Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 6

Bernard stepped in, hands clasped neatly in front of him.

“I apologize for disturbing you, ma’am. I came by earlier, but there was no response.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I was asleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He said it so respectfully that I almost felt bad for sounding irritated.

Almost.

“Would you like dinner?” he asked. “And if so, is there anything you particularly enjoy? Or dislike?”

That caught me off guard.

Nobody had ever really asked me that before.

I stared at him for a second longer than necessary.

Then I cleared my throat.

“I don’t like mushrooms,” I said.

He nodded once.

“And I like rice. Pasta too. Not too spicy. I like grilled chicken. And…” I paused, suddenly feeling weirdly shy. “Plantains.”

Bernard actually smiled at that.

“Noted, ma’am.”

An hour later, I was downstairs eating grilled chicken with garlic butter rice, sautéed vegetables, and caramelized plantains that nearly made me emotional.

I sat alone at a dining table that could comfortably seat twelve people and ate in complete silence.

And strangely enough, it was one of the most peaceful meals I had had in years.

No one criticizing how much I took.

No one comparing me to Iny.

No one asking me to stand up halfway through eating to do something for them.

Just food.

Warm, good food.

I should have felt lonely.

Instead, I felt… relieved.

After dinner, I went back upstairs, changed into something more comfortable, and opened my laptop.

If my life had already been hijacked, the least I could do was hold onto the parts of myself nobody had managed to kill yet.

I logged into one of my online courses.

Human Resources and People Management.

One of three programs I had enrolled in after graduating because if I could not get my second degree yet, I could at least keep building toward something.

Something mine.

Something not chosen for me.

I spent the rest of the evening buried in modules, notes, videos, and assignments until my eyes grew heavy again.

That became the beginning of a routine.

I woke up late some mornings.

Too late.

Nobody complained.

I wandered through the garden one day and discovered that I actually liked it there.

The roses near the east side of the house bloomed absurdly well, and there was a shaded corner with a stone bench where the breeze always seemed softer.

My parents did not call either.

Not once.

And the funny thing?

I did not miss them.

Because for the first time in my life, I had quiet.

I had comfort.

I had a door that nobody entered without knocking.

I had food made according to my taste.

I had mornings that belonged to me.

I had space.

And maybe that was pathetic.

Maybe it was tragic that being abandoned in a mansion by a cold billionaire somehow felt more peaceful than living with my own family.

But honestly?

I did not care.

I was comfortable.

And maybe that was why I did not see it coming.

Because exactly three weeks after I arrived at Ashton House, just when I had started believing this strange arrangement might actually remain tolerable

something happened downstairs that shattered the fragile little peace I had built here.

And the moment I heard it, I knew.

My quiet life was over.