THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 44: THIS IS NOT A REAL - DONT UNLOCK

Chapter 44: THIS IS NOT A REAL Chapter DONT UNLOCK

The smell hit her first—rich, warm, and buttery, with hints of garlic and tomato. Lasagna alla Bolognese. The homemade kind. The scent curled through the air like a coaxing hand, gently pulling her from the depths of sleep.

Heather didn’t want to wake up.

It was the kind of sleep where she’d finally found the perfect position after hours of tossing. Of course, the universe decided to ruin it.

The sound of curtains being pulled tore through the room like a scream.

Light flooded in, uninvited and harsh, stabbing at her closed lids.

She groaned, flinching, raising an arm over her face. "Oh my God—" she mumbled under her breath. Her body felt like it had been thrown into a gym after years of bedrest, aching muscles, sore limbs, wrists that throbbed with every twitch.

Caius stood by the window, one hand still on the curtain, watching her like he had every right to be there. Which, technically, he did. She hated that.

"Good morning," he said casually, stepping toward the bed. "How was your night?"

She didn’t answer. Just sighed, eyes still squeezed shut.

"I asked how your night was," he repeated, more persistent this time.

She blinked her eyes open slowly, only to be met with... skin.

Her gaze involuntarily swept over the lines of his torso—toned, golden, like the sun had blessed him personally. Broad shoulders, lean waist, defined abs with just the right kind of sharpness. His sweatpants hung low on his hips like they were daring gravity. He looked like a walking temptation. And she hated that even more.

Her eyes snapped up to his face like she hadn’t just mentally licked him.

"Why are you shirtless?"

"Alex threw his oats at me," he said, deadpan.

She stared.

He shrugged. "Five-year-olds are unpredictable. You know that."

Heather almost smiled—almost. But her wrist pulsed, sharp and hot, reminding her of everything. Instead of replying, she turned her eyes to the tray he set on the table.

She frowned. "What’s that?"

"Breakfast," Caius said, walking over and opening the lid like he was presenting diamonds. "Made it myself."

Steam rose from a dish of lasagna alla Bolognese, plated neatly with two slices of rosemary bread on the side and a sprig of basil placed too deliberately on top.

"It’s your favorite," he added.

Heather froze. She stared at the meal like it had slapped her.

Her throat tightened, jaw clenching. It wasn’t her favorite. It never had been. It was Lauren’s favorite.

Back when she used to dress like Lauren. Talk like her. Laugh like her. Like a fool who thought pretending to be someone else would make him love her back.

Caius didn’t know her at all. He never had.

Heather let the lid fall shut with a soft clink.

He watched her. "You don’t like it?"

She didn’t answer. She just stared at the tray, memories crawling out from the corners of her mind.

He took a step closer. "Heather?"

She groaned and stood, the blanket falling from her shoulders. She walked past him without looking, her footsteps soft but charged. He called after her.

"You don’t like it?"

She stopped at the bathroom door. Turned slowly.

Her eyes met his, sharp. "You don’t even know what I like."

Then she shut the door hard in his face.

...

Heather hadn’t meant to end up in the bathtub. She had only come in to splash some cold water on her face, to escape the weight of Caius’s presence in the room. But now here she was, knees drawn to her chest, one bandaged wrist resting carefully on the edge of the massive, marble-lined tub. It wasn’t just any bathtub. It was luxury carved in stone, the kind that practically begged you to sink in and forget everything.

She hadn’t even run a full bath. Just enough to sit in, let the warmth lick at her skin, and breathe for a second.

She stared at nothing.

Her thoughts drifted. Then circled. Then settled on the humiliation that had been growing since she woke up.

Eventually, she stood up, water trailing down her skin in languid rivulets. Her hair clung to her back and shoulders in damp strands. The air was cooler outside the tub, and it hit her the moment she reached for a towel. She wrapped it around herself and stepped onto the warm floor tiles, noticing too late that she had come in with no clothes. No underwear. Nothing.

Heather scanned the bathroom for her robe, but the hook beside the door was empty.

Gone.

She exhaled sharply, irritated. The maids must have picked it up earlier but forgot to replace it.

She couldn’t go out like this. Not with Caius possibly still in the room.

Cautiously, she moved to the door and pressed her ear against it.

Silence.

She waited a moment longer, then cracked it open just enough to peek. The room was empty. The breakfast tray still sat untouched on the table.

Heather rolled her eyes. Did he really think she’d eat that?

She slipped out quietly and headed for the walk-in closet. The double doors were already open. She stepped inside, untied the towel, and let it fall to the floor. She could still feel water sliding down her spine, her damp skin flushed from the heat.

She crossed to the drawers and pulled out a pair of underwear, debating whether to put them on yet. No, better to get everything out first.

She moved efficiently, pulling hangers free, selecting something soft but elegant. A cashmere lounge set. Cream-colored. Clean lines.

When she bent to pick out a pair of slippers, she heard it.

A sound.

Soft. A faint clatter, like something had been knocked over.

Heather froze... She thought she was alone. Slowly, she straightened, and turned.

