Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 9

Changes

stared at the name.

Then looked up slowly.

Bernard pretended to be deeply interested in the flower arrangement by the wall.

Coward.

I looked back down at the paper.

“Interesting,” I said.

Bernard wisely said nothing.

I exhaled through my nose and moved on.

“Fine. We’re doing this once and we’re doing it properly.”

That was how I found myself planning a dinner for a husband who barely acknowledged I existed.

Very romantic.

The menu took an hour because I refused to serve anything that looked like sadness on a plate.

I wanted it elegant, but not pretentious.

Comfortable, but not boring.

So after arguing with the chef, changing my mind twice, and rejecting one truly offensive canapé suggestion, I settled on a spread that made actual sense.

A small starter selection.

Peppered prawns.

Mini puff pastries.

A proper salad for the people who liked pretending leaves could satisfy hunger.

Main options with grilled sea bass, braised lamb, chicken in cream sauce, jollof rice, garlic butter potatoes, and a pasta dish because apparently rich people loved pasta even when it had no reason to be that expensive. 1

Desserts were easier.

Chocolate mousse.

Mini fruit tarts.

Cheesecake.

And marshmallow skewers dipped in chocolate because I thought they were cute and because, frankly, I wanted

one.

“Drinks?” Bernard asked.

“Wine, cocktails, mocktails, whiskey, champagne, soft drinks,” I said, writing quickly. “And enough water for people who gossip professionally.” 2

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He nodded and made notes.

Me decor was the only part I genuinely enjoyed.

Nothing too loud.

Just soft gold table accents, white flowers, candles, warm lighting, polished cutlery, and one long clean dinner setting that looked expensive without screaming for attention. 1

Simple.

Intentional.

Elegant. 1

Not unlike the version of myself I was trying to become in this house.

I even picked my outfit.

Not a dress that screamed wife.

Not something soft and forgettable.

A structured satin outfit in deep wine with simple gold earrings and heels just high enough to remind me I still had a spine.

For two days, I worked. 1

Actually worked.

I checked table placements.

Adjusted lighting. 1

Tasted sauces.

Reviewed seating.

Changed napkin folds because the first version looked ridiculous.

Even the chef started taking me seriously after I sent back one dish and told him, “If it tastes like conference food, I will cry and not in a dignified way.”

By the second evening, I was tired.

But satisfied.

The house looked beautiful.

For the first time since arriving there, I had done something that made me feel visible.

Useful in a way that didn’t feel humiliating.

And maybe that was pathetic.

But I’d take pathetic over powerless any day.

The dinner was set for seven.

By six–thirty, the staff had finished final touches.

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The dining room glowed softly under warm lighting.

glasses were polished.

The flowers were fresh.

The food smelled incredible.

And I stood in front of the mirror upstairs doing one last check on my lipstick and pretending I was not nervous.

Not because I cared what Dave thought.

Obviously.

But because I wanted this to go well.

For me.

Not for him.

Definitely not for him.

At exactly six–fifty–two, I heard a car outside.

Then another.

My stomach tightened.

I moved toward the staircase and slowed halfway down.

The front doors opened.

And there he was.

Dave Ashton.

For one stupid second, my brain actually paused.

He was in black.

Of course he was.

Tailored. Clean. Sharp. Annoyingly put together in the sort of way that made you want to resent him on principle.

He stepped into the house like he owned gravity.

Calm. Controlled. Unreadable.

And for the first time since our wedding, I was seeing him properly.

Properly.

My husband.

What a tragic sentence.

His gaze lifted.

And landed on me.

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Just for a second.

e single second.

But I felt it anyway.

A quiet pause.

A brief, unreadable sweep of his eyes over my face, my outfit, my existence.

Then

“Heeey, baby.”

I froze.

Because the woman gliding in behind him in six–inch heels and designer perfume was none other than Cynthia bloody CYN.

Cyn slipped in like she belonged there.

No hesitation.

She walked straight up to him, touched his arm familiarly, then looked up at him with a smile so polished it should’ve come with a warranty.

And then her eyes found me.

The smile changed.

Just slightly.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Of course.

Please.

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She turned slowly.

“What is this?”

“No, I can see that.” She gestured vaguely at the table like it had offended her bloodline. “Why is it arranged like this?”

She moved to the table and picked up one of the menu cards.

I stared at her.

“Do they break into hives or are they just dramatic?”

She didn’t even acknowledge me.

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