Chapter 22: The Blackwell Dinner

–Livana–

I felt completely drained. Damon had taken me—twice. I managed to sleep for maybe an hour before he woke me again, overly excited to show me a collection of dresses I couldn’t even see.

He described each one in detail. I told him I wanted something powerful, yet subtle. He chose a white one—a snow-white shade, he said, a symbol of our new marriage. He even wore a matching plain T-shirt to match, as if pairing clothes would solidify whatever this was between us.

He was obsessed with the idea of us being a couple. I was tired of it.

He suggested we go on a date, and I realized something then. I’d never been in a real romantic relationship—no dating, no boyfriend. Just one drunken mistake.

A one-night stand. With him.

“You look gorgeous, baby,” he said.

If only he knew how much I hated pet names like that.

“I can’t wait to make love to you in that dress.”

I felt his fingers reach for my chin, lifting it gently.

“Smile, at least, my wife.” His face drew closer, his voice low and darker than usual. “No one will ever touch you here but me.”

“I’m suddenly craving cheesecake,” I said, pushing his hand away.

He moved, slipping into sandals.

“I’ll take you on a tour after dinner.”

“That’s unnecessary.” I stood, raising my hand. He took it and brought it to his lips.

He guided me out across the carpeted floor.

“To your right is the staircase. Thirty steps straight ahead,” he explained.

We walked slowly, descending the twenty-step staircase. Then we wandered further—more like exploring than heading somewhere specific. Judging by the shifting sounds and occasional aromas, this mansion likely had at least three kitchens. Definitely a compound.

“Hello, lovebirds!” a familiar voice called out. David.

“By the way, I loved that cheesecake Damien brought,” he continued. “Laura said it was a limited edition flavor.”

I gave a noncommittal hum, but David remained cheerful.

“I had the biggest crush on your sister. Think there’s a chance—?”

His voice stretched with teasing, and I could just imagine him wiggling his eyebrows.

“I can’t wait to rip out your tongue,” Damon said cheerfully, but there was something sharp beneath it—something gleefully dangerous.

“Oh no,” I chimed in, “Laura already has enough burdens. She’s got Damien to worry about.”

Damon burst out laughing, and I heard more footsteps join us.

“Wow, that was cold, cousin-in-law,” Damien said, clearly grinning. “Your sister’s a pain in the ass. I don’t even know why I’m still best friends with her.”

Why were they always together, anyway?

“She’s been my sugar mommy ever since,” he added. “Can’t let go of that luxury.”

I tapped Damon.

“What’s for dinner?” I whispered.

He leaned in, his lips brushing close.

“Blood and human flesh.”

I wanted to punch him—but not here, not in front of his family. Maybe later.

“I’d rather be a pescatarian.”

“You are a pescatarian,” he said. “You don’t eat red meat unless I shove it into your mouth.”

We kept walking until I heard the sharp, purposeful click of heels echoing across marble. Someone is approaching quickly. We stopped.

“Are you happy now, Livana?” a woman sneered. “You ruined my dream wedding.”

I blinked. Tyrona.

“You can still marry another Blackwell and have the wedding you dreamed of,” I said flatly.

Damon chuckled behind me. “You never cease to entertain me, wife. Now, now… be a good girl, Tyrona. You don’t want to provoke my wife. She’s a monster when she’s hungry.”

“And I’m thrilled your dream wedding with Damon is ruined,” I added with a smirk. “I honestly wanted to drown you, too.”

“Ooh,” David murmured behind me.

“You’re lucky my parents didn’t demand your head. I would have.”

I kept my voice calm, but it carried weight.

“You should’ve died that day,” Tyrona spat.

“Fortunately,” I said, clinging to Damon’s arm, “I had a savior. He still chooses me. Over you.”

“Damn,” David muttered again.

“Alright,” someone clapped—probably Damien. “Let’s eat.”

A gentle shove nudge us forward.

We took our seats. I traced the silverware in front of me, recognizing each piece by shape and placement. Damon whispered in my ear.

“Red wine is on your right, if you want a sip.”

“I need something stronger,” I whispered back.

He laughed softly. “You always make love with me when you’re drunk.”

“Of course,” I replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Hello, everyone!” came the most familiar voice of all—Laura.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Damien said. I imagined them kissing dramatically in front of the whole Blackwell family. Two Carringtons dining with the enemy. What a show.

