Too Late To Love Me: I Already Left With His Twins

Five years ago, I left my husband a note. Three sentences. A returned bracelet. A door closing softly at 4am. He told me to get rid of our baby. I got rid of him instead. Now he’s sitting across my boardroom table in the city I built for myself, looking for the woman he married. She’s gone. What’s left is stronger. Eight Words Lydia POV “You’re getting married to Dave Ashton tomorrow by eight a.m.” Those were the words that ended my life as I knew it. One sentence. One Tuesday evening. One announcement delivered with the same emotional weight my father would have used to ask someone to pass the salt. For a moment, I honestly thought I had heard him wrong. The living room blurred around me. My father stood by the liquor shelf, one hand resting against the polished wood, his expression flat and bored, like this conversation had already exhausted him before it even started. My mother sat elegantly on the cream sofa, her ankles crossed, fingers folded in her lap like she was hosting a charity luncheon instead of participating in the destruction of my future. And then there was Iny. Sweet, delicate, polished Iny. My younger sister. The family’s favorite investment. She sat there in a pale yellow dress with her glossy lips parted in what looked suspiciously like excitement. Excitement. For my arranged marriage. To a stranger. Tomorrow. By eight a.m. Nobody looked nervous. Nobody looked guilty. Nobody even looked like they expected me to protest. That was what hurt the most. Not the marriage. Not even the timeline. Just… the ease of it. The quiet confidence of people who had clearly discussed my life in detail and somehow never once considered I should be present for the conversation. I looked from face to face, waiting for the punchline. No one laughed. My father picked up his glass. My mother said my name softly. And I ran. I didn’t say a word. I just turned and ran upstairs so fast I nearly missed my footing on the landing. By the time I got to my room, my chest was on fire. I slammed the door shut behind me, twisted the lock, and stumbled forward two more steps before my knees gave out. The carpet caught me hard. A sound tore out of me before I could stop it. Then another. Then another. I folded into myself on the floor and cried so hard my body shook with it. Not pretty crying. Not the soft, elegant tears actresses managed in movies. This was ugly. This was years of humiliation, disappointment, invisibility, and rage finally clawing their way out of my chest with nowhere else to go. “Why me?” I whispered into my palms. My voice cracked so badly it didn’t even sound like mine. Then louder. “Why is it always me?” The room gave me nothing back. It always did. I sat there on the floor of the room I had slept in for years but never really owned, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel all of it. Because this wasn’t just about the wedding. That was the thing. If I was being honest, the wedding was only the final insult. I had never been anyone’s first choice in this house. Never. Not my father’s. Not my mother’s. And definitely not beside Iny. The pretty one. The one who got birthday dinners at rooftop restaurants and surprise gifts “just because.” The one whose good grades were celebrated like national victories. The one whose photos stayed framed in the hallway long after everyone else’s had been taken down. I was the practical one. The dependable one. The one people remembered when something needed to be done. Even when I got into the best university in the country, the celebration lasted less than a day. And even that had only happened because the admission letter had arrived in front of guests. Otherwise, I was almost certain my father would have just nodded and moved on to the evening news. I got in on scholarship. I fought for every inch of that future myself. Meanwhile, Iny was attending the same university with tuition paid in full, a private apartment off campus, a monthly allowance that could have fed a small village, and enough “wardrobe upkeep” money to sponsor a fashion week. I still remembered the day my mother told the tailor to keep my old dresses because they could “still manage one more year.” Three days later, Iny got a new wardrobe for no reason at all. And now somehow, somehow, I was the one being married off. Like an item from a family deal that had finally reached its delivery date. A knock landed on the door. I ignored it. Then the handle turned. Of course. Privacy had never really applied to me in this house. My mother stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She took one look at me on the floor and sighed. Not with concern. With inconvenience. “My princess,” she said softly. I almost laughed. That title only came out when she wanted obedience. I wiped at my face with the heel of my palm and