–Livana–
Lucky? Perhaps too lucky. They discovered I was pregnant after the accident—just three days before the results were meant to show. No miscarriage. No complications. The baby was healthy, its heartbeat strong and loud, like a steady drum inside me. Dr. Greene congratulated us and handed over a baby book. Since it’s our first, Damon clung to every word, his meticulous mind recording details I could not be bothered to commit.
As for me—I would eat, sleep, and exercise gently. The rest, I would leave to him. Since they couldn’t prescribe anything strong for the pain, I surrendered instead to sleep, letting exhaustion soften what medicine could not. After more than a week in the hospital, I was finally discharged.
Damon brought me home to the Blackwell residence. Jane was appointed as my nurse, and Chef Wally stood ready to prepare every meal. Yet my appetite was scarce, dulled by the lingering concussion and the bruises that still sang from the accident.
"I also called a therapist to massage you, love," Damon murmured, lifting me carefully from the wheelchair and laying me down upon the bed.
I could walk—but only shakily. Dizziness clung to me like a fog. I burrowed into the pillows, my head unbearably heavy, the surgical pain gnawing deep. At least I hadn’t lost my memory. Only dizziness, only the merciless splitting ache.
"You can massage my foot and calves," I whispered.
"Of course." He wheeled the chair aside and reached for the essential oils. I listened to the faint clink of the bottle, then felt the warmth of his hands as he smoothed oil across my calves, his touch sure and soothing. Yes... This I needed. His devotion was a balm.
Somewhere between his strokes, I drifted into sleep.
I dreamed of my mother. She was in the garden, her voice patient as she described poisonous plants, the scent of earth and flowers thick in the air. I was flipping through a picture book when I heard a voice—Damon’s. I frowned. In the dream, I was still a teenager, but as he approached, his boyish face sharpened into the man I now knew.
He knelt on one knee before me, lifted my left hand and kissed it, presenting a single purple rose—the largest I had ever seen. He had stripped away the thorns.
"Wife," he said with a grin, his voice threading through the dream.
I turned toward my mother, who stood smiling gently.
"Mother, why am I dreaming of you?"
"You must miss me, my sweet lavender," she answered—the same endearment I had longed to hear. Then, when I looked back, Damon’s presence seemed to age and shift the dream again, changing its shape.
I wanted to linger, but the dream dissolved at the sound of my husband’s voice.
"Liva," he whispered.
"Hmm?" I blinked against the dark, staring at nothing, blankly, as if the blindness were absolute.
"Your soup is here. You need to eat—and take your medicine."
He adjusted the pillows behind me, arranging them with patient hands, and placed the reclining board just right. He fed me slowly, spoon by spoon, his steady presence making the act almost tender. Afterward, he gave me my medicine—safe for the baby. It dulled the pain, softened the pounding in my head, and drew me gently back toward drowsiness.
He massaged my palms, rubbed my back, even the ache in my hips.
"You called for your mother in your dreams," he murmured.
"Mm." I hummed softly, my eyes slipping shut, then opening again with effort. "I... I’ve been dreaming of her lately." My words stumbled, my tongue clumsy from the haze of recovery.
"Tell me about it." His lips brushed my forehead.
"She was beautiful," I murmured. "We were in the garden. She spoke of poisonous plants... she said I missed her. And she was right. But it was strange—rare—for me to see her in such a beautiful dream. Normally, when she comes, it’s always... tragedy."
"I see." He kissed my lips, soft and careful. "I’m sorry, Liva. I had planned to make love to you that night."
"Did you find them?"
"Laura had someone track them," he said, drawing me closer until my head rested against his shoulder. His hands traced my lower back with perfect pressure. "The Bishops have already deployed under Sophia’s command."
"Mm." My arms circled his waist weakly.
"Let’s stand for a moment, yes? Just five minutes."
I nodded faintly, letting him guide me to the balcony. I stood there, eyes closed, the night air brushing my skin. Damon’s arms came around me, his chest firm beneath my cheek as I pressed into him. His hand stroked my lower back again, grounding me.