“Hey, sis,” Laura’s cheek brushed mine. “Damon, family-in-law, hope you’re enjoying the cheesecake.”

“Oh yes,” David said, pleased.

“Do you make matcha cheesecake?” asked Alyssa.

“Not yet,” Laura answered. “But we hired a Japanese pâtissier who specializes in matcha. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

“Send it straight here.”

“You’ll have the first taste.”

Laura sounded bright and cheerful, like this was just any dinner—not a gathering of rival families under one fragile roof.

“Thanks for inviting me. I know it’s probably a shock about Damon and Livana.”

A woman hummed. Damon’s mother, I assumed.

“The cheesecake isn’t bad.” Damon’s mother commented.

“My sister and I always loved cheesecake,” Laura explained, tone softening. “Our mom used to bake it for our birthdays. We found her recipe… Livana wanted to share that taste. I guess, we wanted to remember her always, by commemorating her and sharing her recipe with the people.”

There was a quiet pause. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I didn’t want emotion to betray me.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Laura finished gently.

The room filled with the sounds of clinking utensils. I ate slowly. Laura complimented the dishes and thanked the cooks—something our mother taught us. Always acknowledge the hands that feed you.

“So, Livana,” a woman asked—Tyrona’s mother, most likely—”how do you plan to take care of Damon’s daily needs, considering your… condition? In the Blackwell family, women are expected to support their husbands.”

“Why would I do that?” I said coolly. “I have my own money. I can hire someone to do it. Besides, his only real ’need’ is sex.”

“Livy,” Laura hissed.

“I didn’t marry to become a maid. Or a submissive wife. I don’t follow Blackwell traditions. Maybe Tyrona can, if she finds a husband—just not mine.”

I set my utensils down with a soft clink.

“She’s savage,” David whispered.

Damon, beside me, laughed out loud.

“So… Do we have wedding photos?”

I barely remember the rest of that dinner. It felt endless.

Later, Damon brought me outside. I sank into a soft, round sofa. The wind was crisp and carried the scent of something floral—jasmine, maybe. He uncorked something, a wine bottle, I think.

“I was thinking… we should make love out here,” he said.

“Fuck off.” I pulled a cushion onto my lap.

“Nope, that won’t do.” He smothered my face with kisses. At least his breath was minty.

“Fuck,” he sighed. “Let’s make it quick, then go inside.”

“What the hell—”

He pinned me, kissed me hard, and before I knew it, my legs were around him. We moved together, still clothed, under the blankets. It was wild. Desperate.

I tried hard not to moan too loudly, but Damon was growling like an animal—like he was straining to control himself, holding back a beast. But that beast was just his unbearably horny self. Flashes of our first time together flickered in my mind—messy, desperate, raw. This moment felt almost exactly like that. A strange blend of bliss and pain.

Damon covered me with kisses, relentless and hungry, and he didn’t stop until I finally drifted off to sleep in his arms. The drug still hadn’t worn off. He made me drink more water while I sat dazed in the cold bath. Even there, we fucked like we couldn’t get enough of each other. And somehow, remembering those moments—those last vivid memories before everything went dark—only turned me on even more.

Afterward, I felt limp, boneless. He carried me bridal-style through the hallways. Back in the room, he gently applied eyedrops, then undressed us both.

“Damn it, close the damn door!” Damien shouted. The door slammed shut.

“Why’d you forget to close it?” I hissed. He only laughed and held me tighter, pinning me against the wall. More kisses, more fire. I lost count.

Later, I felt warm water—his hands lathering soap across my skin, rinsing, drying, tucking me into bed. How the hell did he still have energy?

Morning came. I stirred, sluggish and tangled in his arms.

And then—

I blinked.

There was something… a shift.

Light?

I blinked again. A dim glow framed the blackness that usually covered everything. Something pale. A vague shape.

I raised my hand. I could see… part of it. Faintly. A blur.

But something black—something thick and immovable—still blocked the center of my vision.

“Good morning,” Damon murmured beside me.

I turned my head toward his voice.

And I saw—no, not clearly, not fully—but something. A blur of skin and shadow.

My hand reached toward the heat of his chest.

Was he always this strong?

Was I… finally seeing again?

Or was this just another illusion of hope?

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