Flash Marriage: In His Eyes-Chapter 278: The Manipulator

–Jane–

I made sure to deploy more bikers after the van left—especially that specific big bike waiting at the gate of the executive subdivision. I monitored them closely: body cams, GPS, dash cams, the control room—Nest—every feed layered over the other until the picture felt airtight. Too airtight, maybe. I didn’t loosen my focus anyway.

"I was planning that we should visit our home."

"Hmm," I replied without looking at him. "It’ll be empty most of the time. There’s no need. And why purchase one?"

"I didn’t purchase it. It was a gift from my great-grandparents."

"Okay." I nodded, fingers still moving. "So... is any of your family present?"

"Nope."

That made me turn. My brows creased before I could stop them.

"Really?"

"I cut them off entirely." Then, softer, closer—he scooped my face with both hands. "Anyway. Let’s visit our house. Maybe renovate it the way you like."

"Whatever."

He grinned—slow, deliberate—and before I could react, he lifted me right off the swivel chair.

"There are cameras here," I warned.

"It doesn’t matter. We can delete it later."

"No." I shoved his face away, already preparing to knee him, but instead he knelt and buried his face against my chest like a menace with no sense of self-preservation.

I rolled my eyes, half-annoyed, half—no. Just annoyed.

I glanced at the live feeds anyway. Relief slid in when I saw that Francis had already ordered someone to clear the footage. Clean. Fast. Perfect. I sighed and nodded to myself.

Livana messaged me then—permission wrapped in indifference. I could do whatever I wanted with Logan. Honeymoon, escape, indulgence.

But I had other plans. I always did.

"Let’s visit that home," I said at last. "Is it far?"

"We can use the chopper." He grinned like he’d already won. "Are you in?"

I shrugged. Logged out of my account. Ran one last check to make sure Livana and the team arrived safely at Lore and Alyssa’s apartment. After that, they headed to a luxury mall so Livana could buy whatever caught her eye.

"Come on!" Logan exclaimed, irritation creeping in. "I prepared our clothes, our food, fed the cats—and the chopper’s ready."

I stood and followed him. He was extra clingy now, fingers lacing with mine as he pulled me along. We passed Lore’s room, headed to the East Wing. I changed into something comfortable, gathered what I needed. Paid my respects—Ines and Amiliee were in the gym doing Pilates. The grandparents were gambling in the south wing playroom, loud and unapologetic.

This mansion was absurdly large, yet everyone moved through it like it was just another ordinary day.

They only told me to rest. To have fun.

So I would.

At the helipad, Logan took the pilot’s seat while I co-piloted. The blades cut the air, the vibration sinking into my bones. He toured me—fields of mango trees spread out below, farmers and caretakers moving like dots.

Then the mansion came into view.

Old. Really old. Spanish-Filipino architecture, proud and weathered.

I frowned. "Why is your surname Maxwell when this house is clearly Spanish?"

He laughed softly. I didn’t miss it.

Maybe I should have researched him more thoroughly.

"Where do all the mangoes go?" I asked. "Sky loves those."

"Sky loves everything," he chuckled. Then, quieter, "You really love Sky. Like he’s your own son."

The comment lodged itself somewhere deep. I didn’t pull it out.

After landing, caretakers helped us unload. The moment we stepped inside, my eyes were drawn to an oil-painted portrait of a couple—elegant, severe, timeless.

"Those are my ancestors," he said. "We can remove it if you want."

"No. Don’t be stupid." I shook my head. "Why would I change anything?"

"You’re my wife," he said, grinning.

"Whatever."

He kept saying it—wife—like repetition would make it settle. Like it already had. And the way he gave me freedom—real freedom, no permission needed—made something warm and dangerous bloom in my chest.

"Let’s go to our room," he said. "They cleaned it up. We’ll have people repair most of it."

"Preserve it," I corrected. "Change a few things if needed, but preserve the style. This house is ancient. I like it."

I barely had time to register my own words before he scooped me up again, carrying me upstairs. I squirmed, annoyed—and not.

"I’ll take you to the master bedroom," he said, then added, "or maybe my childhood bedroom."

My mind raced ahead of my body.

I knew what would happen next.

–Tyrona–

I couldn’t leave the house for days. The humiliation clung to me like a second skin. Still, shame has never stopped me—it only sharpens my focus. I stayed in, quiet, observant, plotting.

This time, Damon left with his mistress, his son, and his nephew and niece—surrounded by a ridiculous number of bodyguards. The mistress wore all black, elegance dripping from her posture alone. For a moment, I wondered if she was a celebrity. There was something about her that felt curated, intentional. But no matter how I searched my memory, I couldn’t place her.

I watched through the feeds from the stalkers I deployed. Every angle. Every movement.

"Mommy!"

