Chapter 41: Under Her Spel

Chapter 41: Under Her Spel –Carrie– The moment I stepped out of my hotel room, I was greeted by a wall of black suits. Three men—bulky, stone-faced—and three women just as tall and intimidating, all dressed in tailored black. Grandmother’s staff, obviously. I sighed dramatically, dragging my suitcase behind me as I headed to the checkout counter. Typical Olivia move. Always fashionably late, just like her morals. This wasn’t the worst day of my life. No, that title still belongs to the day my perfectly crafted plan blew up in my face. But today was certainly in the running for second place. It had only been yesterday. Damon and Livana caught sight of us. Of me. The timing couldn’t have been worse—or more humiliating. Once I was packed, one of the female guards took my arm. Not roughly, but firm enough to remind me who was in charge. They escorted me out like I was some kind of criminal. And there she was. Livana. Standing by the van like some ethereal statue, her walking stick in hand, looking... composed. Like she knew something I didn’t. "Oh, Livana," I said, my tone dipped in sarcasm. "Come to witness my grand exit? What’s the point, anyway? You can’t even see me." That should’ve hit. But instead, she smiled. Not smug. Not mocking. Just calm. Then she stepped forward, slowly removing her sunglasses. "And whose fault is that?" Her voice was soft, almost gentle. But the words landed like a slap. "Yours, obviously," I snapped. "For sleeping with someone else’s fiancé." Then it hit me. Richard was her fiancé too—well, sort of. Technically. Ugh. I hated technicalities. She laughed. Actually laughed, and not the kind that meant she was losing it. It was genuine. Effortless. Like I was a walking punchline. "Oh, that’s rich, Carrie," she said, slipping her sunglasses back on like she didn’t just destroy me in one sentence. "Good luck settling into your new residence. Don’t worry—I’ll make sure someone picks you up for the next family gathering. Wouldn’t want you to miss the drama." She turned, her tone light as if she were discussing the weather. "Darling," she called sweetly. And Damon—God—he walked over to her like he belonged there. No, like she belonged to him. He took her hand gently, like she was made of something precious. That was the same Damon everyone feared? The brutal one with bloodstained rumors and cold eyes? He looked like he would kill for her, but more than that—he looked like he would die for her. I hopped into the van as I chewed at my thumbnail, eyes locked on the pair as the bodyguards were loading my luggage. I’d never seen Damon like that. Not even with Tyrona, his supposed fiancée. With her, he was always cold. Distant. Like he couldn’t be bothered to breathe the same air. But Livana? Livana had him wrapped around her finger. And she didn’t even have to try. My mind began spinning. How could I seduce a man like that? Damon wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t like Richard—easy, impulsive, ruled by lust. Damon was power. Controlled. Dangerous. And yet... there was something different about Livana now. She looked radiant. Powerful. Almost... aware. Like she saw me. No. That’s impossible. The eyedrops Tyrona used were toxic—meant to burn the cornea beyond repair. She shouldn’t be able to see again unless she had an eye transplant, which was highly unlikely. Tyrona said she’d be blind forever. So what the hell went wrong? "Tsk." I shifted irritably in the van seat and glanced sideways at the guards Grandmother Olivia assigned me. Like I was some kind of prisoner under house arrest. I couldn’t even run. Not without them noticing. Sneaking off to Korea had been a miracle in itself—a desperate move to meet Tyrona and craft the perfect plan. A plan to wipe Livana and Laura off the chessboard. To reclaim what was rightfully ours. Now? It felt like we’d been outplayed before we even moved a piece. –Livana– I’m bleeding. It’s not something that usually happens—not like this. I hardly ever bleed, not this much. I’m infertile. I had come to terms with that, with the silence of my womb. But this... this flow, this deep red, almost vivid despite the persistent blur in my vision—it’s new. Unsettling. Even through the darkness, I can see the blood. Faintly. A shade of red emerging from the haze, clearer around the edges where the blindness doesn’t fully swallow the world. There’s always a black void right in the center of my sight. Like a stain I can’t scrub away. Carefully, I reached for the pads—thicker than the usual ones—and slipped into my anti-leak panties. No more of my silk ones today. Not when I’m bleeding like this. I washed slowly, my fingers moving over the familiar contours of the sink and soap bottle. Everything had to be done with extra care. Then I put on my cycling shorts beneath the black dress. Black