looked up at her. “What?” She ignored the tone and crossed to the bed, sitting delicately at the edge like she was here for tea instead of emotional damage control. “I know this is sudden,” she said, “but I need you to understand that this is a very good thing.” I stared at her through swollen eyes. She continued like she hadn’t just announced the funeral of my freedom. “Dave Ashton is one of the most respected young men in the country. He is successful, disciplined, and from an excellent family.” “And a stranger,” I said. Her smile flickered but didn’t fall. “He is also the youngest billionaire in the country.” There it was. The real selling point. Money. Always money. I let out a dry laugh and pushed myself up from the floor. “Okay,” I said. “Then give him to Iny.” That hit. Her face tightened for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it over. I stepped closer. “No, seriously,” I said. “If he’s so perfect, why am I the one being thrown at him? We both know if he was truly the best thing to happen to this family, you would have gift wrapped him for your favorite daughter.” “Lydia,” she said sharply. “What? Am I lying?” Her expression hardened. For a second, the softness dropped and I saw the real woman underneath it. Then she fixed it again. It would have impressed me if it didn’t disgust me. “It’s not like that,” she said. “Then what is it like?” “This was arranged years ago,” she said. I blinked. “What?” “Your grandmother and his grandmother made an agreement a long time ago. They decided that when both of you came of age, this marriage would happen.” I stared at her. Then I laughed. “You’re joking.” “I’m not.” I looked at her harder, like maybe if I stared long enough, the lie would crack on its own. “Why am I just hearing this now?” She said nothing. I took another step toward her. “You have all known about this for years?” Still nothing. “And not one of you thought I should maybe know I was apparently promised off like property before I was old enough to vote?” “Don’t be dramatic,” she snapped. There she was. Finally. I let out a small laugh and turned away from her before I said something that would have gotten me slapped. I walked to the window and braced both hands against the frame. Outside, the Grey estate looked exactly the same as it had an hour ago. Behind me, my mother softened her voice again. “This is not a punishment, Lydia.” I turned and looked at her. “It feels a lot like one.” She exhaled slowly, as though I was the exhausting part of this conversation. “The wedding gown will be delivered in a few hours,” she said. “The ceremony is tomorrow morning. The driver will leave by seven.” I stared at her. I should have been screaming. Instead, all I felt was hollow. I had plans. That was what kept circling in my head. I wanted another degree. I wanted to build something for myself. I wanted a career in public relations, human relations, crisis management, anything that involved people and strategy and fixing what other people broke. I wanted a life that belonged to me. And now all of that had been folded up and put away by people who had never once asked what I wanted in the first place. “I need to be alone,” I said. My mother stood. For a second, I thought she might say something that sounded remotely human. She didn’t. “Try to sleep,” she said. “Tomorrow will be a long day.” Then she left. The door clicked shut behind her. And I stood there in the silence for a long time. Then I crossed the room, sat at my desk, and opened my laptop. If I was being sold into a marriage, the least I deserved was to know what the buyer looked like. I typed his name into the search bar. Dave Ashton. The internet loaded almost instantly. Articles. Interviews. Magazine covers. Award ceremonies. Business headlines. And photographs. A lot of photographs. I clicked the first one and froze. Chapter 2 Lydia POV Oh. That was… unfortunate. Because he was beautiful. In a sharp, expensive, dangerous kind of way. Dark suit. Sharper jaw. Dark eyes that looked almost black under certain lighting. Everything about him looked controlled. I clicked another picture. Still no smile. Another. Same expression. Another. Still cold. Even in candid shots, he looked detached. Like he existed half a step away from everybody else and preferred it that way. His eyes were the worst part. Not empty. That would have been easier. No, they looked like they belonged to a man who had learned very early that softness was a liability. A headline caught my eye. DAVE ASHTON: THE YOUNGEST BILLIONAIRE REDEFINING POWER Another. COLD, CALCULATED, UNTETHERED Another. THE MAN TOO YOUNG TO BE THIS FEARED Perfect. Of course. Of course the stranger I was being forced to marry looked like he could ruin lives before breakfast and still make it to a board meeting by nine. I shut the laptop. There was no point reading