Flash Marriage: In His Eyes Chapter 188: To Listen

–Livana–

There are only two families in the courtroom—ours and hers. Only my father and his daughter are seated on my step-mother’s side. I can sense the tension humming under Grandma Olivia’s stillness; she is trying very, very hard not to kill the girl she was forced to raise—the living reminder of my grandfather’s infidelity.

I keep my sunglasses on and my hat low. My husband sits to my left, our fingers interlaced, a silent tether. Beside him is Grandma Olivia, and next to her is Grandpa Reagan. Behind us, our bodyguards stand in quiet vigilance, dressed discreetly so as not to draw attention but unmistakably present.

I almost expected Tyrona to appear, but pregnancy gives cowards a convenient exit strategy. She has likely fled to another country. I do not follow her movents. My attention is reserved for larger things than frightened won running from consequences.

We’ve only been seated for three minutes when the clerk announces courtroom etiquette. We rise, we sit, the dance begins. The judge’s voice is steady and monotonous—asured, ceremonial—almost enough to make drowsy. If he is a servant of justice, then he is a servant paid by my taxes, and he can at least work for his supper.

Grandma’s hand slides across my arm in a subtle search for comfort. I squeeze her fingers gently in reply. She needs the reassurance, not I. The footage plays again, the sa incident dissected for the thousandth ti. The judge has already decided internally—I can sense it—yet he withholds his verdict like a miser hoarding coins.

My father is called. I expected deflection, excuses, a performance of denial. Instead, he stares at —steadily, remorsefully—and claims it was an accident. A coward’s compromise between confession and absolution.

But my aunt...

"I am not guilty," she declares, turning her eyes toward us, not the judge. "She’s the one who tried to pull . I defended myself." Her tone is polished, rehearsed, deceptively sincere. When the footage is replayed, mother appears to have grabbed her first. My legal team slowly exhales through their teeth—they see the complication as clearly as the judge does.

The judge sits there like an idol of stone, pretending to listen, though conviction has already settled behind his eyes. He won’t speak it yet. I don’t want him to—not now. Let Casey drag her own chains a little longer. Let her feel the walls closing inch by inch before the verdict crushes her. Acceptance shortens a sentence, but dread stretches ti like a rack.

There were also countless assassination attempts—on , on my sister. They have not yet found the one responsible for planting the bomb in her car. It will surface soon. Everything does.

After three hours of proceedings and an hour of recess, the air begins to taste stale. Courtrooms always sll faintly of varnish and regret. My husband steadies a palm against my back as we exit, his touch grounding, his warmth like a hearth after the cold marble of litigation.

Our bodyguards scatter into the crowd with practiced normalcy.

"Let’s go to the mall," I murmur.

"But babe—" his hesitation carries worry.

"Please."

He sighs. "Then I can close up the mall so we can—"

"Dumb ass." I flick my fingers lightly in his direction. "You don’t need to close the mall. You’d lose millions in a day."

"I think we should go to the mall," Grandma Olivia says swiftly, almost as if she needed the reprieve as much as I do. "I want to buy a new set for the twins."

I smile faintly. Even Choco, quietly padding alongside us, seems excited at the thought.

We arrive at the most extravagant mall Damon owns—a monunt of glass and marble where wealth floats through the air like perfu. People co here not to shop, but to be seen shopping.

"Try these," Damon murmurs, placing miniature shoes into my hands—soft fabric, delicate bows. "Pink and blue. They’ll look adorable for their photoshoot."

"They can’t wear these yet," I remind him.

"Oh, I know. But we’ll buy them anyway." Into the basket they go—of course.

"Dear, I think this will look good on you."

Grandma presses a dress into my hands—soft fabric, flowing, comfortable. A maternity dress. My fingers run over the material even though I can already see the silhouette in my mind.

"Let’s buy it," Damon says imdiately.

"Try it on first," Grandma insists.

I hum in acknowledgnt.

"I’ll assist you," Damon says with a low chuckle, guiding to the dressing room. It is large, draped in light, lined with mirrors. I remove my sunglasses, and he helps slip into the dress. It glides over my skin with effortless grace.

I turn toward the mirror. It fits beautifully. His silence tells his admiration is louder than words.

"Let’s get more of those," he decides, grinning. He helps change again, then leads back out where Grandma seems to have already claid half the maternity section.

We continue gathering baby clothes for the twins. Grandpa browses with quiet amusent.

"Zayvier will look handso in this," he chuckles, setting aside a tiny formal suit. Then he picks up a small floral dress. "And our little princess—stunning. Ah—who am I kidding? They’ll both own every room they enter." He laughs and hands them to the assistant.

Eventually the van is loaded with bags, though we return to the mansion in the Humr. Laura greets us the mont we arrive, peppering us with questions until Damien gently reins her in.

