Flash Marriage: In His Eyes Chapter 129: His Madness, Her Majesty

–Damon–

Is it just ? Or is madness the only natural state when you’re married to soone like Livana? I swear, the thought of what my wife is doing at this very mont gnaws at like a rat behind the walls. I haven’t seen her at the office lately. She’d look dangerously seductive with those glasses perched on her nose—oh, wait, she’s blind. But that doesn’t make her less lethal. No, she reads the world in braille and commands a keyboard made for the sightless—yet sohow, she still sees right through .

I think about her too much. I fantasize about her too much. It’s not even healthy. But what’s health compared to obsession? She’s the only woman who exists in the constellation of my mind. My graceful ghost orchid—rare, untouchable, and poisonous if mishandled.

"Focus!" Caine snapped, pulling back from my pleasant hallucination. "Stop daydreaming."

I turned my head slowly and looked at him with whatever look a man wears when he’s drowning in love and lunacy. I don’t know if my eyes said I want to kill you or I want to marry you for telling to stop thinking about her. Probably both.

"My wife is a ghost orchid," I murmured dreamily. "And when she wears that black dress... God." I pressed my palm to my cheek like so blushing boy who just got a peck on the cheek from his first crush. Pathetic? Maybe. I call it devotion.

"Oh, damn," he muttered under his breath. "I think I lost you." He stood abruptly. "Co on. Let’s get you to a hospital. You need serious dication."

"Yes," I agreed with a sigh. "Take ... back to my wife."

He didn’t. He dragged out of the office like so misbehaving dog.

"You got this, bro," he said, gripping my arm as if that would anchor to sanity. "Take her off your head just for a few hours. Let your brain breathe."

He didn’t understand. No one did. My life begins and ends with Livana. She’s the map, the territory, the storm and the harbor. I don’t just love her—I orbit her like a dying planet hoping for gravity. If I can’t have her beside , then at least let stalk her. A discreet live cara feed would be perfect, but Deanne is always there like a hawk, guarding her, depriving of my harmless voyeurism.

How cruel can they be to a man in love?

Caine hauled to so café, a civilian’s idea of comfort. He bought a milk tea and shoved it into my hands.

"Livana loves these," I murmured.

"Yeah, go ahead, drink," he waved off, already tired of my face. "Stop being so dumb, Damon. People are watching us."

I sipped it. The drink had black round things at the bottom—what do you call them again? Ah, pearls. My wife likes these pearls. Now I like them, too.

"I think Livana forgot to give you your dicine," Caine added, his voice a distant echo. I barely heard him; I was too busy cataloging the shadows at the corner of the café. CIA, probably. Or soone worse.

"Co on, cheer up. Focus on the project," he patted my arm.

"Call Deanne. Let’s have lunch with them," I suggested.

"She told not to bother them. They’re busy."

I slumped back like a starved cat, listless, waiting. His orders arrived—pasta, sliders, more food I didn’t care for.

"Eat. Maybe it’ll help your brain think about sothing other than your wife."

"You’re killing my appetite with your words," I muttered, picking up a mini burger anyway.

Then—click, click, click. High heels, a stench of perfu that burned my nostrils. I looked up and there she was. The woman I would love to strangle with piano wire—Tyrona.

"Damon, hello," she chirped, sliding into the chair beside like a snake slipping into a warm hole. Livana’s half-sister sat beside Caine. A virus with a smile. Tyrona grabbed a burger slider like she owned it. I shifted away as though her skin might peel mine.

"I’m losing my appetite," I grumbled to Caine. "Next ti, hire bodyguards who shoot first."

"Oh, stop being so an, Damon." She laughed—an irritating, tinny sound. "Still rattled every ti I’m close to you?" Her voice was sweet, but her eyes were all daggers. Revenge. That’s what she wants. I know. I killed her lover.

I leaned close, let my smirk crawl across my lips like a scar forming.

"Don’t flatter yourself, Tyrona. You’re nothing to ." I leaned back with a sigh. "If it wasn’t for Livana, I’d have already buried you sowhere scenic. But my sweet, rciful wife told to avoid unnecessary enemies."

Tyrona’s smirk deepened. "Tell Livana I’m going to take you from her," she said smoothly. "The sa way she took Alejandro from ."

