Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 16

Lydia POV

Opened my notes app.

And typed exactly three words.

This is war.

After the whole room invasion thing, I made a decision.

If Cyn wanted to perform possession every time I was in the house, then fine.

She could perform to the walls.

Because I was no longer going to sit around waiting for her next psychological attack like this was some rich people survival game.

If peace would not come to me naturally, I would go outside and collect it by force.

And surprisingly?

It worked.

That week, I went to the café three times.

Three whole times.

Which, for someone who had spent nearly two months rotating between one bedroom, one dining table, and one emotional crisis, felt almost rebellious.

The first time, I stayed for two hours. 1

The second time, nearly four.

By the third visit, one of the attendants had started smiling at me like I was becoming part of the furniture.

And honestly, I didn’t hate that.

That afternoon, I was halfway through my iced coffee and pretending not to eavesdrop on the table behind me when I heard one of them say:

“I swear if I don’t buy that literature textbook this week, I’m finished.”

I looked up slightly.

There were four of them.

Teenagers.

School uniforms loosened just enough to show they had been free for the day and were trying to enjoy it before real life resumed.

One of the girls had a notebook open and was frowning at it like it had personally betrayed her.

The boy beside her sighed dramatically. “Borrow from Chee.”

“She already promised it to someone else.”

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Another girl laughed. “You people should just try content creation and leave academics.”

Please,” the first girl said. “I’m serious.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then she added, quieter this time, “I hate not having my own books.”

That one landed somewhere under my ribs.

I stared at my laptop screen without seeing it.

Because suddenly, I wasn’t in the café anymore.

I was seventeen again.

Standing outside a bookshop longer than necessary.

Pretending I was “just looking.‘

Calculating which textbook mattered more.

Trying not to ask for too much.

Trying not to need too much.

Trying to be grateful for less.

I had always loved books.

Not in a cute, aesthetic, stack–them–for–I*******m way.

I mean in the real way.

The desperate way.

The way books had once felt like escape routes disguised as paper.

I knew what it meant to want knowledge and not always have the means to touch it properly.

And before I could overthink it, the idea came to me whole.

Not vague.

Not maybe.

Clear.

A book drive.

Not just a donation box somewhere people would forget about after two days.

No.

A proper event.

Something structured.

Something useful.

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Something that could actually put books into the hands of students who needed them.

And if I did it right…

If I did it smart…

I could use Dave’s frame.

His network.

His reach.

His money–adjacent oxygen.

I sat up straighter.

My coffee was still half full, but I was already shoving my laptop into my bag.

Which says a lot, because if you know me, you know I hate wasting perfectly good coffee.

But inspiration had apparently arrived wearing urgency.

I paid, packed up, and nearly jogged out of the café before the idea could disappear.

By the time I got home, I was moving too fast to think properly.

I barely dropped my bag before I found Bernard in the kitchen supervising something on the counter.

“Bernard.”

He turned immediately. “Ma’am?”

“I need Dave’s number.”

He blinked.

Not dramatically.

Just enough for me to know the question had surprised him.

Which, frankly, fair.

Because why did I not have my own husband’s number nearly two months into marriage?

Comedy.

That’s why.

Still, Bernard recovered quickly and gave me the number without asking unnecessary questions.

I took it and dialed immediately.

It rang.

No answer.

I called again.

Nothing.

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I froze for half a second.

“So you do have my number,” I said. “Good to know. Anyways, I need your help.‘

“Tell Bernard. He’ll pass it on to me.”

I stared at my phone.

Then back at Bernard.

Not for his terrible personality.

Not for his inability to function like a regular human being for thirty consecutive seconds.

I turned back to Bernard.

“I want to organize a book drive.”

That got his full attention.

I kept going before embarrassment could stop me.

“Not just random donations. A proper event. Something targeted. Students. High schools. Underserved communities. We can get sponsors involved, maybe corporate partnerships, maybe even direct pledges. If it’s done right, it can fund actual books, not just leftovers people want to get rid of.”

Bernard was listening closely now.

Not politely.

Actually listening.

And somehow, that made me speak more confidently.

“I don’t want it to be one of those performative rich–people things where everyone takes pictures with one child and goes home feeling charitable. I want it to actually work.”

A small smile touched his face.

“That is a very good idea, ma’am.”

I straightened a little. “You think so?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 1

That tiny bit of validation should not have mattered as much as it did.

But it did.

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“I can draft a proposal tonight,” I said quickly. “A real one. With objectives and structure and what we’ll need.”

send it to young master as soon as it’s ready.”

I nodded once. “Okay. Good.”

And weirdly, that was enough to lift my mood.

That night, after Bernard served me the kind of creamy pasta that could genuinely rehabilitate a person emotionally, plus a sandwich I absolutely did not need but accepted in the name of healing, I took my laptop to bed and worked.

Not casually.

Properly.

I outlined the event.

Book categories.

Age groups.

School targets.

Collection partners.

Sponsorship tiers.

I even added a section on impact reporting because if rich people were going to spend money, they usually liked to

know their generosity came with measurable outcomes and tasteful branding.

By the time I finally shut my laptop, I was tired in the good way.

Useful tired.

Hopeful tired.

The kind of tired that comes from doing something that feels like yours.

And for the first time in a while, I went to sleep with a genuine smile.

The next morning, I was still halfway through breakfast when Bernard appeared beside the dining table.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

I looked up from my tea. “Morning.”

He placed a folder neatly beside my plate.

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