Breed Me. Daddy Alpha novel Chapter 52

The Past Catches Up

The Past Catches Up

~Lyra~

“You have got to be kidding me!”

I shot up so fast the stool screamed against the tile, nearly toppling over as I pointed one trembling, accusatory finger straight at her forehead like I was about to cast a bitchy curse.

“You invited Marcus? Like Marcus Marcus? My Marcus? The Marcus who ruined my life and then had the audacity to ask for a selfie after emotionally annihilating me?”

Tasha just blinked at me, chewing her toast like she hadn’t just detonated a trauma bomb in the middle of my kitchen. Her face was way too casual for someone who had just dragged my dignity out into the street and run it over with a party invitation.

I was already spiraling.

“Tasha! Don’t you remember what that boy did to me? Don’t you remember how he insulted me because ! didn’t give him my virginity? Are you f*****g insane? Because I remember everything! I remember the way he looked at me like I was some defective product.

“I remember the voice note where he said I was pretty but clearly inexperienced and that he didn’t date girls

who didn’t know how to ride. I remember the messages.

“I remember the laugh reacts from people I thought were my friends. I remember sitting in the bathroom stall during P.E. with toilet paper in my hand, trying to figure out if I was ugly or just delusional.”

Tasha rolled her eyes.

“Oh my God, Lyra. It’s not that deep.”

I gasped so loud the air left the building.

“Not that deep? Tasha, I cried for days. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I blocked him, unblocked him, stalked him, cried again, deleted his number, memorized it, then screamed into my pillow every time I saw the letter

“I literally considered selling my soul for closure, and you’re telling me it’s not that deep?”

Tasha shrugged like I’d just complained about the weather.

“It’s in the past. People move on. You should too. Like, grow up, babe.”

I clutched my chest like she’d stabbed me with a glitter pen.

“Grow up? Tasha, I’m literally eighteen. I just grew into my hips last semester. I still have braces in my old selfies. I’m still figuring out if I’m a bad b***h or a permanently anxious raccoon with lip gloss. And you’re telling me to grow up? Because I don’t want to be in the same house as the boy who slut–shamed me for being a virgin? Because I don’t want to watch the same boy who said I was emotionally immature do body shots off your cousin’s waist while I stand in the corner trying not to cry into the cheese platter?”

She didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. She just looked at me like I was doing too much – which, fair, I probably was but that didn’t mean I was going to stop.

–

“I’m not crazy for still being pissed! That boy made me question my entire self–worth! He made me feel like there was something wrong with me because I didn’t want to give him my body like it was a f*****g participation trophy. He told people I was frigid, that I ‘acted grown but folded when it mattered. Tasha, he told people I probably still sleep with teddy bears. Which is true, but it’s the principle! That was privatel

She took another bite of toast like she wasn’t currently watching my mental breakdown in Dolby surround

sound.

“Oh my God, breathe.”

“I am breathing! I’m breathing spite! I’m breathing betrayal! I’m breathing post–traumatic Marcus disorder,

Tasha!”

She rolled her eyes again and reached for her phone. “You need to let it go.”

“No. What I need is for you to uninvite that emotionally manipulative bastard before I call on the ancestors

and let them deal with you personally.”

She smirked without looking up. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? DRAMATIC? Tasha, you don’t even know the half of it. That boy kissed me, ghosted me for three days, then came back with a meme about girls who don’t swallow. He humiliated me, made me feel like I was broken, like something was wrong with me for not spreading my legs like Wi–Fi, and now you want me to shake ass to Burna Boy in the same room as him like that didn’t happen? Are you okay? Are you high? Or just

spiritually irresponsible?”

She looked up slowly and blinked.

“Are you done?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“No. I haven’t even started.”

Because my brain was racing. My stomach was doing gymnastics. And beneath all of that chaos was the real truth that I didn’t want to say out loud – that Marcus was the first person I almost gave it to. That I thought I loved him. That I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be ready if it was with him. And he ruined it. Not just the moment. He ruined the whole idea of s*x for me. Turned it into a weapon. Made it feel like something I owed instead of something I wanted.

But instead of saying all that, I just folded my arms and hissed.

“God is watching you, Tasha. From heaven. With judgment and lightning bolts. So I hope your playlist is

worth it.”

She snorted, completely unbothered.

“I’m making jollof rice. Do you want to help or do you want to sit there and relive your trauma over a boy who peaked in what grade agln?”

I hissed louder.

But I got up anyway.

The Past Catches tip

Because I knew how this night was going to go.

There would be music. There would be drinks. There would be dancing. And there would be Marcus. In my space. Looking hot. Acting like we never happened. And knowing me?

There would be consequences.

God help me.

We were in the kitchen ten minutes later, sleeves rolled up, pot already on the fire, and me aggressively chopping onions like they personally insulted my ancestors. The scent of frying tomatoes was rising in the

air, and so was my blood pressure.

Tasha was doing that annoying thing where she danced with the spoon like she was in a music video, flipping her braids like she hadn’t just emotionally sucker–punched me.

I stared at her.

Then I blinked.

Then I snapped, “How did you even invite Marcus anyway? Wasn’t he in some country or some s**t? I swear he posted a picture like last week with that fake Cartier watch and a backdrop of red dust.”

Tasha didn’t look up from the pot.

“We’ve been texting.”

I dropped the onion knife.

“You’ve been what?”

She shrugged. “We talk sometimes.”

“You’ve been texting my ex?”

She stirred the stew, unbothered. “Yeah. He hit me up a while ago. Said he was coming back to town. I told him we might be throwing a party. He said he might pull up.”

I blinked again, dramatically this time.

“So… you’re friends with my ex now?”

She gave me a look. “We’re not friends. We’re just cool.”

I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest like someone had stabbed me with a wooden spoon.

“Wow. That’s so nice. Truly. That’s the kind of sisterhood I live for. I’m over here crying in the bathtub about him, meanwhile you’re texting like ‘Hey boo, what flight you on?‘ Are you gonna braid his hair next? Swap skincare tips? Help him pick a suit for his next heartbreak victim?”

Tasha sighed like she was already tired of my existence.

“Lyra, calm down.”

“No, I will not calm down, Tasha. Because this is betrayal. Biblical betrayal. Like Judas with better eyebrows. You’re supposed to be my best friend, not his long–distance pen pal!”

She hissed and tossed in more seasoning like she was trying to shut me up with flavor.

3/5

< The Past Catches Up

“I’m not in love with him, babe. I just invited him to a party. You’re not that deep.“.

“I am that deep!” I shrieked, flinging Maggi cubes onto the counter like they were evidence. “He saw me naked emotionally. He held my heart in his crusty palm and crushed it like chin chin! And you’re telling me I’m overreacting because he’s now bringing a bottle and vibes?”

She stirred harder. I stirred harder. We were both stirring like this pot held the secrets of the universe.

I muttered under my breath the entire time.

“Texting my ex. Bringing him to my house. This is a witch’s coven. I live with a witch. My best friend is a

witch.”

Tasha ignored me.

I side–eyed her.

She danced to Burna Boy on the speaker.

I pouted like a child.

But the food was starting to smell good. And my mouth, as usual, couldn’t stop even when I tried.

“I swear, if he touches me tonight, I’ll slap him. Or bite off his balls. Or slap him then hit his balls. No, wait, that’s toxic. Jesus. This is why I need therapy and a muzzle.”

She didn’t respond.

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