for the red days. That felt right. Knock. Knock. Knock. "Baby!" Damon’s voice came muffled through the bathroom door, full of urgency and concern. God, he was always like this when I locked a door. The knocks were soft this time, almost tender, but they grated on my nerves just the same. I rinsed my hands again, dried them, and let my fingers trace along the long marble counter until I found the door handle. When I opened it, his worried sigh filled the space between us. "Don’t be so fucking annoying," I said, my voice even, a low murmur of threat masked as calm. "Unless you want me to kill you in your sleep." "Oh, baby..." he groaned, pulling me into his arms. His hands settled on my waist, grounding me. "I’m just worried. Why are you so annoyed?" He pressed a kiss against my cheek, warm and lingering. "Because I am," I muttered, pushing him away as the cloying scent of his perfume hit me like a wall. I cringed. "I hate your perfume. It’s... wrong. Off." He pulled back, a tinge of hurt in his voice. "But I always wear this one." Ugh. He was so childish sometimes. So soft around me it was almost infuriating. "Get my purse," I said as he adjusted the hem of my dress. "Put some sanitary pads in it." "Sanitary pads? What’s that?" I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "The thing in the drawer. Covered packet. The one you stick in your panties when your vagina’s bleeding." There was silence. Then, cautiously: "Wait... you got your period?" He exhaled like he’d just been handed a tragic script rewrite. "Oh, damn. We have to start all over again on love-making." I heard his footsteps as he moved to retrieve them. Then he was back, wrapping his arms around me from behind. "That’s why you’re grumpy," he said with a chuckle. "I got you, baby. Let’s get some lunch. Then I’m taking you to the spa. You need to relax." He was already sliding my sunglasses onto my face. These were new—sleeker, lighter. His fingertips moved gently, a silent kind of affection. He draped a coat over my shoulders like I was fragile. Maybe I was. We went back to the same restaurant from the night before. My usual spot, always the same table, same waiter who knew how to read me without staring. Then came the hair spa. The full-body massage. Bliss. Slowly, my fraying nerves began to ease. Damon spoiled me shamelessly. Held my purse like a loyal attendant. Even assisted me in the PWD restroom with the same tenderness he reserved for brushing my hair or buttoning up my blouse. It’s strange. I’m blind—but I see him more clearly than anyone else ever has. He’s like a nurse. A devoted caregiver. A man obsessed. Or maybe... maybe I’m just lucky. Blessed with a husband who worships me in ways I never asked for. After the spa, I was drained. "Let’s go back," I murmured. "I want to sleep. And wash properly." "Okay," he said, rubbing my arm gently. "Do you want me to carry you?" "No." I appreciated the day—well, most of it. But between the cramps and the bleeding, even pleasure felt like effort. The massage had helped a little, their skilled hands easing the tight pain in my abdomen, but the fatigue remained. When we got home, I thought I’d simply wash up, put on my pajamas, and slip into bed. But Damon had other ideas. He put on a movie. Talked about snacks—chocolates, popcorn, sweet things I didn’t even have the stomach for. I just wasn’t in the mood. "You can leave," I said, nudging him away. "Give me my phone and headset. I need to go over a few emails." To my surprise, he didn’t argue. Just handed them over obediently. Like a dog. Honestly, it was a perk of being... differently beautiful. Damon, this powerful, dangerous man, was utterly at my feet. I scrolled through the emails as he curled around me like a warm shadow. His kisses landed softly on my cheeks, then my shoulder. "I’ll get you a heat pad," he whispered. "Call me if you need anything. I’ll be right outside—just catching up on work." "Hmm." I barely responded, letting his voice melt into the background. His warmth left me for a moment, then returned. He placed something warm and soft on my stomach. The heat seeped through, soothing. "Livana," he said softly, "I’m sorry, my wife. But we need an heir soon, okay? Let’s work hard." "Fuck you," I muttered, snuggling deeper into the pillows. His quiet laugh rumbled against my back as he kissed my shoulder again. I don’t remember what happened after that. Every time I bleed like this, it feels like slipping into a fog. Like my body and mind just want to disappear for a while. Still... something gnawed at me beneath the comfort. A sliver of worry I couldn’t shake. "Damien," I murmured. Damon pressed closer. "Hmm? Why mention his name?" "Is he home? With Laura?" "Yes. Laura’s safe." I exhaled, the tension finally loosening in my chest. Good. At least one thing was right in the world.