—Livana—
I had soone follow my sweet sister-in-law and Lore—not because I doubted them, but because affection, when left unguarded, becos a vulnerability. From the feed, they looked almost ridiculous in their innocence, wearing the sa jacket like an unspoken promise stitched between them. Two figures walking too close, too synchronized. A date, whether they admitted it or not.
They were adorable. Disarmingly so.
But tenderness never distracted from the board.
Our real focus was still the man nad Patrick.
There was sothing about him that lingered too long in my thoughts. The way he painted Alyssa—too passionate, too intimate for soone who claid to admire from afar rely. Art never lies. It always reveals desire. And when Alyssa brought Lore with her, Patrick’s disappointnt had been visible, seeping through his polite smile like ink bleeding into paper.
Then ca the interrogation.
The man they questioned looked kind, almost harmless, the sort people trusted without thinking twice. His voice was steady as he explained that the gift hadn’t co directly from him—that it was passed along by soone else. A friend of Alyssa’s. When photos were presented, his finger hesitated for a fraction of a second before landing on a face.
That pause told everything.
I think we got it.
I had expected Tyrona’s sister. Or Paul. Familiar enemies are predictable, almost comforting. But it was neither of them. It was soone else entirely—an anomaly, which made it dangerous.
Lore took over then, interviewing him about locations, timing, details so mundane they lull people into honesty. And just like that, he found it. He sent the file to us, and there it was on my screen: an unfamiliar face hidden behind eyeglasses and a cap. Anonymous. Intentional.
Louie worked quickly, tearing through records, databases, shadows. We found him eventually—across the café, working in a restaurant like a man who believed proximity made him invisible.
I tipped Lore subtly. He finished his cheesecake without urgency, wiped his mouth like this was just another casual afternoon, then took his drink to go.
Alyssa looked puzzled, her confusion soft and genuine, but she followed him anyway after a polite goodbye to her friend.
Upon reaching the restaurant, I rerouted our coverage. Lore’s secret body cara faded into the background as hacked security feeds blood across my screens. Every corner, every reflection—mine.
The waiter froze the mont Lore approached him.
Lore’s voice dropped, calm and heavy.
"Are you the one who gave that gift to Patrick?"
"I don’t know any Patrick," the man murmured, tension tightening his jaw. "Look, man. You need to leave."
"We’re here as custors," Alyssa cut in, smirking sweetly. "Show us a table."
He had no choice.
Lore sat, casual as sin itself, and began dismantling the man with silence, presence, and carefully placed questions. The waiter was terrified, but stubborn. He said nothing. Not because he knew nothing—but because he was hiding soone bigger.
That was enough.
Lore didn’t need words to plant a device. He never did. The real mastermind would surface soon enough.
"Hm." I glanced at Louie beside . We were in my mother’s company now, accessed through the secret passage that stitched my worlds together seamlessly. Laura and Damien were nearby, buried in docunts, unaware—or pretending to be.
"I think we’re done here," I said calmly. "Lore will deal with that."
"But what about them?" Louie asked, nodding toward the feed where Lore and Alyssa still sat together.
"Hey," I said lightly, hand settling on my waist. "Let your brother have his first girlfriend." Then I tilted my head, amused. "What about you? Why aren’t you married yet?"
"Wow," Louie scoffed. "That’s low."
"Fine. Whatever."
He sent a few final details to Lore before shutting down the channel. I turned toward the couple across the room, exchanging docunts with practiced precision, every page checked twice.
"So," Louie mused, "Lore can go on dates?"
"Yes, he can." I grinned. "He’s been down there for years." Then, softer—but sharper—"And I think Alyssa will be his first love." I smirked. "I canceled the contract days ago, but he still sticks with her."
"Do I sll an early wedding for an eighteen-year-old?" Laura shook her head, horrified.
"No!" Damien slamd a docunt down. "I won’t let that happen. They can date—but no marriage until twenty-five!"
There it was. The protective brother in full force.
Damien—and Kai—had been the ones who taught Alyssa how to drive like a maniac, how to own speed and danger. They had been more present than her actual brother—my husband.
Speaking of which...
Now I needed to go find him before he lost his mind again. He had been clinging to all day, restless, possessive, like fabric that refused to loosen its grip.
And honestly?
I didn’t mind at all.
— Lore —
I slipped into his phone like it was already mine—clean access, zero resistance. Dropped the link, scrubbed the logs, and deleted the trace before his brain could even buffer.
"I’ll call you," I told him.
He nodded, clueless.
We tipped him five hundred pesos—enough to keep him cooperative—and I hooked my fingers around Alyssa’s elbow, steering her back to where we parked. The pavent was warm, the air thick with exhaust and street food, neon reflections bleeding across the hood of the car.
