Flash Marriage: In His Eyes-Chapter 270: Tied by Emotions

–Livana–

I never expected him to cry—nor to call me again as if I were a miracle he had summoned.

A soft chuckle escaped me as I crossed the space between us. I wrapped him in a brief embrace, patting his back in quick, grounding strokes, the way one steadies a trembling glass before it shatters. He stepped away, flustered, wiping his tears with the heel of his hand before bending to retrieve the empty container from the floor.

"I’m sorry," he sobbed.

Damon handed him a pack of tissues. "Man, don’t cry. She’s alive, alright?" His hand tightened around the man’s shoulder. "You knew exactly what this meant." His tone carried warmth on the surface—yet beneath it, a blade gleamed, kind in delivery, unmistakably threatening in intent.

Chef Wally nodded, lips pressed tight.

From the moment he entered our orbit, I had been watching him. He passed every silent test. He never pried. Never whispered. Never betrayed.

I am slowly allowing the truth of my existence to ripple through my family circles. The newest stone cast into that water is Chef Wally. I need to see how far the waves travel—and who feels them.

Two years ago, when Logan and Jane were guarding my laboratory in Japan, Kenzo betrayed us.

I did not sever ties with their Empire. Not yet. I still have use for them. I could erase them all—but Kenzo’s father, the head of their dynasty, promised me something far more poetic: he would hunt his own son and place his head before me.

When I "died," that man grieved. He visited my grave every day for a month.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Perhaps it was devotion.

We reassured Chef Wally, and the household resumed its rhythm. He prepared the table alongside our mothers. I changed Sky’s clothes and lifted him into his high chair while Chef Wally animatedly explained his new recipe—salmon, infused with citrus and herbs. His eyes gleamed with pride.

He is the best. And I know that funding him, keeping him close, was the right choice.

"Tayku!" Sky exclaimed the moment his plate arrived. "Wow!" He clapped.

Both grandmothers laughed. I adjusted napkins, aligned plates, restoring order the way one aligns chess pieces before a match.

"Where’s Aly?" Mom asked.

"She needs to finish her sets before she eats this grand buffet," Amiliee replied.

"Poor little girl," Mom murmured. "I’ll make her something special later."

"We are here!" Laura announced. Footsteps echo in the hall.

Sky squirmed when he heard the twins.

"Perfect!" Mom said, hugging Laura, then me, then my son, showering him with kisses.

The twins moved from grandmother to grandmother, then to Damon, then to me. Damien embraced Amiliee and Ines. The kitchen swelled with noise and warmth as Damon lifted the children into their chairs.

House Commander Eagle entered and saluted.

"We managed to track the chopper and its owner," he reported. "Fortunately, it belongs to nearby homeowners."

I nodded.

"But we’re still checking them thoroughly."

"Thank you, Commander."

"Tayku, Mmamamder!" Sky mimicked.

Eagle smiled and saluted him back. Sky returned it proudly. The twins followed, tiny mirrors of devotion.

I glanced at my husband. He was filling his plate—but he replaced mine with his own, arranged exactly how I preferred. A small, intimate sovereignty.

"I was thinking," Damien said, "barbecue and pool party tonight? Pre-party for Alyssa’s birthday?"

"Barbecue and pool sounds great," I agreed—then hesitated, a faint ache stirring. My grandparents.

"How about we bring Grandma and Grandpa?" I asked Mom.

Her eyes widened.

"Maybe," she nodded.

"Perfect."

I sent instructions.

We ate. I shared eggplant salad and mango with Sky, selecting only the gentlest pieces.

"Daddy! Egg!" Zendaya demanded as Damien was about to scoop it onto her plate. Laura gently nudged him, a silent reminder. Damien paused, deliberately still, waiting.

Zendaya puffed her cheeks, then softened. "Egg, pleasseee."

"Okay." Damien smiled and served her a small portion of the creamy sunny-side-up.

"Taykuu, Daddy." Her voice was sweet and proud, as if she had just conquered a kingdom.

I glanced at Damon. The corner of his mouth lifted, eyes lingering on the little girl—already imagining a daughter or two of his own.

The kitchen remained a beautiful chaos.

"Take care of our Sky," I told Damon. "I have something to do." 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

I kissed them both and descended into the Nest.

I settled into my swivel chair, logged in, scanned the skies—every angle, every shadow.

Only then did I realize how tightly I had been holding myself together.

I had worn calm like silk.

But beneath it, fear pulsed.

If they learn I am alive, they will hunt.

They will reach for my family.

For Sky.

For the twins.

Tyrona already tried—with Alyssa.

I just wish Jane were here.

But Logan married her while she was drunk.

Of course he did.