further. Apparently, I had the rest of my life to study him. That thought made me sick. I found the sleeping pills in my bedside drawer, shook one into my palm, and swallowed it with water straight from the bottle. Then I crawled into bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling until sleep finally dragged me under. When I woke up, there was a wedding gown hanging from my wardrobe. For a moment, I just stared at it. Minimal lace. Clean lines. Expensive fabric. It was beautiful. Which somehow made it crueler. By seven in the morning, I was dressed in it. My hair had been pinned back by a stylist who barely looked at me. My makeup had been done by a woman who treated my face like a task to complete. Nobody asked if I was okay. Nobody expected honesty if they had. My mother had said we would go together. Naturally, she lied. It was just me and the driver. Just me in white satin climbing into the back seat like cargo being transported. The court building looked exactly how I felt. Functional. Cold. Forgettable. A place where lives changed under fluorescent lighting and government paperwork. I arrived early. At first, I told myself that was a good thing. Better to be early than late. Better to get this over with. Better not to think. So I sat. And waited. One couple got called in. Then another. Then another. A woman in pink heels laughed as her husband kissed her cheek. Someone’s mother cried into a handkerchief. A registrar called names in a bored voice from the hallway. People kept moving. Time kept moving. Everything kept moving. Except me. I checked my phone. No message. No call. No explanation. I looked toward the entrance again. Still nothing. At exactly fifty eight minutes, the woman seated two chairs away from me leaned over and asked with too much sympathy, “Are you waiting for someone?” I looked at her. Then at my wedding dress. Then back at her. “No,” I said. She blinked. I smiled. A little too tightly. “I’m here for the ambiance.” She didn’t speak to me again. An hour passed. Then a few more minutes. And still Nothing. No groom. No apology. No Dave Ashton. Just me. Sitting in a court building in a white dress, looking more and more like a woman who had been publicly stood up on her own wedding day. And for the first time since yesterday, something inside me stopped hurting and started hardening. Because if this was how Dave Ashton wanted to begin this marriage Then maybe he was exactly the kind of man I had been afraid he’d be. And maybe this whole thing was about to get much worse. The court Lydia POV After what seems like forever, a black Rolls-Royce pulled into the court compound, I had already imagined three different ways to murder my husband. Future husband. Potential husband. Missing husband. Whatever. At that point, I wasn’t being picky. The sleek black car glided through the gate like it had no business sharing space with other cars there. I was seated outside by then. Not because I wanted fresh air. Because sitting inside had become unbearable. Every few minutes, another couple got called in. So yes, by the time the car arrived, I was irritated enough to chew glass. The driver stepped out first. Then the back door opened. And Dave Ashton stepped out like he wasn’t over an hour late to his own wedding. For one deeply annoying second, I forgot I was supposed to be angry. Because God. The internet had not lied. He was tall. Not just tall in a “nice build” way. Tall in the kind of way that made expensive suits look custom-made for intimidation. Dark charcoal suit. White shirt. No tie. A silver watch flashed briefly against his wrist as he adjusted his cuff. He looked exactly like every article had described him. Sharp. Composed. Cold enough to refrigerate a city. He didn’t look rushed. Didn’t look apologetic. Didn’t even look mildly inconvenienced by the fact that he had just kept his bride waiting in public like an afterthought. He just looked… normal. Like this was any other stop in his day. I hated him instantly. His gaze found me where I sat, and for the first time since yesterday, I felt something strange slide through my chest. Not nerves. Not attraction. Awareness. The uncomfortable kind. Like I had just become visible in a way I hadn’t prepared for. His eyes moved over me once. Like he was confirming that I was, in fact, the correct woman. Then he walked toward me. No smile. No warmth. No “I’m sorry I’m late.” Nothing. He stopped in front of me and said, in a calm, even voice, “Hi. I’m Dave Ashton.” I stared at him. That was it? That was what he had? Not even a half-baked apology? Not even a fake excuse about traffic? Just Hi. I’m Dave Ashton. As though I had somehow missed the last twenty-four hours of emotional terrorism and needed clarification. I stood slowly. My heels clicked against the tiled floor. “I know who you are,” I said. My voice came out flatter than