Chapter 87: Artistic Request

Chapter 87: Artistic Request –Livana– The doctor advised me to rest my eyes and avoid all devices. He had no idea I hadn’t told my family I could see. I continued with the eyedrops—Jane assisted me with them—and pretended to rely on her completely. But it wasn’t the devices that kept me up at night. It was Damon. I am currently in what I call my horny season. And I couldn’t ignore the fact that my husband had been getting hard every night, right beside me. It was almost painful to look at. I realized that even when I was blind, Damon had always been like this. He never spoke to other women, never flirted, never gave me reason to doubt. Still, I plan to test that—soon. The annual Blackwell Foundation Gala is tonight, and it would be the perfect time. All the high-profile guests would be there, including my grandparents from both sides. It was their way of publicly announcing two things: my marriage to Damon, and Damien’s engagement to Laura. "I got you the gowns," Damon said as he entered the room, voice low and warm. "You’ll look perfect in ivory." He paused. "They say it’s ivory, but it looks white to me." My lips twitched slightly. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or just rambling. "Whatever," I murmured, standing from my seat. "Help me put it on... whatever that is." Oddly enough, we were staying at the same hotel where I’d been attacked. Where I nearly died. And in the very same suite where Damon and I first had sex—Royal Suite 609. He approached me eagerly, helping peel off my silk robe with a grin plastered on his face. "Do you like my underwear?" I teased. He laughed and ran his hand along my hips. "Baby, you’re not wearing any." "Exactly." I smirked. "Now fetch my silk undies." He chuckled, grabbing the pale fabric from the bed, where it had been neatly placed alongside a seamless bra—chosen specifically to flatter the ivory silk gown. "Let’s make love first," he said as he kissed my shoulder. "Nope." I shook my head, stepping away. "You can have me after the event." He groaned in frustration, like a man truly trying to restrain himself. It took thirty minutes to get dressed—most of which was spent with him trying to convince me otherwise. The drive only took five minutes, but we were nearly late. I stared straight ahead, seeing them through my peripheral vision. Whispers. Stares. Curious eyes tracking our every move. They knew who I was. More importantly, they knew Damon was obsessed with me. He led me to our seats like a proper gentleman. For once, Damien was the one doing the talking on stage. I listened quietly to his speech. The Blackwell Foundation was strict about transparency—every cent accounted for, every donation backed by receipts. Even with charity work, people found ways to line their own pockets. But not here. "Mr. Blackwell?" A woman in a scarlet gown appeared in front of our table, blocking my view of the stage. She bent slightly—intentionally, clearly—letting her cleavage spill forward as she extended a hand to Damon. "Thank you for another year of support~~" she purred. Damon shook her hand briefly, expression unreadable. She lingered too long. "Who is it, love?" I asked coolly, placing a hand on his thigh. "The organizer of the event," he said nonchalantly, not bothering to introduce me. "I see." I gently placed my left hand on the table, letting the massive diamond on my finger catch the light. She turned to me. "Hello, Mrs. Blackwell. I’m Bea—the organizer." "Thank you for your hard work," I said, voice cold and laced with meaning. Damon turned his attention to me. His eyes devoured me, while his hand circled my elbow, drawing invisible lines on my skin. "I was thinking," he murmured, "we should leave the party early." I grinned as Bea finally took the hint and slinked back to her seat—but not without casting another glance our way. I lowered my gaze to Damon’s crotch. Calm. Unbothered. Hmm. Maybe she’s not his type. A blonde, perhaps? "What?" he asked, tilting my chin toward him and brushing his lips against mine. "My back aches a little," I murmured. He immediately slid his hand to my lower back and began to rub. After Damien’s speech, I met a few more people. They all knew who I was, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize—I was observing. Watching the women approach my husband. Studying their body language. And him? He seemed genuinely clueless. He didn’t react to any of them. Sometimes, I wonder—is Damon even a normal man? But then again, he’s not just a man. He’s mine. And he’s dangerously devoted. "By the way, is the Dela Vegas family involved in this too?" I asked. "Nah," he said, wrapping an arm around my waist. "They’re not part of this anymore. Let’s go home. I want to make love to