I Begged The Real Heiress To Take My Life Away Chapter 06

I Begged The Real Heiress To Take My Life Away Chapter 06

The next morning at four a.m., Peggy got up as quietly as she could.

I shot straight up out of bed.

“Am I late?”

Peggy jumped. “No, no. Go back to sleep.”

I blinked at her, half-asleep.

“No morning run?”

“Nope.”

“No vocabulary words to memorize?”

“Nope.”

“No debrief on yesterday’s performance?”

“Debrief on what now?”

I stared at her for three full seconds, then flopped back onto the pillow.

Tears slid quietly into the pillowcase.

This was too good.

Too good to be real.

But now I couldn’t fall back asleep.

I got up, threw on a jacket, and wandered out to the front of the shop.

Frank was already kneading dough.

He looked at me and frowned.

“Why are you up?”

“I’m helping,” I said quietly.

He waved me off immediately.

“No need. Go back to sleep.”

I was already rolling up my sleeves.

“I know how to knead dough.”

At the Sterling house, I could never manage business analysis, French table etiquette, or equestrian jumping.

But dough? One look and I had it down.

Press the dough flat, fold it over, press again.

Weirdly therapeutic.

Like pressing Sebastian’s cold, unbothered face right into the mixing bowl.

The more I kneaded, the happier I got.

Frank watched, stunned.

“Girl’s got some arm strength.”

I said, proud: “My mom used to force me into Pilates.”

“Said my posture looked like it belonged in a museum exhibit.”

Frank didn’t quite follow that.

But he gave me a compliment anyway.

“Good kneading.”

Three words.

Good kneading.

My nose stung out of nowhere.

At the Sterling house, I was almost never praised.

I’d score a seventy on a test and Eleanor would say, “That’s not a grade worth celebrating.”

I’d finish a piano piece and Weston would say, “The rhythm drifted. Your fundamentals are weak.”

I’d stand through two hours of posture class and the instructor would say, “Miss Sterling tries hard, but her

talent is genuinely limited.”

Sebastian was more direct.

“Are you allergic to being good at things?”

I’d honestly believed there was nothing I could do right.

Until Frank said, good kneading.

I kept my head down and kept working the dough.

Scared that if I looked up, tears would drop right into the dough and mess with the rise.

At six a.m., the shop opened.

I was on cash register duty.

The first customer was an older man.

“Two donuts and a bowl of savory grits.”

I fumbled, flustered.

“That’ll be eight dollars.”

He handed me a ten.

I gave him back three.

He looked down at the bills in his hand and went quiet.

I went quiet too.

Frank whispered from beside me.

“Sweetheart, that’s two dollars change, not three.”

I snatched a dollar back immediately.

The man laughed.

“Frank, this your new hire?”

Frank puffed his chest out, proud.

“My daughter.”

The man blinked.

“Josie?”

“The other one.”

His expression turned complicated, but he didn’t ask any more questions. Just gave a friendly chuckle.

“Well, good. She’s got a real sweet face.”

Me, internally: thanks. Back at the Sterlings, they usually just said I looked “harmless.”

By ten in the morning, I was collapsed on a little stool, exhausted.

But something in my chest felt settled.

Flour on my hands, kitchen smoke in my clothes, loose change in my apron pocket.

Nobody thought I was dumb.

Nobody compared me to anyone.

Nobody made me perform.

I could even burp in peace.

Right after I did, a black Bentley pulled up outside.

The burp caught in my throat.

The car door opened.

Sebastian stepped out.

Crisp suit, spotless leather shoes, standing in front of a donut cart like a precision instrument that had

wandered into the wrong marketplace by mistake.

Even the women buying biscuits nearby couldn’t stop staring.

“That boy’s handsome as anything. Why’s his face so long, though?”

I bowed my head and played dead.

Sebastian walked up to me.

“Daisy Sterling.”

I corrected him. “My last name’s Doyle now.”

He looked at me, cold.

“You haven’t legally changed it yet.”

“Oh.”

“Come back with me.”

I gripped my stool tighter.

“You haven’t legally changed it yet.”

“Oh.”

“Come back with me.”

I gripped my stool tighter.

“Not going.”

“Mom wants you home for dinner.”

“I already ate.”

He glanced at the empty bowl in front of me.

“Three bowls of grits?”

I shielded the bowl protectively.

“None of your business.”

His frown deepened.

“You’re working here as a waitress?”

“Helping my parents.”

“The Sterlings raised you for eighteen years. Not to bus tables.”

I looked up at him.

“And the Sterlings raising me for eighteen years, was that supposed to make me feel like garbage every

single day?”

He went still.

I regretted it the second I said it.

My instinct was to apologize.

But Peggy came storming out from the back, a slotted spoon still in her hand, and planted herself in front of

“And who are you?”

Sebastian looked at her and gave a small nod.

“All of you were just… too much. Too good at everything.”