I expected. If that bothered him, it didn’t show. He just gave one small nod and turned toward the entrance. “Let’s go.” That was all. And because my life had apparently become a long-running experiment in emotional restraint, I said nothing and followed him inside. The registrar barely looked up when we entered. A bored woman with tired eyes and a pen that seemed to resent paperwork as much as I did. She adjusted her glasses, looked from me to Dave, then down at the file in front of her. “Mr. and Miss…” “Mrs.,” Dave corrected without emotion. I looked at him. He didn’t look back. The registrar nodded and continued. The room smelled faintly of paper, dust, and air conditioning. A few words were said. Questions were asked. Papers were pushed across the desk. At some point, someone told us to stand closer together for a photo. Dave stepped beside me. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough for me to catch the clean, expensive scent of his cologne. Woodsy. Annoyingly nice. The photographer raised the camera. “Smile,” he said. I didn’t. Neither did Dave. The man lowered the camera slightly, stared at us both, then gave up and took the picture anyway. Honestly, fair. The vows happened so quickly they barely felt real. I repeated what I was told to repeat. Dave did the same. His voice never wavered. Mine almost did once, but I swallowed it back down before it could embarrass me. Then we signed. Just like that. One signature from him. One from me. Ink on paper. The registrar stamped the documents with an almost insulting amount of satisfaction and slid the marriage certificate across the table. Before I could reach for it, Dave picked it up first. He looked at it for one second. Then handed it to me. I took it slowly. My name looked wrong beside his. Lydia Ashton. No. Absolutely not. I folded the paper once and held it against my lap like it might disappear if I looked at it too long. Then we walked out. The driver was already waiting. Dave opened the back door. Not for me. For himself. Then got in. I stood there for half a second, staring at the open insult of it. Then I got in too. The ride was quiet. Painfully quiet. The kind of silence that made every tiny sound feel louder. The hum of the engine. The faint tapping of his finger once against the armrest. The low buzz of a notification from one of his devices. Yes, devices. Plural. Because apparently one screen was not enough for the man ruining my life. He had his phone in one hand and a slim laptop open across his lap less than five minutes into the drive. I watched him from the corner of my eye for a while. Not obviously. Just enough to study him. He worked like he existed inside a different reality from everyone else. He barely moved unless he had to. No wasted energy. No small talk. No curiosity. Not even one awkward attempt to acknowledge the fact that we had just gotten married. It should have annoyed me more than it did. But weirdly enough, it didn’t. Maybe because I already knew what he was. A businessman. A powerful one. Men like that didn’t get to the top by being emotionally available in traffic. Still, it was impossible not to notice how unnatural the whole thing felt. I had married a man who looked like he could chair a board meeting before breakfast and forget my existence before lunch. And somehow, I was now expected to go home with him. Home. The word barely had time to settle in my mind before the car slowed. Then stopped. I looked up. And blinked. Once. Then again. Because the building in front of me did not look like a home. It looked like a statement. A massive glass-front property rising above the city. I knew rich. I had grown up around rich. But this? This was a different species of money. The kind that didn’t need to prove itself because it already owned half the room. The driver got out. Then Dave did. I followed a second later, my heels clicking softly against the paved driveway. The air smelled expensive too, somehow. Freshly watered grass. Clean stone. Something floral drifting from somewhere I couldn’t place. I barely had time to take in the size of the place before Dave’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Wait.” Chapter 4 Lydia I turned. He was standing a few feet away now, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. There was no softness in his face. Just cool detachment. The kind that made the evening breeze feel warmer by comparison. For the first time since he arrived, he looked directly at me and held the gaze. And for some reason, that felt worse than the silence. “This marriage,” he said evenly, “is one of convenience.” I stared at him. He continued like he was laying out office policy. “It is not a love story. It is not a romantic arrangement. And I need you to understand that from the beginning so there are no misunderstandings later.” I said nothing. Not