–Livana–
I detest how Tyrona waltzes into the café like she owns the floor tiles and the oxygen, her heels striking the marble as though they were coded to execute a virus upon entry. And then—oh, what a surprise—she flirts with Damon. I shouldn't care. Logically, I shouldn't. But that bastard—yes, my husband—is flipping some switch in my circuitry that makes me territorial. Yes, he is the one making me territorial, like a firewall suddenly triggered by malicious traffic. Maybe it started the moment his infuriating friends decided to parade women in front of him—women who, I noticed, suspiciously share my features: same shade of hair, similar facial geometry, almost like a poor-quality clone someone rushed out before a launch date.
