The Mistress Who Ran Away With The Twins-Chapter 170: The Morning of Fear

"Liar..."

Rome only shook his head at the faint, slurred word before his gaze returned to Sylvia’s sleeping face.

Her head was tilted awkwardly against the passenger seat, lips slightly parted, breath shallow but steady. A thin crease sat between her brows, even in sleep, as if her body refused to fully relax.

He reached over carefully, adjusting her seat just enough to ease the strain on her neck, then pulled the seatbelt snug across her to keep her steady. When he finally closed the door and returned to the driver’s seat, the sound echoed louder than it should have.

He didn’t drive fast.

The city lights blurred past the windshield, but his hands on the steering wheel were unnervingly steady for a man whose world had just cracked open. Every movement was controlled. As if any sudden motion, any loss of restraint might shatter what little composure he had left.

He glanced back at Sylvia again when he noticed her head leaning toward the window. Instinctively, he slowed the car further, easing off the accelerator, careful not to jolt her awake.

The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up disoriented and afraid.

Now, surrounded by the quiet hum of the engine and the distant noise of the city, reality settled in.

He didn’t know what to do with her.

Seeing Sylvia at the bar earlier, laughing too loudly, dancing like a woman with nothing to lose, pretending she wasn’t a mother of three—had knocked something loose inside him.

And then this.

Hearing everything spill out of her mouth unfiltered and drunken had confirmed what he had both feared and denied for years.

She had been pregnant.

With his children.

And she had run because he failed her. Failed to protect her from the very person who was supposed to stand between her and harm.

His grip tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

For a brief second, he wanted to lose control. To scream. To hit something. To tear the madness out of his chest with his bare hands.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because Sylvia was right there beside him.

Chaos wearing her face.

Pain wearing her voice.

Maybe it was a cruel blessing that she had been drunk tonight. If she had been sober, she would have denied everything again. She would have shut him out, built walls, protected her secrets and her children—from him.

Her words echoed relentlessly in his head.

She threatened me.

She destroyed my chances.

She called me a rat.

His jaw tightened harder.

His mother.

The thought alone sent something cold and coiling through his chest.

When the car stopped at a red light, Rome reached for his phone and called Alpheus.

The line rang once before it connected.

"Rome," Alpheus answered immediately, alert.

Before Rome could speak, another voice burst through the line.

"Hey! Tell your friend where he kidnapped Sylvia! I don’t care if you’re the principal—hmph!"

Rome winced slightly as he recognized Amie’s drunken voice. From the muffled scuffling sounds, Alfonso was clearly trying to cover her mouth.

"Can you quiet down?" Alfonso hissed. "Why are you so different when you’re drunk compared to when you’re at school? And how do you even teach kids when you’re still this drunk at night?"

"Hmph! Hmpph!"

Rome exhaled slowly. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

"Sorry about the noise," Alpheus said hurriedly. "Anyway—where are you and Sylvia now?"

"I have Sylvia with me," Rome cut in. "She’s unconscious. Drunk. Exhausted."

There was a pause.

"...So where are you taking her?" Alpheus asked carefully. "And what about the kids?"

"To her neighbor’s place," Rome replied. "I told you earlier—go there. Stay with them tonight. Don’t let anyone in. Not even family."

"...Okay," Alpheus said slowly. "But is something wrong?"

"No," Rome said flatly. "I just want to make sure they’re safe."

"Alright. I’m heading there now."

Another pause followed, longer and heavier.

"Did she say something?" Alpheus asked quietly.

Rome exhaled.

"She said everything."

Silence.

"Everything?" Alpheus repeated.

"Yes."

The light turned green. Rome drove on.

"She talked about the kids," he continued, voice dangerously controlled, "confirmed they’re mine. And she talked about my mother."

"...Wait. Your mother?"

"Yes. The threats. The manipulation. She said that’s why she ran away."

Alpheus swore under his breath.

"She was drunk," Rome added. "Barely conscious. She didn’t even realize she was talking. That’s why I need you to confirm it."

"How?" Alpheus asked.

"I want you to help me confirm it," Rome said. "I want to know everything my mother did to her."

"That’s not going to be clean," Alpheus warned. "If your mother really did this—"

"Then I want proof," Rome snapped. "Everyone involved. Everything."

"And if it’s true?"

Rome didn’t answer right away.

He glanced at Sylvia again. Even asleep, her brows were faintly drawn together, like she was still fighting something inside her dreams.

"...Then I’ve been blind for years..." he said quietly.

Alpheus inhaled slowly. "Alright. I’ll help you. I’ll start immediately."

"Good," Rome said. "And Alpheus?"

"Yes?"