I chuckled at that thought. It was sweet, yes—but also reckless. Logan’s move was foolish. He cornered that poor girl into marriage, and I still could not fathom what storm had passed through his mind to make him do it. Was it love? Or was it fear of losing her?

Either way, the board had shifted. Pieces displaced. Lines blurred.

Love, when wielded without foresight, becomes a blade that cuts its own hand. And Logan had always been brilliant with weapons—just not with hearts.

Still... what’s done is done. The Empire does not pause for broken logic or tangled emotions. I need them both—Jane and Logan—standing, breathing, fighting. Not fractured. Not uncertain.

Because this family, this empire we cradle like a living organism, cannot afford for its guardians to bleed inward.

–Jane–

I double-check everything in my bag—passport, burner phone, meds, spare cash. Zip. Unzip. Zip again. My hands keep moving even when there’s nothing left to fix. I don’t care about the dresses Logan bought me, the silk, the lace, the soft things that smell like him. He mutters something about sending them to our home. I don’t ask where that is. I don’t want to know.

He takes my briefcase the moment I finish zipping it and heads downstairs without a word. Efficient. Calm. Like this is just another morning.

I slip my disposable phone into my pocket and follow.

The sight of the luggage makes my brows knit together—huge cases, glossy, heavy. Too many. Then I remember Deanne’s shopping spree. Of course.

"Let’s go!" Logan’s voice is bright. Caine echoes him, equally cheerful.

Deanne loops her arm around mine as if we’re best friends going on a vacation. "Wait, wait."

We stand there while the boys load the van. The morning air is cool, carrying the faint smell of exhaust and cut grass. Deanne inspects her nails like this isn’t a tactical move across borders.

"When we arrive in the Philippines, let’s get our nails done," she says lightly. "Almond shape would look good on you."

"No, thanks." I yawn, crossing my arms, trying to fold myself smaller.

"I know you hate being married to Logan," she says softly, closer now. "But he really likes you. He loves you."

I swallow the urge to scoff. Love. That word feels heavy, dangerous. What I have with Logan is convenient—warm bodies, quiet nights, a shield against the dark. I can use him. He uses me. Fair. Clean.

Except it isn’t clean anymore. It’s legal.

"Come on, girls," Caine calls.

Logan walks past us to check something in the van. Deanne slides into the window seat. I watch as Caine fusses over her—pillows, a blanket, hands gentle, eyes soft. He closes the door, jogs to the driver’s seat. Logan follows, taking a shotgun.

I recline and close my eyes.

Sleep hits me like a trapdoor.

Warm lips brush my mouth. I flinch, shove at a face, heart spiking—then I open my eyes and see Logan’s grin hovering over me.

"Were you that tired last night?" he teases, kissing me again.

"Okay, hurry up!" Caine shouts from the front.

We’re already at the airport. The van door slides open. Our luggage is being unloaded toward a private jet gleaming under the sun.

"Do we have to remove our shoes?" I ask as Logan unbuckles.

"Not really."

I grab my purse, slide on my sunglasses. The heat hits my skin. Security surrounds us—private, armed. Beyond them, I notice familiar faces. Federal posture. FBI. My stomach tightens.

With Logan’s last mission, of course they’re watching. Me too, maybe.

A man in a suit approaches them, murmurs something. The agents step back. Leave.

"What’s going on?" Deanne asks, diva-curious.

The officer hesitates.

"Did you commit a crime in the past few days?" Logan asks Caine lazily. "Overspeed? Jaywalk?"

"I don’t remember?" Caine laughs.

My pulse doesn’t slow. This isn’t flawless. It never is.

We pass checkpoint after checkpoint. The jet waiting for us is being replaced by another that just landed. Someone steps out of it and waves.

Tall. Tan. Ash-brown hair. Blue eyes.

Recognition snaps through me.

Francis.

He’s closer now, more refined, more dangerous in a polished way.

"Hello." He shakes Logan’s and Caine’s hands, brief hugs, taps to the back. Deanne greets him with flirtatious ease. Caine only laughs.

"Indeed, he became more handsome," Caine says.

I shake Francis’s hand. He bows his head slightly.

"Jane."

I smile back, automatic.

"Alright, let’s go," Logan says.

I glance at our luggage being rolled forward. Each case is sealed. Locked. My mind runs ahead—wires, timers, explosives.

You’re paranoid.

"Don’t worry," Francis says, as if reading me. "We’ll recheck every piece."

"Thank you."

Logan’s hand settles at the small of my back. Possessive. Clear. I push it away. He lets it drop.

Relief flickers.

Then something else—tight, sharp.

He’s upset.

I shouldn’t care. I don’t want to care.

So why does it sting?