Chapter 8: This Is My Room

The voice belonged to a teenage girl. Ophelia’s eyes darkened as she handed her suitcase to a servant. “Take this upstairs later,” she instructed. She then proceeded upstairs to the second bedroom.

A stylish teenage girl, delicately made up, sat on the bed, directing servants to clean the room with the air of a hostess. Ophelia’s clothes, previously placed in the wardrobe, lay scattered about. Her suitcase, once in a corner, had been dragged to the center of the room, discarded like trash.

Ophelia’s gaze turned icy. “Mrs. Pruitt…” she began.

Two servants, startled by her presence, froze, their hands laden with Ophelia’s belongings. They instinctively looked to the teenage girl for guidance. Ophelia's gaze followed theirs. She recognized the voice from downstairs—it was Elva, Bertha’s daughter.

Bertha, whose late husband had been the Pruitt family's driver and had died saving Glenda in an accident, and Elva were treated as more than mere maids. Although Elva was simply the housekeeper's daughter, Glenda had always treated her kindly. Over time, however, Elva had grown entitled, viewing herself as an heiress to the Pruitt fortune. In Ophelia's past life, Elva had repeatedly caused her considerable trouble.

“Who said you could touch my things?” Ophelia demanded, standing in the doorway and surveying her chaotic room.

The servants opened their mouths, but dared not speak.

Elva stood, appraising Ophelia. “These are yours?” she asked condescendingly. “Why are they in my room? Are you a new maid? Didn't anyone tell you that you can’t enter these rooms without permission? Only the Pruitt family may enter.” Her tone implied Ophelia was nothing more than a servant.

However, Ophelia’s demeanor and attire clearly belied this. Elva’s claim was either a display of blindness or deliberate malice. Clearly, she was neither blind nor deaf; she had heard the servants address Ophelia as "Mrs. Pruitt."

Ophelia looked up lazily. Ignoring Elva, she asked the servants, “She doesn’t know who I am. Is she newly hired?”

Elva stiffened, then glanced down at her expensive clothing, a stark contrast to the maids' attire. “I’m not a maid!” she exclaimed.

“Then who are you?” Ophelia asked.

“I’m Elva Sherman.” Her tone was reserved yet subtly arrogant, as if her name alone should have been instantly recognizable.

To Elva’s surprise, Ophelia crossed her arms, feigning confusion. “Elva who? I’ve never heard that name.”

Humiliated, Elva bit her lip. “Bertha is my mother!”

“Ah, Bertha’s daughter,” Ophelia replied, a secret sneer playing on her lips. What a “big shot” Bertha is, she mused. Had I not known better, I might have thought she ran this house. She continued, her voice flat, “In other words, you’re not the hostess of Sunset Vista. Who gave you permission to enter my room?”

Her words stung Elva. Elva suppressed her anger and offered a provocative smile. “Mr. Pruitt said I could live here.”

Winford? Ophelia was skeptical. If that were true, he wouldn't have allowed Ophelia to live there as well.

She offered a tight smile in response to Elva's lie. “You just said only the Pruitt family may enter. Know your place before you speak. For Bertha’s sake, I’ll assume you entered the wrong room.” Ophelia knew Elva hated being reminded of her background; Elva always avoided identifying herself as a maid's daughter, and cultivated the impression she was a Pruitt heiress. This was a deliberate jab, and it worked; Elva's face fell.

Ignoring Elva’s expression, Ophelia addressed the servants. “Restore my room before Winford returns. This is your only chance. Make the most of it.” She then turned to leave.

The room fell silent under the weight of her authority. The servants exchanged uneasy glances, then turned to Elva. “What should we do, Elva?”

Suppressing her anger, Elva retorted, “What do you think? You're going to obey her? Bring my things in here!”

“What if she tells Mr. Pruitt?”

“Let her. Who do you think he’ll side with? Me or her?” Elva sneered, lifting her chin.

The servants, remembering Elva’s past behavior towards Winford's previous wives—and Winford's lack of intervention—felt their unease melt away. Elva had never faced consequences. At Sunset Vista, placating Winford’s wife held little value, but currying favor with Elva was another matter entirely.

Ophelia descended the stairs, her attention still fixed on the upstairs room. No one emerged. A cold smile touched her lips. She didn’t return.

Two hours later, Winford returned. Her eyes lit up at the sound of the opening door; she hurried to greet him. Graham pushed Winford’s wheelchair inside, followed by several subordinates.

“You’re back!”

As Winford saw Ophelia running towards him, her face bright with a smile, his usually icy gaze softened momentarily. He nodded. His gaze then fell on her suitcase beside the couch. “You just returned?”

She shook her head playfully. “I’ve been waiting for you for over two hours.”

Her words touched Winford, but his gaze quickly darkened as he looked again at the suitcase. “Then why is your suitcase still here? Did the servants disobey you?”

A nearby maid panicked, sensing his displeasure. Her face pale, she looked pleadingly at Ophelia, silently begging for an explanation. “Mrs. Pruitt…” she whispered. She dared not disobey Ophelia, but with Elva occupying the second bedroom, how could she possibly move the suitcase?

Glancing at the maid, Ophelia, knowing she wasn't part of Elva's scheme, said, “It’s not her fault…”

Before she could finish, Elva appeared at the bottom of the stairs, surprisingly dragging a suitcase, seemingly preparing to depart. Upon seeing Winford, she rushed towards him happily. “Mr. Pruitt!”

Her smile faltered the moment she saw Ophelia beside him. Her eyes flushed.

Ophelia narrowed her eyes. What's Elva up to now? she wondered.

“Hey, Elva, you’re back,” Graham greeted her casually. “What’s with the suitcase?”

Elva looked aggrieved, stealing a quick glance at Ophelia. “Someone can’t stand having me here. I think I should move out, Mr. Pruitt.”