marked by midnight: the enemy's heiress-Chapter 46 : Livia - IV

She studied him for a long moment, longer than was polite, her gaze sharp and unwavering. It wasn’t anger in her eyes—it was calculation, precise and deliberate, like a puzzle she needed to solve.

She was searching his face for cracks, for exaggeration, for the slightest hint that he was projecting his own mess onto her life. Ryan stood still, letting her look, and somehow that stillness unsettled her more than defensiveness ever would have. The air between them seemed denser, charged with something unsaid, a tension she felt pressing against her chest.

Her confidence flared instinctively, rising like a shield she’d learned to carry early, a practiced armor she wore without thinking.

"I mean... I don’t even know why I care," she said with a small scoff, folding her arms loosely, though the gesture did little to hide the unease prickling beneath her ribs.

"I just started seeing him. And honestly, I don’t—" Her voice faltered, just a fraction. "I don’t fall for people like that anyway."

The words were smooth, practiced, but something fragile slipped through the edges. A flicker of hurt crossed her face—quick, unguarded—before she slammed the door on it and replaced it with sarcasm, a protective mask she had mastered over years.

"Seriously, Ryan," she said, tilting her head with a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes, "you’re acting like some heroic messenger."

Her lips curved slightly. "Do I look like I need saving?"

Her fingers drummed against her thigh, the motion small but restless, tapping out a rhythm she barely noticed. Inside, her thoughts tangled, twisting over each other like threads too fine to untangle. She told herself she didn’t want attachment. She liked control. She liked knowing where she stood. Yet the warning had lodged somewhere uncomfortable, a tiny splinter under her skin that refused to disappear.

"And... your ex?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "How bad is this supposed to be? Messy? Drama? Crying phone calls? Or are we talking emotional monologues and vague social media captions at three a.m.?"

Her tone stayed sharp, teasing almost, but her mind raced ahead, anticipating, calculating. She hadn’t planned to care this soon. She hadn’t planned to let anyone past her defenses. Jason was supposed to be light, uncomplicated. And yet here she was, standing on unstable ground she hadn’t noticed forming beneath her feet.

Ryan watched her carefully. He could see it all—the way her shoulders remained tense despite her posture, the way her humor arrived a fraction too late, like a delayed echo. She was talking because silence would force her to feel too much, and she couldn’t allow that.

"What’s mine... it doesn’t matter," he said quietly, his voice low and controlled, not rising, not pushing. "I only wanted to warn you. And I did." He paused. "That’s enough. If you want to leave, that’s your choice. I don’t want my past tangled up in this."

The words settled heavily between them, sinking like stones into the small space, leaving both of them aware of the weight they carried.

She stood, inhaling slowly, bracing herself. Her fingers tightened at her sides before she forced them to relax, an attempt to regain control of her body as well as her thoughts.

"Thanks," she said, steadiness threading through her voice in a way that surprised even herself. "But I don’t care about your past. I’d rather see things for myself than believe secondhand truths."

Ryan nodded once, silently accepting it. "Fine."

Turning toward the door, she felt a strange collision of relief, sadness, and something dangerously close to disappointment. Knowing early was better than being blindsided later, but still, there was an ache she hadn’t expected. She had finally allowed herself to step closer to someone, and uncertainty had arrived before warmth could fully settle.

Outside, the evening air brushed against her skin, cool and grounding, the faint scent of damp asphalt and blooming winter flowers filling her senses. The world felt louder—the hum of distant traffic, the scrape of her shoes against the pavement, the low rustle of leaves in the breeze.

She walked toward her car, keys clutched in her hand, when Jason appeared beside it, relaxed and smiling.

"Hey," he said easily. "You’re late. I missed you."

Something twisted in her chest. She didn’t mirror his smile.

"Jason... I don’t feel well. I’m heading home," she said evenly, her words steady but her stomach tight with unease.

Before he could respond—or before she could second-guess herself—she slipped into the car, shut the door, and started the engine. The sound filled the space like an exhale she hadn’t realized she was holding, her fingers gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

As she drove, thoughts collided relentlessly. Why would Ryan warn her if there wasn’t truth behind it? Was she ignoring red flags because things felt good, or was she sabotaging something before it even had a chance?

