Chapter 11: Dress His Wound

At dinnertime, Ophelia entered the dining room, full of anticipation. Winford had promised to eat with her. However, the table was empty. She sat down, patiently waiting. He was nowhere to be found, even as dinnertime passed. She glanced upstairs. "Where's Winford?"

Bertha replied flatly, "Mr. Pruitt has something to do."

"He said he'd eat with me. Did you call him?"

"Yes. He's busy. Mrs. Pruitt, you may eat without him."

Ophelia stood, ascending the stairs without another word. Bertha, pulling a long face, attempted to stop her, but Ophelia deftly avoided her and continued upstairs.

Reaching the study door, she knocked. Graham opened it, surprised to see her. "Mrs. Pruitt?"

She peered inside. "Is Winford still busy?"

Before Graham could answer, Winford's deep voice boomed from within, "What is it?"

Graham wisely stepped aside. Ophelia saw Winford at the spacious desk, just putting down a file, his head tilted. His profile was charming, his demeanor noble and elegant, his aura authoritative. Her heart skipped a beat. She mused, "He's so attractive. How did I miss this in my past life?"

"Time for dinner," she reminded him tactfully, leaning against the doorframe.

Winford checked the time, remembering his promise. "Sorry. I forgot."

"No worries. I'm here to remind you, aren't I?" She rushed to the wheelchair, reaching it before Graham. He started to intervene, but seeing Winford's silence, discreetly withdrew.

They went downstairs. Bertha paused, her expression shifting slightly at their arrival. Seeing the food, Winford said, "Next time, send a servant; no need to go yourself. You can start without me."

Ophelia glanced at Bertha. "I told Bertha to call you, but she said she had, and you told her you were busy and skipping dinner."

Bertha's heart skipped a beat. Noticing Winford's gaze, she stammered, "Yes, I went upstairs. I didn't? Well... I guess I'm getting older. My memory is failing..."

"My bad. I overlooked that. Bertha, have someone else do it next time," Ophelia said smoothly. "Or I'd miss eating with Winford again." She then took Winford's hand, saying coquettishly, "Right, Honey?"

His slight freeze at her intimacy was apparent as he lowered his head to look at her hand on his arm, remaining still. He nodded, ignoring Bertha. "Yes."

Bertha was dumbfounded, then furious. Why so dramatic? Stop making a big deal out of this! And Mr. Pruitt actually indulges her? How infuriating!

Ophelia, noticing her expression, smirked.

After dinner, Alfred arrived. He was Winford's subordinate and doctor. Returning to her room, Ophelia found him and Elva at the master bedroom door; Elva held a medical kit. He was instructing her on changing Winford's gauze.

Ophelia's eyes narrowed. Elva was going to change Winford's dressing? She was his wife. Why was Elva needed?

Elva smiled provocatively. Raising the kit, she said, "Mrs. Pruitt, if you're going to say anything, you'll have to wait. I'm about to change Mr. Pruitt's gauze."

She started to enter, but Ophelia intercepted, taking the kit.

"What are you doing?" Elva's smile vanished.

"Thanks, but you won't be needed. I'll do it."

"On what grounds?" Elva snapped.

"On what grounds?" Ophelia grinned. "Because I'm Winford's wife. Why would I let you?"

She entered elegantly, ignoring Elva's sullen face. Winford emerged from the bathroom in a bathrobe, his chest faintly visible. Ophelia glanced over, last night's events flashing through her mind, reddening her ears.

"You?" Winford was surprised.

His single word calmed her. Why? Can't it be me? Who's he looking forward to seeing? Elva? If I hadn't seen Elva, she would have already come in. Feeling dejected, she said, "I'm here to change your gauze."

After a pause, Winford said, "You don't have to. Rest. Let someone else handle it."

"Who else?" Ophelia blurted, then softening her tone, added, "I'm your wife. Who else but me?" Although their marriage wasn't registered due to his injury, it was imminent. "I insist!"

Winford was speechless. He didn't want her to see his wound, but her stubbornness left him helpless. "Come here then."

His injury was on his right calf. Seeing the wound, her hands trembled slightly. Looking down at her crouching form, he asked gently, his eyes unreadable, "Are you frightened?"

"No," she murmured, taking out the ointment. "I'm just thinking it must hurt terribly." She'd seen worse and wasn't scared, only sympathetic.

Winford was stunned. "It doesn't hurt," he said hoarsely.

She didn't believe him. She carefully dressed the wound, sighing in relief when finished.

"Alright then. Go rest," he said gently.

She nodded, packed the kit, and left. Outside, she saw Elva. Elva glared bitterly. Ophelia's mood soured again. "Why are you still here?"

"Mr. Pruitt wanted me to dress his wound!" Elva exclaimed.

Ophelia paused, repeating, "He wanted you to do it?"

Elva snorted triumphantly, "What do you think? So what, you replaced me? He kicked you out so soon."

Ophelia lowered her head and quickly returned to her room, ignoring the provocation.

Early the next morning, Winford appeared in the dining room—unusual for him. But Ophelia remained downcast, listless throughout the meal, attracting his attention.