because I didn’t have anything to say. Because I had too much. And none of it was safe to release. He glanced briefly toward the house behind me, then back at me. “You will be comfortable here,” he said. “Anything you need can be handled through the staff.” The staff. Not him. Of course. “I won’t be here often.” That one landed harder than I expected. Something small and stupid in me had still been waiting for him to say something remotely human. A sentence with warmth. A sentence with room in it. Instead, I got terms and conditions. “You are free to live your life as you please,” he continued. “You will have privacy. Space. Access to whatever you need.” He paused. Then added, “But I expect the same in return.” There it was. The real point. I folded my arms slowly. “And what exactly does that mean?” His expression didn’t shift. “It means you do not ask questions about my schedule.” Strike one. “You do not monitor my movements.” Strike two. “And when I am here, I do not like being disturbed unnecessarily.” Strike three. I blinked at him. Then looked past him at the massive house again. Then back at him. “You married me,” I said before I could stop myself. “Or did you forget that part on the way here?” Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Gone too quickly to name. “This arrangement benefits both of us,” he said. Arrangement. Not marriage. Interesting. “And if I decide I don’t like the arrangement?” I asked. His gaze stayed on mine for one quiet second too long. Then he said, “You’ll adapt.” Oh. Oh, he was insane. Good to know early. A laugh almost escaped me, but I swallowed it. Because what exactly was I supposed to do? Scream? Cry? Beg him to care? No. I had already humiliated myself enough for one lifetime in front of people who didn’t deserve the performance. So I just nodded once. “Anything else?” I asked. He studied me for a second, as if trying to figure out whether I was being sarcastic or simply exhausted. Maybe I was both. Then he said, “No.” And just like that, he turned away. Walked back toward the car. Got in. And left. I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe properly. I just stood there in the middle of the driveway, in my wedding dress, watching my husband disappear into the evening less than ten minutes after dropping me off at his house like a package he had signed for under protest. The car vanished through the gates. Then I turned slowly toward the house. Toward whatever this was. Toward my new life, apparently. The front doors stood tall and silent, waiting. I climbed the steps. One after the other. Pushed the doors open. And the second I stepped inside I was shocked by what I saw. Chapter 5 Lydia’s POV The inside of the house was even worse than the outside. Worse, because now I had to physically stand inside it and accept that this was where I was expected to live. The space swallowed me the second I stepped in. The entrance opened into a massive living area with floors so polished I could practically see my stress reflecting back at me. Floor to ceiling windows stretched across one side of the room, letting in soft afternoon light that spilled over cream walls, expensive art, glass tables, and furniture that looked too rich to be sat on carelessly. Everything looked clean. Like one of those houses in luxury magazines where nobody ever seems to actually live. I turned slowly, taking it in. A sound behind me made me turn. A man in a perfectly pressed black suit approached with the calm expression of someone who had probably seen a lot more dramatic brides than me. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said with a slight bow. “Welcome home.” I almost laughed. Home. That was ambitious. “I am Bernard,” he continued. “Mr. Ashton’s butler.” Before I could even respond, more people began to appear. And then I understood. This was one of those houses. The kind where staff emerged in shifts like a carefully managed production. They lined up neatly in front of me, each introducing themselves one after the other. Cook. Housekeeper. Laundry attendant. Gardener. Cleaner. Driver. Another cleaner. Possibly another cook. At some point, I stopped trying to remember who was who because my brain had officially reached its processing limit for the day. I nodded politely through all of it. Smiled once or twice. Pretended to be less exhausted than I actually was. By the time they were done, I was one more introduction away from evaporating. Bernard must have noticed because he stepped forward again and said, “If you’d like, ma’am, I can give you a tour of the house.” A tour? I blinked at him. Then at the giant staircase. Then at the endless hallway visible from where I stood. Then back at him. Absolutely not. “I’m fine,” I said quickly. “Just… where’s my room?” Something flickered briefly in his expression, but it disappeared too fast for me to read. “Of