By the time she reached home, exhaustion pressed down on her shoulders like a physical weight, each step from the car to the door requiring effort she didn’t fully have. The quiet of her apartment wrapped around her immediately, soft, intimate, almost like a cocoon—but it only emphasized how loud her thoughts had become, each one echoing off the walls, bouncing around her skull.

She dropped her bag with a dull thud, kicked off her shoes, and let herself collapse onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally offended her. The dim glow from the table lamp cast long, thin shadows across the room, making the familiar furniture feel oddly unfamiliar, like she had entered a space she had never fully known.

"Okay," she muttered, letting the words escape almost involuntarily. She lifted a finger slowly, conducting an invisible orchestra of her own logic.

"Before dating anyone—step one: check their history." She tapped her chin, thoughtful, deliberate. "Step two: check their ex’s history." Another finger lifted, slow, precise, deliberate.

"Step three: give up entirely and adopt a cactus. Low maintenance. Emotionally honest."

Her lips curved into a small, hollow laugh, brittle, not reaching her eyes. It faded into a soft groan, the humor thin and fragile, unable to mask the storm beneath it.

Dinner had passed in a blur. She moved mechanically, shoveling food into her mouth without tasting it, as if motion alone could distract her from the storm spinning endlessly in her mind. Ryan’s words, Jason’s smile, the warnings—they tangled into a single knot that refused to loosen.

When she finally went to bed, sleep refused to come. The pillow was too warm, the sheets too stiff. She flipped onto her side, then back, tugged the blanket close, kicked it away again. Each motion felt futile, each adjustment emphasizing the restlessness lodged deep in her chest.

"Fantastic," she muttered into the quiet, barely audible. "Now I overthink horizontally."

After the fifth turn, she sat up abruptly, mattress creaking. "No," she said aloud, letting the word hang in the air. "I’m not letting this rot in my head." She exhaled slowly, deliberately, trying to convince herself she had control over her thoughts.

"I’m digging into this—and Ryan’s going to help me," she said, the finality of the sentence feeling like a small victory. She swung her legs off the bed and padded barefoot across the floor. The coolness of the wooden floor pressed into her skin, grounding her amidst the chaos in her mind.

She grabbed her phone and called Cassian.

The call rang once. Twice. Then stopped.

She frowned at the screen, lips pressed thin. "Wow. Rude," she muttered, disbelief in her tone. The soft hum of the refrigerator and faint creak of the apartment settling accompanied her irritation.

A moment later, the phone rang back.

"Yes, Livia," Cassian said calmly. "How are you? How may I help you?"

"I’m good," she replied quickly, a slight edge to her voice. "Actually... could you give me your employee’s phone number?"

A pause. "Which one? And why?"

"Cassian," she said lightly, a smirk tugging her lips despite tension. "Don’t ask questions. Just trust me."

Another pause. "...Alright. Whose number?"

"Ryan Hale’s," she said firmly.

"Oh," he replied, tone curious. "That sounds urgent."

"It is," she said, exhaling sharply, frustration and relief mingling. "My brain won’t shut up."

Her phone buzzed. "There you go."

"Thanks," she said—and ended the call, the finality oddly satisfying.

Cassian stared at his phone, brows furrowed. "That didn’t feel normal," he muttered.

Livia didn’t hesitate. She dialed Ryan’s number, sitting on the edge of her bed, sheets crumpled around her, legs tucked beneath her. She didn’t care about the hour or propriety.

After a few rings, he answered.

"Hello?" Low, careful, faintly weary, the kind that suggested unexpected disruption.

"Hi," she said simply. "It’s Livia."

A pause. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes," she replied, voice casual but threaded with determination. "I’ll apologize properly later."

"What’s going on?"

"I want to know," she said measuredly. "About you. About your ex. And about the man I’m seeing."

Silence stretched, heavy, deliberate, pressing into the chest.

"This isn’t a phone conversation," he said finally, words careful, weighted.

"Good," she replied. "Then meet me tomorrow."

He hesitated. "Livia—"

"Just talk," she added firmly. "No drama. I ask. You explain."

Another breath. "Alright. Tomorrow," he conceded quietly.

"Great," she said, relief softening her voice, warmth spreading in her chest. "Text me the place."

She ended the call, dropped the phone beside her, and lay back, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts slowly began to settle, ebbing from a flood into a trickle.

"Well," she murmured, barely more than a whisper, "at least my insomnia finally has direction."