The Mistress Who Ran Away With The Twins-Chapter 185: Serious Talk

For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating.

That was the only explanation my mind could offer—the only one that made sense. Rome standing there, half-swallowed by shadow, lilies in one hand and an expensive box of chocolates in the other, looking as real as the cold night air pressing against my skin.

My back hit the door hard behind me.

"Rome..."

The name slipped out before I could stop it.

His gaze locked onto mine.

And my breath left me all at once.

The Rome in front of me looked colder than I remembered. There was something in his eyes that unsettled me deeply—sadness, yes, but also something closer to accusation. As if his eyes were asking questions his mouth hadn’t yet formed. As if he were demanding answers I didn’t even know how to give.

"How long have you been there?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my effort to steady it.

"Long enough," he said.

The weight of those two words settled heavily in my chest.

My pulse hammered painfully against my ribs. I took an instinctive step back, my hand fumbling blindly for the door handle behind me.

I needed space.

No—I needed distance from that look.

"Rome, I—"

"Let’s talk," he cut in, his voice low. "Sylvia. Please."

I shook my head, panic tightening my throat. "This isn’t a good time."

I turned toward the door, desperate to retreat into the safety of the house—but before I could even twist the knob, his hand shot out.

The next thing I knew, my back was pressed flat against the wall beside the door, his arm braced above my shoulder, blocking my escape. The suddenness of it stole my breath.

"Rome!" I gasped, fear bursting through me. My scream clawed its way up my chest—

He moved instantly.

His face came dangerously close to mine, so close that one small movement would have brought our lips together. His other hand pressed lightly but firmly against the wall beside my head. I didn’t know why, but it only made me panic more—the frantic pounding of my heart echoing in my ears. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

"Don’t," he said urgently. "You’ll make the kids panic."

Paris.

Egypt.

Cairo.

My breath hitched.

"They’ll hear you," he continued, his voice softer now, a plea threading through it. "And I know you don’t want that. Not after tonight. Not after some guy named Bern visited you."

I froze.

He was right.

If I screamed, if I caused a scene, the kids would come running. Worse, they’d see Rome outside our house. They’d start asking questions—questions I wasn’t ready to answer. They were still struggling to move on from Bern’s sudden visit. I couldn’t pile more confusion onto them. I couldn’t let them see this.

Slowly, I raised my hands—not in surrender, but in silent agreement.

"I won’t scream," I said, my voice barely above a breath. "Rome... let me go."

His jaw clenched.

For a second, I thought he wouldn’t.

Then he stepped back.

The space between us returned, but the tension didn’t leave. It clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

"I just want to talk," he said again, quieter now. "Please."

I swallowed hard.

I glanced toward the door, pressing my palm against it to ground myself. I took a moment to steady my breathing, then knocked softly and cracked it open just enough to peer inside.

The kids were still in the living room.

Paris and Egypt sat cross-legged on the rug, whispering to each other over something on the tablet. Cairo was half-asleep on the couch, a blanket tucked around his shoulders.

I closed the door gently.

When I turned back to Rome, I folded my arms around myself.

"What do you want to talk about?" I asked, bracing myself.

He hesitated.

Then, quietly, "Not here."

My brows furrowed. "Then where?"

He glanced down the street.

"Can we talk at my place?" he said. "I don’t think this is the right place for us."

I followed his gaze.

A few houses down, porch lights were still on. Curtains glowed faintly with life behind them. Neighbors. He probably didn’t want anyone to see me talking to some random guy outside my house. People would talk. Gossip would spread.

"You don’t want anyone to see us," I said.

He didn’t deny it.

I looked back at him, searching his face. "Where do you think we’re going to talk? In your car?"

He shook his head. "No. At my house."

He lifted his hand and pointed.

To the old vacant house just a few steps away from ours.

My breath caught.

That house.

The one I’d passed countless times—the one that had always felt abandoned. The one that made me uneasy for reasons I could never explain. The one where, especially at night, I sometimes felt a familiar presence watching me.

Confusion flooded me.

"That’s your house?" I asked.

He nodded once.

The realization hit me slowly, then all at once.

Rome owned that house.

All this time... it had been him.

A chill crawled up my spine.

So I hadn’t imagined it. I hadn’t been crazy when I felt like someone was there—when I sensed eyes on me from behind drawn curtains.

And yet—why did that matter now?

Why did my chest ache at the thought?

I shook my head, forcing the questions away.

"Fine," I said quietly. "But we go now."

He stepped aside, allowing me to walk first.

I kept my distance as we crossed the street, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. When he unlocked the door, a man stepped forward from inside.

"Sir," the man said politely.

I froze.

I recognized him immediately.

He was the one who often brought breakfast to our house—the one I had assumed was the homeowner, helping us out of kindness.

My eyes snapped to Rome.

"This is my assistant," he said calmly.

The floor felt unsteady beneath my feet.

So it had all been him.

Every bit of help.

Every quiet kindness.

The man excused himself quickly and disappeared down the hall.

Rome closed the door behind us.

The interior of the house stunned me.

From the outside, it looked abandoned—empty, cold.

Inside, it was elegant and expensive.

And yet—

It felt hollow.

The furniture was beautiful but untouched. The air was clean, but lifeless. It felt like a place designed to be lived in... but never was.

No soul.

I swallowed.

Rome turned to face me.

"Why," he asked quietly, his voice steady but brittle, "was someone named Bern inside your house tonight?"