Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 14

Lydia POV

After the whole wardrobe disaster, I decided I had officially had enough.

Not enough in a drarnatic, suitcase–on–the–floor, I’in–running–away kind of way.

Just enough in the quiet, dangerous way where I realized I had been in that house for almost eight weeks and was starting to behave like a very well–fed prisoner.

Yes, I had peace.

Yes, nobody was breathing down my neck.

Yes, I could wake up whenever I wanted, take my courses in silence, and exist without my mother assigning, me

emotional labor before breakfast.

But also?

I had somehow spent almost two months inside one house like a decorative hostage with Wi–Fi.

And that was insane.

So that morning, after breakfast, I stood in front of my wardrobe and decided I was going out.

Not to the garden. 1

Not to “take in fresh air” like some rich neglected wife in a period drama.

Out.

Into actual civilization.

Into traffic.

Into noise.

Into people.

Into life.

I reached for the only sensible outfit in the entire luxury identity crisis hanging in my wardrobe.

Black fitted shorts.

A white tube top.

A cropped jacket.

Face cap.

Simple.

Comfortable.

I looked at myself in the mirror and nodded once.

Human enough.

1/5

When I came downstairs, Bernard was near the dining area checking something on his tablet.

He looked up immediately.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

༩༽

+15 Bonus

is agnus

“Afternoon, Bernard.”

His eyes flicked over my outfit once, professionally neutral.

“Are you heading out?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like the driver to prepare the car?”

I almost laughed.

That was exactly how it starts.

First a driver.

Then a schedule.

Then before you know it, I’m waving from the backseat of a tinted car like a reluctant politician’s wife.

“No,” I said, picking up my phone. “I’m going by myself.”

There was the tiniest pause.

Not judgment.

Just surprise.

Then he nodded. “Very well, ma’am.”

I slipped my sandals on and headed for the door before anyone could “for my safety” me back into captivity.

Outside, the air felt different. 1

Warmer.

Looser.

Alive.

I booked a ride before I could overthink it and got in with the kind of satisfaction usually reserved for criminals escaping a very nice prison.

The city passed in a blur of movement and sound.

Street vendors.

Glass buildings.

Traffic lights.

People crossing roads like laws were optional.

It was noisy and imperfect and real.

2/5

+15 Bonus

is agnus

།

And by the time the car pulled up in front of my favorite café, I was already in a better mood.

The smell hit me before I even stepped fully inside.

Coffee.

Warm milk.

Pastries.

Vanilla.

That low hum of quiet conversations and espresso machines and people minding their own business.

It was ridiculous how relieved I felt.

Like my body had been waiting for proof that the outside world still existed.

I inhaled once and almost smiled.

She needed silence first.1

Then accountability.

Then controlled visibility.

I sat back for a second, reread what I’d written, then leaned in and kept going.

Media retraining.

One sit–down interview, not a press tour.

No tears.

No “this isn’t who I am.”

Just clarity. Ownership. Restraint.

I even mapped out what her team should say to brand partners privately versus what should go public.

By the time I looked up again, my coffee was gone, my croissant had vanished at some point, and my laptop screen was full.

I blinked. 1

4/5

+15 Bonus

Then checked the time.

Pive hours.

I had been there for five whole hours.

I looked around the café in mild disbelief.

The afternoon crowd had changed twice.

The sunlight had shifted.

And one of the attendants was already wiping down empty tables with that quiet end–of–day energy that meant please leave soon before I start stacking chairs aggressively.

I packed up slowly, oddly satisfied. 1

Not because the document meant anything to anyone.

Not because I had solved some global crisis from a café table.

But because for five uninterrupted hours, I had felt like myself.

Not Dave Ashton’s wife. 1

Not the Grey family’s disposable daughter.

Just Lydia.

A woman with a functioning brain and decent instincts and a life that could have been hers if people had ever bothered to let it.

That feeling stayed with me all the way outside.

It stayed while I booked another ride.

It stayed while I slid into the backseat and watched the city move past in soft evening light.

It even stayed when we turned into the driveway of the house.

At least for the first ten seconds.

Then I stepped inside and stopped.

Something was wrong.

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