I thought fleetingly of squats, of strength, then remembered—no. I am carrying a child now. My body’s movements are no longer mine alone.
–Damon–
I was over the moon. Yet beneath that elation lurked a gnawing dread. The news of my wife’s pregnancy was indeed a cause for celebration, but my stomach nearly dropped. Dark thoughts poisoned the moment—what if the accident had cost us the baby? What if fate, cruel and merciless, snatched away the one fragile proof of our future?
My wife dozed off again. I let her sleep as long as she wished, watching her chest rise and fall in the dim light. Chef Wally remained on standby, practicing endlessly, cooking healthy dishes as though the kitchen itself was his chapel. I gave him freedom in the residence, even access to the garden and farm nearby. That man, who had nearly lost his hands for a single mistake, now stood as Livana’s personal chef. He was lucky that my wife was merciful; otherwise, he would have been ruined. For that mercy, he repays her daily with loyalty—his devotion secured not by fear, but by gratitude.
I made my way to the library where Laura sat working on company documents, her husband busy beside her. The room smelled faintly of parchment and polished wood, a quiet sanctuary for business and strategy.
"I’m going out," I told Laura flatly. "Jane will take care of Liva for now. Tell her I have business to attend to."
Laura didn’t lift her head for long, only gave a slight wave. "Sure. Be careful," she said, her voice deliberate, knowing full well that the business I referred to wasn’t the kind that involved boardrooms or contracts.
I left and descended into the underground warehouse. The air changed there—damp, metallic, humming faintly with the sound of fluorescent lights. It smelled of oil, steel, and antiseptic. On two hospital beds lay the men who had tried to kill us by ramming their car into ours. They should have been dead. They were lucky my car was bulletproof, though fragments of glass still managed to scatter and cut through.
"Who delivered them?" I asked Sophia, who stood nearby with her arms crossed.
She only shrugged, her expression cold. "Someone who wanted us to torture them to death."
"Then let’s open up their scalps and stitch them back up," I said calmly, stepping toward the beds, the surgical tools neatly lined up beside them. My voice echoed against the walls, sterile and hollow.
One of the men thrashed violently, his throat emitting a muffled scream. He couldn’t speak; a filthy rag stuffed in his mouth silenced whatever pleas he might have had after the beating he received.
I studied them coldly, exhaling a heavy sigh as I reached for the scalpel. The instrument gleamed under the light, sharp, precise, waiting. My fingers tested the weight of it before I checked the other tools.
This was not madness. This was not indulgence. This was a necessity. For my wife. For my child.
I nearly lost them because of these bastards. And yet, before I carved the punishment they deserved, I needed answers. I needed the name of the hand that moved these pawns. Many people wanted us dead—it was not a short list. But I would not spill blood blindly. No, I would let them speak, and then I would decide how they would die.
"I think they’ll speak now," Sophia said casually, as she had the men remove the rags from their mouths. "It was a woman who gave us instructions. She paid them a large sum."
Sophia held up a photo of Tyrona. The men shook their heads—no, not her. Tyrona wouldn’t hire rookies. Whoever arranged the accident had plotted it with a patience that took days for us to trace.
"It was older," one of them croaked.
Sophia frowned and showed them a picture of Livana’s stepmother. The men exchanged looks, then nodded.
"Are you sure?" Sophia pressed, a grin easing across her face.
"Yes," they chorused.
"Now, I think the person they’re referring to might not be one of the principals," Kai said—and I agreed. Probably a servant. A pawn.
Kai and Sophia were in the room. Logan arrived then, carrying popcorn as if he’d wandered into a private spectacle.
"It’s hard to know the bastard," I muttered. I snapped twice, and one of my shadows—an operative whose name I rarely used because names felt like indulgences—moved forward from the gloom. He stepped with the quiet of someone who knew how to disappear and reappear on my command.
"Find every person that Carrie, Casey, and Tyrona met," I said, each word measured, cold. "Female, to be exact."