All Chapters of Too Late to Want Me; I chose your Billionaire Brother: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

The sky was still gray when Benita stepped into the cold morning air.The house was quiet—not the comforting kind, but stiff silence, the kind that settled in the walls and under your skin.After a short jog around Cillian’s sprawling, tree-filled compound, she came inside to find him at the stove, grilling bacon.The pan hissed back in protest.Kent sat at the counter, staring into space.No one asked where Syl was. They all knew better than to ask about Maloi.Benita dropped into a seat, phone face-down on the table.She hadn’t told them about dinner with Shanon.She probably wouldn’t.The silence clawed at the room.Cillian cleared his throat. “So… the bacon is—burnt.”No one laughed.He tried again. “Do we have a plan today, or are we just gonna pretend last night never happened?”Benita’s phone rang.“Excuse me,” she said, already rising and walking out to answer.“Hi, Mom?”“Darling,” Belle purred. “Good morning. You sound tired.”Benita immediately froze. Belle never called her

“Cillian.”His name. Again.“Cillian.”Muffled, from far away. The syllables echoed through cotton and static.“Cill—wake the hell up, man.”Cillian’s eyes cracked open.The ceiling. Dim morning light cutting in through the blinds. Scotch. His throat was dry, chest heavy. He looked down—his phone was on his chest, screen black. The bottle beside him was nearly empty. His head throbbed.“Jesus,” Kent muttered from above him, voice laced with judgment. “You look like shit.”Cillian blinked again, trying to orient himself. Living room. The couch. Blanket half-draped over his legs. Disoriented, but one question screamed in his mind:Where is she?“What time is it?” His voice was rough, unfamiliar.“Almost nine,” Kent said, arms crossed. “You sat out here all night like a dog waiting for its owner to come home.”Cillian sat up sharply. Pain spiked behind his eyes. “Don’t talk about her like that.”Kent didn’t flinch. “She didn’t come back, man.”A pause.Cillian looked around again, as if

It was Saturday.The third day since Maloi left, the second day since Benita vanished. The house had sunk into a kind of strange silence, interrupted only by the ticking clock and the sharp clink of bottles Cillian hadn’t cleaned up.He blinked awake in bed, light barely filtering through the curtains. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted. He stared at his phone on the nightstand, her name still pinned to the top. No new messages.He didn’t have it in him to call last night. And he sure as hell didn’t have it in him this morning. With a sigh, he tossed the phone aside, rolled over, and pulled the blanket higher.The door slammed open.Cillian groaned into the pillow as Kent’s voice rang out like an airhorn. “Up. Shoes. Downstairs. Now.”“Piss off,” Cillian muttered.Kent strode across the room and yanked the mustard-yellow curtains open, letting the crisp Oakland morning air flood the room. The light hit Cillian’s face like a slap.“You’ve got ten minutes before I drag you by the ank

Evening had fallen over the house like a hush no one wanted to acknowledge.Benita stood at the full-length mirror in the guest room, adjusting a single gold earring with slow, methodical fingers. Her dress—simple, elegant, a shade too confident—felt suddenly heavier on her skin. She wasn’t sure if it was the silence outside her door, or the silence still ringing in her chest.What did she expect? That he’d stop her? That he’d apologize?He already said the kiss meant nothing. He already took it back.She grabbed her purse, drew in a breath she didn’t feel, and stepped out into the hallway just as footsteps echoed from the other end.Cillian.They stopped at the same time.He was in a crisp black button-down and a dark jacket, hair pushed back carelessly like he’d run a hand through it a thousand times. His eyes flicked up—then away—then back again, unable to hold still.Benita swallowed hard. So did he.They had just broken up—if you could call it that. So why did it still feel like

The drive home was silent until they rounded the bend near the estate.That’s when Cillian spotted it—the overturned car.Or what was left of it.The vehicle had been pulled from the road, now resting awkwardly on the gravel shoulder. Its windows were smashed in, windshield cracked like a spiderweb, and its undercarriage still bore the mud from the embankment.Cillian slowed down as they approached.“Shouldn’t we check it out?” he asked, voice low.“You have enough on your plate and you want to take on more?” Kent muttered, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Let the police handle what they’re paid for.”But Cillian’s eyes lingered on the wreck as they passed. Something about it didn’t sit right—too neat, too conveniently out of the way.Still, he said nothing.By the time they pulled into the driveway, the night was deep and Sylvester was pacing out front, eyes darting like he’d been waiting for hours. His worry wasn’t the kind he wore often.Cillian stepped out of the car.“What now?