Chapter 6: I’m the Hostess

The door shuddered violently from the force of the impact. Standing beside it, Ophelia felt her mind go blank, her cheeks flushing crimson. Silence fell in the two rooms flanking the door.

After a few seconds, Winford’s voice rang out. “I knocked over the shampoo.”

“Yes, I—I saw that,” she stammered.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I—I’m here because… my father wants a favor from you…”

Winford’s expression hardened slightly. He felt a wave of disappointment, the faint flutter in Ophelia's heart instantly extinguished. Rumors painted him as a cruel, unstable man on the brink of death. It made sense she’d marry him for something. But on the first day? It felt… premature.

“Don’t say yes.”

“What?” he instinctively replied.

Ophelia, thinking he hadn’t heard, emphasized, “If he uses me as an excuse to ask you for anything—for example, funding my family’s company—don’t say yes! Just ignore him.”

Winford took a moment to process her words.

“Why?” he asked.

Why?

Ophelia blinked. “Why? Why do you think? I’m married to you, alright? I wasn’t sold to you. As your wife, I have every right to spend your money. But you’re not obligated to spend any on my family.”

Her words left Winford stunned. He remained silent for a while.

Then, slowly, he said, “Okay.”

For some reason, his deep, resonant voice made Ophelia slightly nervous. Coupled with what she'd just witnessed… she blushed. “Alright then. I’m going back to my room. Rest early. Goodnight!”

She fled, missing his response as the door closed behind her.

“Goodnight.”

Back in her room, she blushed again, her cheeks burning. Despite having married Winford in a past life and dated Cullen, she’d never been intimate with either. What she'd seen was… shocking.

She rose early the next day, hoping to share breakfast with Winford. She went downstairs eagerly, only to find herself alone at the dining table.

“Where’s Winford?” she asked. He was already gone?

Bertha replied flatly, “Mr. Pruitt doesn’t eat with others.”

Ophelia was stunned. She’d never known. In her past life, she’d only wanted to avoid him, so naturally, she hadn't noticed. Honestly, she was disappointed. This was a second chance, and he didn’t even want to eat with her?

After a few bites, she stood.

“Where’s Winford?”

“Mr. Pruitt is busy. Even if he weren’t, he prefers to be alone.” Bertha’s face was grim. “Mrs. Pruitt, if you don’t have anything important, perhaps you shouldn’t disturb him.”

Ophelia stopped. “What did you call me, Bertha?”

“Mrs. Pruitt,” Bertha answered.

Ophelia smiled, her eyes devoid of warmth. “So, you know I’m Winford’s wife, the hostess. Do you think you have a say in what I do? Winford can tell me himself whether he wants to be disturbed or not. Others should mind their own business. What do you think, Bertha?”

Bertha’s face flushed crimson.

Ophelia left before Bertha could respond. Bertha was the long-time housekeeper, and Ophelia had no wish to make an enemy of her out of respect. But that didn't mean she'd tolerate open defiance.

Upstairs, she found Graham at the study door.

“Is Winford in there?” she asked.

“Yes. Mr. Pruitt is busy,” he replied respectfully.

“I see.” She felt a pang of disappointment at not seeing him. “I’m going to visit my family. Please tell him that.”

Earlier, Erin had called, wanting her to return home. Ophelia had been hesitant, but then decided she needed to retrieve something. Graham nodded.

She returned to the Greene house. As she entered, a gentle, elegant woman approached, smiling warmly. “Ophelia, you’re back.”

It was Erin. Ophelia's eyes darkened for a moment. Fooled by Erin’s gentle façade for years, she'd once considered her a mother figure. How foolish.

With a slight smile, she said, “Yes.”

Erin paused, sensing something different in Ophelia’s tone. She felt uneasy, as if Ophelia were a completely different person. But on closer inspection, it was still the same gullible Ophelia. She dismissed her concerns.

She pointed at Samuel, whose face was drawn, and said reproachfully, “Samuel is your father. There’s no need to be upset with him, is there? Go and apologize.”

Apologize? For refusing Samuel's request? Or hanging up on him?

She recognized the meticulous calculation behind Erin’s words. In her past life, she'd craved Samuel’s love; a different phrasing, and her past self might have readily apologized. But the word "apologize" ignited her rebellious spirit. Erin, she realized, was partly responsible for her strained relationship with Samuel. But she wasn't seeking revenge. She didn't want his love in this life.

“I’m going to my room to get something,” she said, leaving without a glance at Samuel.

Erin sighed, feigning helplessness. “Ophelia is still angry. Don’t take it to heart.”

Her remark only angered Samuel further. Erin curled her lips imperceptibly. Neither Samuel nor Erin sensed anything unusual about Ophelia; their relationship had always been strained.

At her bedroom door, Ophelia looked inside. Her heart ached as she saw the familiar yet alien furnishings. She searched the cabinet, guided by memory. She’d left something crucial here—Harriet's medical notes. It was the sole reason for her return. Harriet was a renowned genius; her notes were highly sought after. Cullen had also sought them.

Moments later, Ophelia’s expression shifted. The notes were gone.