Alejandro came running toward me, clutching his new toy, eyes bright with excitement. "Play!"

"Not right now, my love," I said gently. "Mommy’s busy."

"You should play with your son, Tyrona," Carrie said from behind me. "He needs your attention. Instead of stalking that woman, maybe give it to him."

I stared at Carrie. She’s close to my son—closer than most people are allowed to be. She wasn’t wrong. I’d been obsessively tracking Damon again. I exhaled slowly, glanced at the tablet, then at my son, waiting so patiently.

I nodded and locked the screen.

I took the toy from Alejandro Junior, drew him into my arms, and kissed his forehead. He smelled like soap and sunshine. Carrie smiled, satisfied, and eventually left—probably for work.

I stayed on the floor with my son, running my fingers through his soft brown hair, studying those chocolate eyes. Too familiar.

My pervert ex-boyfriend’s eyes.

We were playing when my phone buzzed. An unknown number. I hesitated, then answered.

"Tyrona."

The voice was unfamiliar—deep, distorted, unreal.

"Who is this?" I frowned.

"Oh, Tyrona," the man chuckled. "I bet you’ve been watching Damon. The woman looked pretty elegant, didn’t she? The new girlfriend?"

"Who the fuck are you?" I growled, lowering my voice and turning away. I prayed Alejandro didn’t hear me.

"What if I told you that Livana is alive?"

"That’s impossible," I hissed. "Just last week, we dug up her grave. Her remains matched her DNA."

"There are ways to fake a body," the man laughed softly. "I’ll give you information. But first—you have to agree."

Silence filled the room.

And then I imagined it—Livana alive. Breathing. And me ending her with my own hands. Slowly.

"I’ll call you soon," the man said cheerfully. "Think about it, my dear Tyrona. Au revoir."

The line went dead.

Only then did I realize my hands were shaking.

Livana. Alive?

Impossible.

Beyond impossible.

And yet—

If she is alive... how did she manage to trick all of us?

–Lore–

After a long day of class, I finally reached home with Alyssa. The moment we stepped inside, a woman stood there surrounded by shopping bags, poised and elegant—wearing what looked like dancing shoes.

"Good afternoon. I’m Felly, a dance instructor," she said with a bright smile. "I think it’s time we start the choreography."

"What?" I asked flatly.

"For the cotillion," she continued cheerfully. "I already have my people teaching the eighteen roses and candles. Your mom sent us—birthday girl." She reached for Alyssa’s hand.

Alyssa looked at me, completely confused.

We changed into sweatpants, and Alyssa was made to wear dancing shoes with three-inch heels. The maids cleared the living room, pushing the furniture aside until the space felt enormous and bare.

We started dancing.

I didn’t really get it at first. I’m not a dancer—never was—but Alyssa moved so gracefully, like it took no effort at all. Each step flowed naturally, like she was born knowing where her body should go.

"You should be the one pulling her and leading her," the instructor corrected.

And somehow, just being that close to her—holding her, touching her hands, smelling her natural scent without any of that expensive perfume—made my head spin. It felt unreal.

Magical, even.

The music was beautiful. Soft. A little romantic.

After a lot of dancing—and a few sharp scoldings from Alyssa—I finally started to get it. I mean, I never had P.E. in my life. No arts. No dancing. This was literally my first time.

What I did learn, growing up as a so-called prodigy developing dangerous software, was self-defense. How to kill. Different forms of martial arts. Aunt Ines made sure I knew how to protect myself first.

After dinner—a fine, ridiculously elaborate dinner—I headed to my room, now full of shopping bags. I checked them one by one.

Clothes.

More clothes.

A few random things.

Then I noticed a pink paper bag with a box inside.

My eyes widened.

Livana bought this. Or maybe Damon did.

Damn it.

My face flushed bright red as I realized what it was. A Rated-18 flashlight—rechargeable and very much not something I ever wanted to think about my family buying for me.

"Lore!"

A short knock startled me. I quickly slid the box back into the bag as I turned toward the door. Laura burst in.

"I forgot—there’s no ice cream. Let’s go buy some."

There was a convenience store inside the executive subdivision where Livana bought the apartment.

"Fine," I sighed.

She glanced at the shopping bags. "What are those?"

"Just some personal stuff," I mumbled. I grabbed my wallet and my phone—what she lovingly calls my Jurassic Phone—and pushed her outside.

As we walked a few blocks toward the store, I couldn’t help glancing down at her. She was wearing a thin-strap tank top and denim shorts.

She looked... really sexy.

I shook my head. This girl. She should’ve at least brought a cardigan.

"Lore," she said suddenly, "did something happen to us the other night?"

"Hm?" I replied casually, keeping my voice flawless, controlled. "What happened?"

I didn’t want to admit it. Not at all. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship—or whatever this was—because of that damn, torrid kiss.