[Chapter 67]

Caius was standing there.

Just inside the closet. Eyes locked on hers. He didn’t dare look anywhere else.

Her stomach dropped. Her heart jumped to her throat.

He was seeing her. All of her.

Heather’s breath caught in her chest. Her eyes widened. Her mouth parted slightly, too stunned to speak. He still didn’t look away. But his face was unreadable. Blank. Like always.

She snatched the clothes from her arms and clutched them to her chest, shielding what she could. Her skin burned with embarrassment. Fury.

She grabbed the towel off the floor and threw it around herself, fumbling to tie it back into place.

"Get out," she snapped, voice shaking.

Caius blinked once, cleared his throat, and turned to his left. Then paused. Turned the other way. Then left without a word.

Heather didn’t breathe until the door shut behind him. She ran after him, locking the closet door behind her with a loud click. Her breath caught in her throat as she leaned against the wood, face buried in her hands. Heat crawled up her skin, not from the bath, but from pure, unfiltered mortification.

"Shit."

He saw everything.

And not just in passing, no. She had been bending, completely exposed. Vulnerable. She groaned, dragging her fingers through her wet hair, replaying the scene over and over. The startled eye contact. His frozen expression. Her wide-eyed horror.

Her hand gripped her hair, tugging gently at the roots. She sank to the bench inside the closet, still wrapped in the towel. Her mind raced.

If she had just been standing, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But no. She was bent. Exposed in every humiliating way possible. She couldn’t get over the fact that she was bending.

She groaned, rocking slightly. This was exactly why she didn’t want to share a room with him. They had rules. Take turns. Give space. Respect privacy. Unspoken, but followed. If one of them showered, the other left. Space was sacred. Boundaries mattered.

But she hadn’t planned to shower. It just... happened. She went in to wash her face and ended up sitting in the bath, thinking. And he—he must have heard the water and, like an idiot, tried to help. She glanced down at the pile of neatly folded clothes now lying on the floor. Her clothes. The ones he must have wanted to bring in for her.

Heather exhaled slowly, willing herself to get dressed. Every movement felt like a reminder of the awkwardness she was trying so hard to forget. When she was done, she reached for the closet door.

That’s when she heard it—the faint sound of the bedroom door clicking shut.

She paused, hand on the doorknob, frowning. Good. Maybe he was gone. She waited a few extra seconds, just to be sure, before cautiously stepping out into the bedroom and tiptoeing across the room. She made her way downstairs, checking every hall like a soldier on patrol. She didn’t want to run into him. Not after that.

At the dining room, two staff members standing by the grand double doors bowed slightly and opened them for her. She stepped inside, expecting silence.

Instead, she was met with voices, and the clatter of cutlery.

Adonis sat at the long dining table, sprawled comfortably in his seat like he owned the place. Across from him sat a woman with tousled red hair, wearing what looked unmistakably like his shirt. The deep marks on her neck made Heather glance away immediately. The woman froze when she noticed Heather.

Heather didn’t react. She walked to the far end of the table and took a seat, pretending the awkward tension didn’t hang in the air.

"Are you... Adonis’s wife?" the redhead asked, her voice light and curious but carrying the kind of edge that wanted drama.

Heather didn’t flinch. "No."

"Oh." The woman blinked. "Then who are you?"

There was a long pause. Heather picked up a glass of water, sipped, then said coolly, "His brother’s... wife." The word came out slower than the rest. Not bitter. Not sure. She hesitated saying it, Caius’s wife. It still didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel real. Saying it aloud was like admitting something she wasn’t ready to accept.

The woman relaxed, almost giddy with relief. "Oh! Good. You’re so pretty, I thought maybe..."

Heather didn’t answer. She just reached for a plate.

"They made too much," the redhead said, pushing a serving platter toward her. "Help yourself. I’m Nadine, by the way."

"Heather," she replied simply, already spooning a bit of the truffle eggs onto her plate. Her stomach growled. It was humiliating.

Adonis didn’t even glance at her as he scrolled through his phone, but the second Nadine placed more food on Heather’s plate, his head lifted slowly. His eyes narrowed.

"That’s enough," he said flatly.

Nadine blinked. "What?"

"You’re done here."

"But I’m still eating—"

"I said you’re done."

There was a strange beat of silence. Nadine looked between them, confused and clearly offended, but not bold enough to challenge him. She rose with a pout, straightening his oversized shirt and muttering something under her breath as she left the room.

Adonis watched her go, then turned his attention to Heather. He watched her for a moment longer, eyes dark and calculating, like he was trying to peel her apart in silence. Then he stood, dropped his napkin, which Heather found dramatic, and walked out without another word.

Heather stared back for a moment, shrugged, and reached for a strip of bacon, then she paused, remembered she was supposed to be dieting, her fingers hovered mid-air before she dropped the bacon like it burned her. She shoved her plate away and leaned back in her chair.

"Ugh," she muttered under her breath.

Of course. Everything about this morning was already a disaster. Why not add guilt to the menu?