course, ma’am. This way.” I followed him upstairs. The upper floor was just as ridiculous as downstairs. Long hallway. Tall doors. Everything in this house felt expensive enough to have its own security detail. Bernard stopped in front of two rooms facing each other at the far end of the corridor. One door was larger. Darker. More imposing. The other was still huge but softer somehow. He gestured to the larger one first. “That is the master bedroom.” Then he turned to the other. “And this is yours.” Yours. Not yours and his. Not your room for now. Just yours. That should have bothered me more than it did. Instead, I found myself reaching for the handle. The room opened into soft pink. Subtle blush curtains. Cream walls. A bed so large. A sitting area by the window. A vanity. A bookshelf. Fresh flowers. Everything was elegant and carefully arranged, like somebody had tried very hard to imagine what a woman might want and then thrown money at the answer. I stepped inside slowly. My eyes moved over the details. The gold trimmed mirror. The upholstered chair in the corner. The framed abstract art. The soft rug under my feet. The room smelled faintly of vanilla and clean linen. I stood there for a second too long, just looking. Because this… This was not what I was used to. Back in my parents’ house, my room had always been “nice.” Technically. Big enough. Comfortable enough. But never thoughtful. Never personal. Never something that felt like it had been made for me. This did. Even if it had probably been arranged by an interior designer with a P*******t board titled Wealthy Woman Energy. I walked further in. “Your things have been arranged,” Bernard said from behind me. I turned. “My things?” He gave a small nod toward the wardrobe. I opened it. And just stood there. Clothes. Rows and rows of clothes. Shoes arranged below. Bags. Jewelry cases. Everything sorted by color like I had accidentally married into a luxury department store. I stared. Then blinked. Then stared again. Okay. Now this was getting ridiculous. “Did he buy all this?” I asked before I could stop myself. Bernard’s face remained respectfully unreadable. “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.” Which meant yes. Or at least yes-adjacent. I looked back into the wardrobe. Of course. Of course the emotionally unavailable billionaire who had given me a list of house rules like I was an HR violation would somehow also stock an entire wardrobe for me. Men were so strange. Or maybe rich men were their own species. “Thank you,” I said finally. Bernard gave a small bow. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.” The door shut softly behind him. And then I was alone. For real this time. I dropped the wedding certificate onto the vanity and let out a breath I had not realized I’d been holding since morning. Then I went straight into the bathroom. And nearly laughed again. Marble. Of course. A bathtub big enough to host a conference. A shower that looked like it had settings I would need a manual to understand. I took the longest bath of my life. Partly because I needed it. Partly because I did not know what else to do with myself. The hot water loosened the tightness in my shoulders, but it did not untangle the weirdness in my chest. I had gotten married today. That sentence still sounded fake in my own head. Married. To a man who had spoken to me for less than ten minutes total. Married. And then dropped off in a mansion. Married. And somehow, weirdly, deeply alone. When I finally changed into one of the soft robes hanging in the closet and climbed into bed, my body gave up immediately. Sleep took me like a mercy killing. The next time I opened my eyes, the room was darker. For a second, I did not know where I was. Then I saw the unfamiliar chandelier overhead and remembered. Right. Luxury captivity. A knock came at the door. I sat up, pushing hair out of my face. “Come in.” Her Entry 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. So I started sitting there. Sometimes with tea. Sometimes with my laptop. Sometimes with absolutely nothing. I took my courses. I read. I slept. I ate well. I explored more of the house little by little. Not because I was curious at first. Because after a while, there was no one around to stop me from being. And then, somehow, the strangest thing happened. I started to breathe easier here. As if my body had finally realized it was no longer living inside a place where peace had to be stolen in small secret doses. Three weeks passed like that. And in all that time, Dave Ashton did not call. Did not text. Did not check in. He did not come home. At least, not while I was awake to know it. If I had not seen his name on the marriage certificate, I might have genuinely started to wonder if I had imagined the entire wedding. 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.