But then I halt—because a Bishop is waiting. A dark, solid figure. Commander White. Loyal protector of the Lancaster identity and my mother’s shadow shield.

"Liva," Louie greets lightly. "I brought gifts for our Vice-Chair." He flashes a grin.

"Thank you for visiting, Louie," I reply. "Let’s head to my study."

"Babe, we just arrived," Damon mutters beside .

"I want pasta," I say simply, raising my hand as Commander White approaches. He offers his forearm, and I take it. I do not want to see Damon’s sour expression, but Commander White is older—almost like a godfather figure. Loyal to my mother long before her enemies learned to fear her. I trust him.

I unlock my office and enter. My sunglasses co off as I cross to my seat. Louie opens the briefcase and presents the latest reports on the shipnts.

"Interesting," I murmur. I turn toward Commander White. "The Federal Agency is trying to disrupt our plans. What do you propose?"

"They intend to help her escape prison before the second hearing," he replies. "I think we should let them."

My brows lift. "Why?"

"So we can involve INTERPOL—and in the process, trap the undercover agents searching for that drive. Once they overstep jurisdiction, we hold the leash."

"Mmm. Interesting." I nod once. "Then we proceed."

"You agreed that quickly?" Louie asks, astonished.

"I trust Commander White." I smile faintly. "Now, let us eat. I believe my husband is either finished cooking pasta or still being bullied into it by my mother-in-law."

"We also visited the heirs beforehand," Commander White adds. "I delivered the gifts to the twins and their mother."

"Thank you." I rise gracefully. "Commander."

"Yes, my Queen."

"Tell the Pawns guarding my sister and the twins that I am grateful for their vigilance. And their loyalty."

He bows. "We will not let anything happen to them."

Good.

"Co," I say softly. "Let’s eat."

We descended the stairs together. I resu the mask—blind, docile, unthreatening. My husband is already in his apron beside Amiliee, who has clearly prepared half the al already. Quick, efficient. My two worlds—dostic warmth and silent war—colliding in the sa kitchen.

And for now, I let them.

Here is the enhanced version with Japanese beside each spoken line as requested. I kept Jane’s voice sharp, direct, emotionally unreadable, and her assassin instinct present in the narration.

–Jane–

I ditate—composing myself and bracing for the only battle I’ve never fully conquered: myself.

A day off does help unclutter the mind. Logan isn’t around the villa, David is still snoring sowhere, and Chef Wally remains possessed by whatever culinary demon he’s currently exorcising through his "practice."

The steady tok... tok... tok of bamboo and water is enough to quiet everything—until footsteps approach. Light, but not light enough. I rest my hand on the katana strapped to my hip, body already reading intent before reason enters.

Steel clears the sheath in a single breath.

A heartbeat later, I stopped.

Keiko’s startled face ets the tip of the blade.

I slide the katana back with a practiced, silent motion.

"Keiko. Sonna fū ni haigo kara shinobiyoru na." (Keiko. Don’t sneak on like that.)

She fidgets, eyes dropping before she speaks.

"Ano... may I... taalku to you?"

"Sure."

I stand and face her directly—no softness, no misinterpretation.

She hesitates, then gathers her courage.

"Anata... Masutā Rōgan no koto... suki desu ka?" ("Do you... like Master Logan?")

I stare at her for a long mont—expression flat, unreadable.

"Ha?"

"Kare no koto, suki desu ka?" ("Do you like him?")

Her accent is adorable—unfortunately, I’m not.

I exhale a quiet breath and shake my head.

"Like him? Sexually? Emotionally?" I chuckled bitterly. "Watashi wa dare mo suki ja nai. Shinpai suru hitsuyō wa nai wa, Keiko." (I don’t like anyone, Keiko. You don’t have to worry.")

But she lowers her gaze—still torn, still vulnerable.

She speaks softly. "Kare no koto ga suki. Watashi wa Rōgan wo aishiteru. Demo, kare wa todokanai dareka wo ima mo omoi tsudzuketeru. Dakedo... anata ga kite kara, kare wa anata no koto wo kuchi ni shita."

("I care for him. I love Logan. But he is still in love with soone he can never reach. However... ever since you arrived, he has spoken about you.")

I fold my arms.

"Look," I sighed. "Last night, I didn’t know he was there. I was sleepwalking. And Logan is not my type." I added. "Anata-tachi no aida de nani ga okiteiyō to, watashi ni wa kankei nai." ("I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but it’s none of my business.")

Her sadness lingers in the silence, but sentint doesn’t move . I don’t have the space for it. Nor the interest.

Logan is irrelevant.

Keiko’s heartbreak is survivable.

And I am not here to fix either of them.