Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 11

Unfortunately

Lydia POV

“She is my friend.”

I looked up at him.

“Oh, good,” I said. “That definitely clears up why she calls you baby.”

His jaw tightened again.

This time more visibly.

“That’s not your concern. I made that clear since our wedding.”

I let out a soft laugh.

“Not my concern?”

I repeated it like I was testing how stupid it sounded out loud.

“Interesting. Because if your friend is comfortable enough to order your staff around, demand access to your bedroom, and override me in your own house, I would say it’s very much my concern.”

His voice dropped lower.

“Careful.”

That should have intimidated me.

It probably would have, on another day.

But tonight, I was too angry to be afraid.

So I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Or what?”

Silence.

Heavy.

Sharp.

The air in the room shifted so fast I felt it physically.

He took one step closer.

Not aggressive.

Not exactly.

But deliberate.

Calculated.

And annoyingly effective.

My heartbeat betrayed me immediately.

Traitor.

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“Do not mistake my patience for weakness,” he said quietly.

eld his gaze even though my pulse had started doing deeply unhelpful things.

“And do not mistake my silence for stupidity,” I shot back.

Something flickered in his expression.

Not anger.

Not surprise.

Something else.

Something brief.

Then gone.

Good. 1

Let him feel off balance for once.

I stood up again because sitting while he loomed over me felt like surrender and I had already surrendered enough in this marriage.

“I have tolerated too much from you in too little time,” I said.

He watched me carefully now.

No longer dismissive.

Just… watchful.

That should not have pleased me as much as it did.

“You married me without a conversation,” I continued. “You showed up late to your own wedding. You dropped me in this house like I was a parcel. Then you disappeared for weeks. And tonight, you let another woman reduce me to background furniture in front of your guests.”

His eyes did not leave my face.

“So no,” I said. “This is not about dinner.”

The room was very quiet now.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made every breath feel louder than it should.

For the first time since he entered, he didn’t interrupt me.

Didn’t defend Cyn.

Didn’t dismiss what I said.

So I kept going.

Because now that the words were out, I couldn’t stop them.

“If Cyn is the woman you actually want in your life, then fine,” I said, my voice steady in a way I did not feel. “But

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don’t insult me by calling this a marriage and then expecting me to smile while she behaves like your real wife.”

Mat one hit.

I saw it. 1

Clear as day.

His entire expression changed by half a degree.

Tiny.

But real.

A pause.

A stillness.

And suddenly, for the first time since I had met him, Dave Ashton looked like a man who had actually heard me.

Good. 1

He deserved discomfort.

He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.

“You are overstepping,” he said.

I laughed.

“Overstepping?” I repeated. “In my own marriage?”

He looked away for one second.

Just one.

Then back at me.

And for reasons I deeply resented, that one tiny crack in his control did something weird to my chest.

I ignored it.

Professionally.

“Cyn has been in my life for years,” he said. “She has access here because she’s trusted.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Should I embroider that on a pillow?”

His mouth almost twitched.

Almost.

And if I hadn’t been furious, I would have hated how unfairly attractive that almost–expression was.

“She is not your enemy,” he said.

I folded my arms.

“No,” I said. “She’s just your emotionally attached best friend who redecorates my dinners and refers to your bedroom like it’s shared property. Completely different.”

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I stepped back immediately.

“From today,” I said, reclaiming the room before my nervous system embarrassed me further, “if your friend is coming here, I want to know.”

I smiled.

Small.

Sharp.

“Yes,” I said. “And unfortunately for both of us, I’m your wife.”

Silence.

Again.

He stared at me for a long moment.

I was done being the quiet girl everyone rearranged around.

He turned toward the door.

Then stopped.

His hand rested on the handle, but he didn’t open it yet.

Without looking back, he said, “Next time, ask Bernard for the guest preference list before planning a menu.”

I stared at the side of his head.

Then I let out the driest laugh of my life.

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“Get out.”

actually paused.

Then, to my eternal irritation, I heard it.

A low huff of laughter.

Not full.

Not warm.

But real.

Then he opened the door and walked out.

And just like that, the room was quiet again.

I stood there for a long time after he left.

Long enough for the silence to settle.

Long enough for my anger to cool into something stranger.

Because I was still furious.

Still insulted.

Still very much considering arson.

But beneath all of that, under the irritation and the ego and the resentment…

Something had shifted.

Something small.

Something dangerous.

For the first time, Dave Ashton no longer felt like a headline or a stranger or a beautifully dressed inconvenience I had been legally tied to.

He felt real.

And that was somehow much worse.

Because real men could be hated properly.

And if tonight was anything to go by

Dave Ashton was going to make it very easy.

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