"Oh?" I turned to Caine, he shook his head, already exhausted. "You an kill ?" I chuckled, low and bitter. "Oh, darling." My voice dripped with sarcasm. "Good luck with that. My wife is territorial. She’d skin you for sport."

But then—oh. What a thought. The idea thrilled like a blade sliding too close to the skin without cutting. My wife, enraged—feral yet divine—her dominance spilling over like wine staining silk. Protective, territorial, dangerous. I imagined the veins in her neck surfacing like angry rivers, her words scalding enough to blister the air. I grinned, suddenly alive, a moth salivating for the fla. I haven’t truly seen that side of her—not yet. She’s always been the picture of poise, the calm before a storm that never cos. And God, how I ache to be the storm that drags it out of her.

"I agree with you, Tyrona." I reached for her arm and shook it gently like a madman congratulating his executioner. "Do it." My grin widened as I sipped the bubble tea. "Enjoy the food. Summon your n. Try to catch . Let’s have a little action." I stood, feeling the electric rush of a dangerous ga.

"You are a fucking lunatic," Tyrona spat.

"I’m not joking," I told her earnestly, almost tenderly. "Do it. Call crazy, but my wife looks devastatingly sexy when she’s furious. I live for that. Her wrath is foreplay."

Caine buried his face in his hands. Tyrona glared. ? I was already imagining Livana’s voice slicing the room like a blade, her fingers on my collar like a leash. Just the thought made my pulse spike.

–Deanne–

Livana sighed and pald her face like a queen massaging her own patience. She was stressed—no, burdened—by that stupid husband of hers, who behaved less like a CEO and more like a runaway from a ntal asylum with good hair. And the irony? It wasn’t Tyrona who looked like a fool today; it was Damon, in all his lovesick, darkly codic glory.

Tyrona wanted to trigger Damon’s "dark aura," that famous ominous, domineering presence that made even n twice his size tread carefully. But what did she end up summoning instead? His "madly-in-love puppy aura." Tyrona clearly skipped the fine print on Damon’s psychology. She should know better—everyone with half a working brain does—that Damon is hopelessly, obsessively in love with Livana. There’s no neutral mode for that man. It’s either brooding predator or lunatic lover.

And Livana? That woman is the calm after the storm, the still surface of water that hides a leviathan underneath. She doesn’t show emotions easily, rarely expresses herself unless the universe itself asks her to. If Tyrona thinks killing Damon would destabilize her—oh, sweet sumr idiot—she has no idea. Killing Damon would probably give that man the thrill of his life, a final act of passion. He would thank her for it just to make Livana’s heart skip a beat.

Caine’s voice snapped through my phone, laced with frustration, the kind that makes n prematurely grey. I had it on speaker, just to see Livana’s reaction while I stirred my coffee. She—surprise, surprise—laughed. Quietly, elegantly, but she laughed at Damon’s antics. This was the man known for being dark, domineering, and dangerous. Now? He was a tragicody on two legs, ruining his own fearso reputation just because he was hopelessly, clinically in love with his wife.

"I feel you," I muttered into the phone. "Alright, relax for a bit and just keep an eye on him, will you?" My tone softened like I was coaxing a worn-out babysitter who’d just survived a tantrum. And in this case, the tantrum’s na was Damon.

"Yeah," Caine grunted. "I don’t know what to do. I think my best friend hit his head sowhere."

Livana scoffed, a graceful, lethal little sound.

"I think he did hit his head," she said. "Tell him I’ll be coming ho late."

"Oh, no," I imdiately objected. "I can’t tell him that. You want him to go full demolition mode? Just co ho early and spare us the apocalypse. I’ll tell him you promised him—what—blowjobs, so he’ll stop pacing like a starving wolf and get back to work."

"Blowjobs?" Livana turned her head towards , one brow raised. "I don’t kneel for n. My husband kneels for ."

"Okay," I rolled my eyes, deadpan. "Royal decree accepted. Whatever keeps your marriage burning without setting the house on fire."

The truth? They were both insane. Livana and Damon—two beautiful disasters orbiting each other, defying gravity and sanity in equal asure. And here I am, stuck as their unwilling damage control, the designated fire extinguisher in their mansion of lunacy.