Chapter 99: Her Housewife

Chapter 99: Her Housewife –Livana– My poor husband must be exhausted. It had been a quick love-making session after our bath—so quick, in fact, he forgot to lather me with lotion. He almost didn’t even make me climax. Almost. I ran my fingers through his damp hair, slowly drying it with the hair blower while he drifted in and out of sleep. His breathing was shallow, warm against my skin. He murmured something I couldn’t quite catch—muddled words lost between sleep and satisfaction. Once his hair felt dry beneath my fingers, I quietly walked to the dresser and returned the blower to its place. I changed into my home clothes—soft cotton that whispered over my skin as I moved. My hand brushed along the familiar textures of the fabric, grounding me. I turned my attention back to my husband. He was still fast asleep, his breathing steady, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm. Dinner wouldn’t be ready for another three hours. Let him rest, I thought—and so, I let myself nap beside him. I woke midway through, a faint pressure in my head telling me it was close to six-thirty. I eased out of bed, the sheets rustling beneath my fingers. Slipping into my fluffy slippers, I stood and stretched, letting the lingering warmth of sleep fade from my limbs. With my walking stick in hand, I stepped into the hallway. The air outside the bedroom was cooler, carrying with it the clean, crisp scent of lemon polish and a faint trace of fabric softener. I inhaled slowly, noting how the subtle fragrance clung to the walls like memory. I traced the quiet sound of breathing to the living room. There—on the sofa—Caine lay sound asleep, a blanket loosely thrown over him. His shoes were placed neatly beside the couch. Someone had taken care of him. Thoughtful. Predictable. Did Deanne handle that? I wondered. What exactly were they doing for the past three days? Did they even sleep? I made my way toward the dining hall, the distant aroma of basil and roasted vegetables guiding me. Deanne had set the table—meticulous as always, with our usual arrangement in place. We didn’t have a maid, but that didn’t mean my husband would get away with skipping the kitchen cleanup later. "Thank you, Deanne." "Sure. No problem at all," she replied casually. "And did you take care of Caine? How thoughtful." She continued setting the cutlery with deliberate calm. "I think Grandpa’s really hungry." I mumbled when she didn’t respond to my teasing. "Yes. Dinner will be here in thirty minutes. Wake your husband—and the man on the sofa." "Hmm." I nodded. "I’d like some fruit." Without a word, Deanne retrieved a prepared bowl of mixed fruit. I extended my hand and felt the coolness of the glass bowl settle into my palm. "Have a seat," she offered, pulling a chair back for me. I slid in gracefully. She pushed a plate in front of me. The scent of kiwi and honeydew greeted me first. I picked up the small fork and slowly savored the tang of kiwi, the crispness of apple, the mellow sweetness of honeydew—textures and flavors bursting more vividly in the absence of sight. "Are they still watching us from the window?" I asked, never turning my face toward it. "Yes." Deanne exhaled. "It’s hard to pretend in your own home." "Hmm. I agree." "I’m starving," Caine announced, his voice approaching. "Hello, ladies." The refrigerator door opened. "The table setup is spectacular." "Deanne set it up," I replied. "And since we’re maidless, I assume you’ll take out the trash after dinner?" "Sure, just tell me where to toss it." He yawned. "Sorry I passed out on the sofa as soon as I arrived. Thanks for the care, by the way." From the quiet shift in the air, I could sense his attention. My peripheral awareness painted the image: Caine, eyes locked on Deanne. "I almost think you care about me," he said. "Do you like me, Deanne?" I smirked. "Wow. You ask so boldly." "I think you’re still dreaming, Caine," Deanne answered, handing him a fruit bowl. "Behave yourself. The government is still watching from the penthouse window." "Okay, baby. Got it." He even had the nerve to wink. I had my back to the window but a clear sense of their flirtation. "Don’t call me baby, shithead." Deanne’s voice snapped like a whip. "Ouch." Caine clutched his chest in mock pain. I allowed myself a quiet smile. Amusing. "You really are an Ice Queen," he said. "Thanks for the fruit. By the way, where’s my room?" Deanne sighed, as if resisting the urge to throw something at him. "D, please show this man his room." I finished the last bite of apple as I felt my phone vibrate against the fabric of my dress. I slid a hand into my pocket, took it out, swiped, and placed it to my ear. "Boss, this is Sparrow. Reporting." "Hmm. Speak, Sparrow." "We intercepted a human trafficking group in our zone. As you ordered, we turned them over to the government." "Excellent. Leave quietly. We don’t need them sniffing around. Let them take the credit—keep our work hidden, and