you now." I chuckled—then paused. From across the ballroom, I caught a glimpse of a man in a sharp suit. Familiar. One of the faces I’d seen in the dossiers I was told to remember. My smile didn’t waver. Bernard Philips. He’s here—in the Philippines. And not just anywhere—he’s at this event? The very man I tortured back in Korea. The one who conspired with Tyrona, following the blueprint she composed, to orchestrate my near-death experience. We had an agreement. A silent one, sealed in blood and threats. So why is he here? It piques my curiosity—sharply. He wouldn’t dare show his face unless he had a reason... or unless he thought I wouldn’t see him. "Love," Damon’s voice cut through, deep and gravelly. "You’re not paying attention to me." I smirked, ever so slightly, and slid my hand over his chest, my fingers grazing the smooth fabric of his suit. "Darling," I purred. "Isn’t it exhausting being with you twenty-four hours a day?" He chuckled, low in his throat. "Hmm..." "Call Jane for me." Without question, he turned his head. "Jane." The moment her name left his lips, I stood, slow and graceful. "I’ll retreat to the powder room," I said, tilting my head slightly toward his voice, like a blind woman gauging her path. He leaned down and kissed my lips—firm, protective, and possessive all at once. "Call me if you need me," he murmured against my mouth. He grinned—no, he grinded the words into my skin like a promise laced with threat. As if he’d follow me even into the shadows. Good. I may need that. Because Bernard Philips just made the worst mistake of his life—showing his face before a woman who never forgets... and never forgives. –Sophia– Livana’s requests? Utterly impossible. The woman talks like a damn poet, then expects me to interpret her metaphors with the precision of a nuclear physicist. She said she wanted "fireworks" in the Vice President’s car. Naturally, I took that literally and packed the damn vehicle with premium-grade pyrotechnics. Roman candles. Chrysanthemum bursts. The whole New Year’s Eve package. And now the news outlets are calling it "a misguided assassination attempt crossed with a Fourth of July special." Turns out, what she meant was: make it explode—but don’t make it look like fireworks. Well. Maybe next time she’ll say "covert detonation" instead of "fireworks." I don’t do interpretive art. I do execution. And explosions. Preferably elegant ones. Next mission: humiliate a sleazy senator with a God complex and a very public mistress problem. Livana wanted to "tarnish his reputation." Her words. Then followed it up with: "Send him a stripper for his birthday." Okay, queen. Noted. But now I’m stressing over how exactly to wrap a stripper. Do I shove her in a cake? Ship her in a gift box? Slap a bow on her forehead and call it performance art? My phone chimed. I glanced down and frowned immediately—Bernard Philips. A grainy photo. Real-time. Timestamped. The bastard’s alive and smug, standing in a tuxedo like he owns the gala. "He’s there?" I muttered, swiping fast. Brows furrowed, I pinged his exact location through the tracking system. Confirmed. Philippines. Confirmed. Same event. Confirmed. Too damn close to Livana. I rang up the idiots—I mean, assets—who were supposed to keep eyes on him. "What the hell are you doing?" I snapped in a group call. "He’s not a ghost, people. He casts a shadow." I sat back and exhaled sharply. If he’s here, he’s not sightseeing. And if Tyrona’s name is even whispered in his orbit again, I swear I’ll put a bullet between his designer sunglasses. We had an agreement. The kind sealed with blood and blackmail and teeth. So, why is he walking freely into the Queen’s territory? To be safe, I dispatched a Pawn—one stationed near Livana. In fact, there were already five working that event. One disguised as a security guard, two as servers, and the last two embedded with the event organizers. I don’t play checkers. I play chess. And my board is fully stocked. Then... I looked at Kai. He was in the middle of push-ups. Shirtless. Gloriously sweaty. Those abs looked like they were carved by someone with a grudge against shirts. I let my eyes trail lower. Damn. Not just his arms. The whole package looks promising. Focus, Sophia. Now’s not the time for sexy daydreams and unholy thoughts about your coworker-slash-assassin-crush. I have a political scandal to gift-wrap and a possibly resurrected traitor slinking around a ballroom. Nope. No thoughts of Kai’s... dimensions. I sighed and stared at the design layout Livana sent me. She wants it "artistic." What does that even mean? Embroider a stripper’s thong? Gift-wrap shame with gold foil? I rubbed my temple. Being deadly is easy. Being artistic under Livana’s standards? Now that might kill me.