"So," she asked as I opened the driver’s door and she slid in, "what now?"
"I’ll deal with it."
I circled to the passenger side, buckled up. She fired up the engine and eased out of the slot as she’d rehearsed it—smooth turn, flawless parallel exit.
Ten points.
Yeah. I underestimate her way too often.
She drove like the road was a solved equation. Calm hands. Perfect timing. While she navigated traffic, I pulled out my phone and ghosted into the guy’s digital life.
Cris.
ssy room, ssier connections.
Then I saw it—ssages.
Theresa.
Back-and-forth chatter about the gift.
My chest cooled as I exhaled. So it was Theresa.
"What?" Alyssa asked, glancing over.
"Nothing."
She narrowed her eyes. Irritated. Suspicious.
Adorably irritated.
"Don’t tell it’s just nothing. You know sothing."
"I’ll handle it," I said lightly. "I’ll tell you everything later. Let’s not ruin the date."
Silence stretched. The city humd around us—horns, engines, voices bleeding through cracked windows.
"Date?" she murmured. "Are you serious right now? You were dating soone like a week ago. And I didn’t agree to this being a date."
"Hey," I said, grinning, "just drive. Don’t argue with , okay?"
She rolled her eyes.
God—if she knew how badly I wanted to pull her closer in this new car, she’d never let hear the end of it. But I’m a gentleman.
...Mostly.
Self-restraint?
Right. Says the guy who kissed her when she was drunk.
"Lore!" She snapped her fingers in front of my face.
"Eyes on the road." I hissed.
"Why aren’t you answering ?" She pouted, brows creased.
"What was the question again?"
She scoffed, shook her head, and cranked up the volu. I reached over and dialed it back down. She huffed.
Star City lood ahead—bright, loud, alive. Traffic thickened, lights stacked like code blocks. I took her purse as we lined up for tickets, paid before she could even reach for her card, and held onto it as we stepped inside.
The place exploded with color—stalls packed shoulder to shoulder, rides flashing, music thumping through the concrete. We grabbed the unlimited pass. She sighed, crossed her arms.
"I don’t want my jacket to get wet, but I want to ride that."
She pointed at the boat ride—Jungle Splash—water shimring under harsh lights.
"They have lockers," I said, already reaching for her hand.
We paid. She slipped off her coat. White crop top. High-waisted leather pants. I sighed, shook my head.
"What?" she frowned.
"Why are you wearing underwear?"
"This is a crop top," she shot back, brows raised.
I knew better than to push it.
"Fine. Whatever."
I folded her coat carefully, slid it into the locker with her purse, then added mine. Ergency phone—check. Cash—check.
"There’s a long line," she murmured.
I redirected us to a nearby shop, racks of shirts lit by harsh fluorescents.
"Choose one."
"I’m not changing my shirt!"
I grabbed a black one anyway—slightly oversized—and handed it to her. She pouted, but she put it on. Victory.
We lined up again. I stayed behind her, close enough to shield, close enough to feel her warmth.
"Have you ever been here?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Oh, too bad."
"How about you?"
"Once. With friends. Dad and David usually took abroad."
I rested my hand on the rail beside her, leaning in.
"Rich kid."
She rolled her eyes. "You’re rich too. Treat to an expensive café later."
"I’m already treating you."
"You chose this place."
"Fine," I grinned. "Whatever."
The ride soaked us—exactly as promised. She peeled off the extra shirt, trying to dry herself.
"I can’t wipe my face with this. Let’s buy tissues."
I tugged off my shirt and handed it to her.
She stared. "My shirt is clean."
She shoved it back at my chest. "Put it on."
I did—white tank underneath, still decent. I gently dabbed her face anyway.
She hissed. "Never mind."
We laughed, waving our shirts to dry before putting them back on.
Star Flyer nearly ended .
I hated every second.
She scread, laughed, threw her head back like she trusted the sky not to drop her.
There were photos. I bought them all. She laughed so hard she nearly doubled over.
Next—bumper cars.
She was ruthless. Strategic. Kept slamming into on purpose.
A couple of guys tried their luck—bumping into her, flashing smiles, apologizing too sweetly.
I ramd them harder.
Firewall engaged.
She didn’t even notice.
When we stepped out, I slung my arm over her shoulders while she scanned for the next ride.
"Let’s save the giant star wheel for later," I said. "Night view’s better."
"Whatever you want," she pouted. "Let’s get my purse. I’m starving."
" too."
And just like that—lights, laughter, chaos—I knew.
This wasn’t just a date.
It was already a system I wasn’t planning to shut down.
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