relatives arrived.

She imagined Julie’s face when she was introduced not just as Roman’s wife but as the future madam of the Thompson family.

The thought alone filled Lisa with a quiet pride that settled deep in her chest.

She reached for her teacup, her hand steady, her heart light. Everything was falling into place.

Denovan’s broad shoulders shook with laughter, the sound deep and rich, filling the parlor like music that hadn’t been played in years.

He leaned back slightly, watching Lisa’s face flush pink as though time had rolled back decades, returning her to the young woman who once blushed under his gaze.

"Oh my!! Denovan, you are naughty," Lisa exclaimed, lifting her hand to smack his arm playfully.

Her palm landed against the hard muscle of his bicep, and she felt its strength even beneath his pressed shirt.

Denovan grinned, rubbing the spot as though she had truly struck him.

His eyes softened, creasing at the corners, and he tilted his head toward her. "You are still the same as before," he teased, his tone threaded with affection.

"Always getting flustered, always turning red whenever I wink at you."

Lisa tried to scowl, but her lips betrayed her, curving upward despite her best efforts.

She lowered her gaze, tucking a strand of silvery hair behind her ear, and her chest rose and fell as though the memory had lodged itself there.

Denovan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locked on her. "Do you remember the first time we met?"

Lisa’s lips parted slightly. Her eyes softened, turned inward, as if the air of the parlor had shifted, transporting her back to a younger time. "Yeah..." she whispered, her voice distant, laced with nostalgia.

The clock ticked gently in the background, marking the silence between them.

Denovan didn’t rush her. He simply watched, his expression gentle, knowing well that when she spoke again, it would be something dear.

"You winked at me," Lisa said, her voice soft but tinged with embarrassment, her cheeks coloring like a young girl caught in her first blush.

She lowered her eyes, her fingers brushing along the hem of her dress as though even recalling the moment was enough to fluster her.

Denovan burst into laughter, loud and hearty, his shoulders shaking as the sound filled the room.

He slapped his thigh, his deep baritone echoing against the high walls. "So that was it? A wink?" he said between chuckles, his eyes glinting with boyish amusement.

Lisa pursed her lips, trying to suppress her own smile, but failed miserably. "It wasn’t just the wink," she admitted, looking up at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

"It was the way you carried yourself—like you knew exactly what you were doing. The wink just sealed it, that’s all."

Denovan leaned forward, catching her hand in his warm grasp.

His palm was calloused, a testament to years of work and battles fought both inside and outside the family empire.

He squeezed her hand gently, his voice dropping low. "And you sealed me, Lisa. From that day, you became mine."

Her lips curved into a soft smile. She didn’t argue, didn’t deny it.

Instead, she allowed the silence to stretch between them, filled only by the faint ticking of the clock and the soft rustle of curtains shifting in the evening breeze.

The parlor was warm, filled with the scent of old wood and faint perfume clinging to the cushions.

It was a space that carried history, yet in that moment, it felt like the beginning of something new—like love was still fresh, still unfolding even after all the years.

Denovan studied her face, the way her features softened when she was caught in memory.

"You haven’t changed, Lisa," he murmured. "Still the same woman who blushes when I look too long."

Lisa gave him a playful shove on the arm, though her cheeks betrayed her again, blooming with warmth.

"And you," she countered, "are still the man who thinks one wink can conquer a heart."

He winked again, deliberately this time, and she shook her head, laughing despite herself.

---

Meanwhile, across the city, in one of the wealthiest districts where villas stood like monuments to power, another story simmered.

The night air was cooler here, the scent of freshly cut hedges blending with the faint perfume of night-blooming flowers that lined the stone pathways.

Behind the tall iron gates of one villa, lights glowed from crystal chandeliers, spilling golden hues across polished marble floors.

Inside, tension pulsed like a second heartbeat.

"Stop worrying about what you can’t make happen," a voice said smoothly.

The words cut across the silence, low but commanding.

A man sat lazily in a velvet armchair, his dark suit pressed to perfection, one hand swirling a glass of amber liquid.

The light caught on his cufflinks, scattering tiny reflections onto the walls.

His gaze was sharp, assessing, as he watched the woman pacing the length of the room.

She stopped mid-step, her heels clicking against the marble. Turning, her eyes flared with defiance.

"You don’t understand," he shot back. His voice trembled not with weakness, but with restrained fury. "This isn’t something I can wait on. If I don’t act, I’ll lose everything."

The man smirked, taking a slow sip before setting the glass down with deliberate care. "Impatience will burn you faster than failure," she replied.

His tone was calm, but it carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed.

The chandelier above swayed gently, scattering light across their faces.

In that villa, beneath the polished grandeur, a storm was already gathering—quiet, unseen, but inevitable.