their egos fed." "That’s all for now." "Be careful." I ended the call and placed the phone gently on the table. The doorbell rang. I waited. It rang again. I finally stood and, with my walking stick, headed to the front door. My fingertips found the edge of the monitor screen. I pressed the speaker button. "Who is it?" "Delivery." "Please leave it by the table." I kept my face trained toward the monitor, sensing his hesitation. He didn’t leave. "I got this," Deanne said, patting my arm. She opened the door and handed the man a tip. He nodded stiffly, helmet still on. Suspicious. Deanne examined the paper bags, brought them in, and immediately dialed the receptionist. "Hello, this is Anne from the Athena Penthouse. The delivery man kept his helmet on. I thought we agreed that it was against policy?" Savage, I thought with admiration. "We’ll look into it." Get his identification and report back. He’s on his way down," the receptionist assured her before hanging up. "Wow," I murmured. Deanne checked the contents. "I’ll sort these out in the dining hall." "Okay." I grinned, tapping the floor lightly as I walked back to our bedroom using my stick. I approached the bed, felt around until my hand landed on my husband’s face. His skin was warm, the texture familiar. I caressed him. Then, for fun, I pinched his nose. He jolted, breathing through his mouth. "Are you trying to kill me in my sleep?" he asked groggily, pulling my hand away. "No. If I were, I’d cover your mouth too," I said with a grin. He chuckled, cupped my face, and kissed me. "Deanne’s setting dinner. And you will be doing the dishes." "Oh?" he smiled against my lips. "Didn’t see that one coming." –Deanne– I checked each of the food containers—still sealed, just as the restaurant had promised. Good. Still, I didn’t trust them. One by one, I reheated each dish in the microwave, monitoring temperature and scent. No metallic tang, no off textures. Just warmth and aroma. Still, I plated them myself, arranging everything precisely. No room for error. Caine appeared beside me, stretching like a cat that hadn’t done a thing all day. "I wonder..." he mused. "You’re acting like a housewife." "Yes," I replied coolly, not even glancing at him. "I’m Livana’s housewife." I adjusted the final plate with a swift flick of my wrist, then headed to Grandpa’s bedroom. I knocked gently, out of habit more than necessity. The door was ajar—he always left it like that. Paranoia disguised as openness. He looked up from his reading, eyes narrowing behind thick lenses. "Yes, dear?" "Dinner’s ready, Grandpa." "Oh, about time!" He reached for his cane, steadying himself with practiced ease. "You girls take forever plating." "Do you need help?" I asked, already turning. "No, dear. I’ve still got some fight left in me." I returned to the dining hall. Damon was already there, guiding Livana into her chair like a dutiful prince. Cute. "How about wine?" Damon offered. "I’ll pass on the wine, love," Livana replied sweetly. "Are you pregnant already?" he teased. I cringed and rolled my eyes so hard it could’ve cracked the chandelier. Livana only giggled as I untied my apron and hung it on its hook. I glanced toward Grandpa, now settling into the head of the table like the old general he was. I made my way to the opposite side and paused—Caine had already pulled out my chair, gesturing like a smug butler. "Thank you." I slid into my seat gracefully. He took the spot next to me like it was always meant for him. I crossed my legs, the silky fabric of my skirt brushing my calf, and ran my fingers lightly over the cool metal of the gun hidden beneath the table. Just in case. "So..." Damon eyed the spread. "Each dish is already sliced—and missing a piece?" "I had to taste each of them," I said simply, slicing my steak with effortless precision. "We taste everything," Caine added, mouth already full. "Including sauces and sides. Standard protocol." Damon raised a brow. "Interesting. Then maybe we should stop ordering takeout?" He turned his full attention to me, and I met his gaze without blinking. "Do you expect me to cook?" He smirked. "I’m a terrible cook. And since Caine pointed out you’re like a housewife..." I turned my head slowly toward Caine—already on his fourth bite of steak and clearly enjoying himself too much. "You heard that?" I said flatly. "Let me be clear: I’m not cooking for you." Grandpa chuckled as he cut into his food. "We could just eat out. How about a late-night drive-thru run?" "Now that’s a plan!" Caine grinned, raising his glass. Then—the doorbell rang. All movement ceased. Forks hovered mid-air. Knives paused against plates. The tension sliced through the room sharper than any blade. No one expected visitors at this hour. "Did anyone call an Uber? Or order anything else?" I asked. A chorus of "Nope" followed, tight and synchronized. Great. Now I had to deal with whoever was at the front door. And I had to make sure they didn’t leave breathing.