Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 3

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.

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