"If anyone—anyone—has been watching Sylvia or the kids... I want to know."

"You think someone is watching her?"

Rome’s jaw clenched.

"Yes. I just want to make sure."

He ended the call.

When he pulled into the underground parking of his condo building, the security gates slid shut behind him. He cut the engine but didn’t move for several seconds, staring straight ahead as if bracing himself.

Then he turned toward Sylvia.

"Damn it.." he muttered.

He lifted her carefully, mindful of her head, her limp arms, the way she instinctively curled inward even while unconscious. She felt lighter than he remembered—or maybe guilt made her feel heavier.

The elevator ride up was silent.

Inside his unit, the lights turned on automatically, illuminating a space that had never felt like a home. Just walls. Just furniture.

He carried her to the guest bedroom and laid her down gently.

She stirred faintly.

"...Don’t," she whispered. "Please... don’t..."

Rome froze.

His chest tightened painfully.

He stepped back immediately.

"No," he said softly. "I won’t."

Reality hit him all over again.

She was drunk. She had vomited. Her clothes were soiled.

And he didn’t know what to do.

The idea of undressing her himself—even for practical reasons made his stomach twist. Her fear, her accusations, her pain were still too raw. He didn’t trust himself not to cross a line she would never forgive.

So he called for help.

Within thirty minutes, a housekeeper arrived, an older woman who had worked for him for years, loyal and silent.

"She’s drunk," Rome said quietly. "Change her clothes. Clean her up. Make sure she’s comfortable. Don’t wake her."

The woman nodded and went to work.

Rome didn’t sleep.

He stood by the window instead, city lights glowing far below, phone in hand as message after message came in from Alpheus.

Hariston Foundation influence detected.

Patterns consistent over several years.

His mom’s involvement.

Each message felt like another nail driven into his chest.

****************

Sylvia...

------

I woke up choking on air.

My eyes flew open as panic slammed into my chest, like my body had sounded an alarm before my mind could catch up.

The ceiling above me wasn’t mine.

It was too white. Too clean. No cracks, no stains. My heart began to race violently.

"No—no, no—" I whispered as I pushed myself upright, dizziness crashing over me without warning.

The room spun. My head throbbed like it had been split open, and my mouth tasted bitter. My entire body felt heavy, slow to respond.

I looked down.

Different clothes.

My breath hitched sharply.

The shirt hanging loosely over my shoulders was soft, clean, and definitely not mine.

My hands began to shake uncontrollably as I dragged trembling fingers over my arms, my waist, my stomach, checking, searching—panic climbing higher with every second.

"Oh God," I whispered hoarsely. "No... no... no... where am I?"

A sick, crawling fear crept up my spine.

Someone changed my clothes.

My mind spiraled immediately, jumping to the worst place, the darkest possibility.

I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, trying to shield my body, trying to feel whole again.

Did someone touch me?

My stomach twisted painfully. My throat burned as nausea surged up, sharp and familiar, just like last night.

Last night.

Fragments slammed into me without mercy.

The bar.

The noise.

The spinning lights.

Vomiting.

A man who looked exactly like Rome.

His voice—too familiar.

His arms around me, steady as I retched, holding me up when my legs had given out.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

Rome.

And then—everything I said.

Oh God.....

Everything spilled out of my mouth. Words I had buried for years clawed their way back into my memory.

Confessions. The children. The past. The fear. My voice, slurred and broken, saying things I had sworn I would take to the grave.

Please. Let this be a dream.

I swung my legs off the bed, but the moment my feet hit the floor, the room lurched violently. My knees buckled, and I grabbed the mattress just in time to keep myself from collapsing.

"This isn’t real," I whispered desperately, tears stinging my eyes. "This isn’t real..."

If I could just wake up. If this was just another nightmare.

Then another memory surfaced.

A locked door.

A room with no escape.

Rome’s shadow on the other side.

The way my chest had tightened back then—the helplessness, the terror of being trapped.

My breathing turned shallow, broken, coming out in short gasps.

What if he’s angry?

What if he heard everything?

What if he brought me here to confront me—or worse, to punish me?

The fear settled deep in my bones, cold and paralyzing. I couldn’t even bring myself to look toward the door. My body refused to move, frozen by old trauma clawing its way back.

The door opened.

I flinched violently.

Rome stood by the doorway, a tray of breakfast in his hands.

For a moment, my mind couldn’t process the image. It felt unreal, him standing there so still, so careful.

He didn’t step inside. He didn’t move closer. He just stood there, waiting. Like he was afraid one wrong move would make me shatter completely.

My breath hitched painfully.

"Don’t come closer..." I whispered, my voice shaking, my body instinctively retreating even though I hadn’t moved an inch.