I Married My Ex's Billionaire Father-Chapter 296: An Unexpected Guest

Ophelia was beside herself with happiness.

It was a carefully contained happiness, of course, pressed flat beneath layers of black silk, veiled beneath practiced grief, buried so deep that not even the most observant mourner could accuse her of any impropriety. But it pulsed beneath her skin all the same, electric and intoxicating, filling her chest until it felt difficult to breathe.

Everything she had ever wanted was finally within reach.

If the world were kinder, if irony were not so cruel she might have thrown a party. A real one. Music, champagne, laughter echoing through the halls of Welhaven House. She imagined, just for a moment, a massive banner unfurled across the iron gates:

THE WITCH IS DEAD.

The thought made her lips twitch as a grin slipped past.

But reality insisted on restraint.

Eyes were on her now. Too many eyes. Old families, distant relatives, journalists masquerading as well-wishers, and social vultures eager to pick at any sign of weakness or scandal. She could not afford missteps. Not now. Not when the endgame was so close.

So Ophelia wore her grief like it was couture.

She lowered her lashes at appropriate moments. Pressed a lace handkerchief to her eyes when voices softened. Allowed her shoulders to slope just enough to suggest sorrow without appearing fragile. She was the image of the devoted daughter, composed, dignified but devastated.

She was secretly celebrating and yet, beneath it all, her heart clung to a single memory.

It had never left her.

It replayed itself endlessly, polished smooth by repetition until it no longer resembled truth, only the version she had needed to survive.

She had been eight years old.

Maeve had been three.

Lord Welhaven had returned from London with gifts.

Ophelia remembered standing on the staircase, fingers curled tightly around the banister, heart pounding so loudly she was certain it could be heard. She remembered the smell of cold air and leather coats, the echo of his boots on marble, the sound of Maeve’s delighted squeal as she was thrown around in his arms.

She had waited.

Just once, she had wanted him to look at her the way he looked at Maeve.

Maeve had received a doll, porcelain skin, real golden hair, silk lace sewn so delicately it shimmered. A princess’s toy.

Then his gaze had shifted upward.

To Ophelia.

Cold. Brief. Assessing.

He had handed her a small wooden box.

"For you," he had said.

That was all.

She remembered the way her throat had tightened. The heat behind her eyes. The humiliation burning through her chest as she had taken the box and fled to her room, locking the door behind her before the tears came.

She had cried until her head hurt and it felt like her heart would break.

She had decided, in that moment, what it all meant.

She was unwanted.

The mistake.

The daughter of a drunk, proof that her mother had loved another man before Lord Welhaven. Maeve was the princess, the symbol of their true love. Ophelia was the stain.

That story had become gospel in her mind.

What she had never known, what she had never allowed herself to know was the truth.

Lord Welhaven had spent weeks searching for that box.

It was not small in value, only in size. A mechanical music box, crafted by an artisan who no longer took commissions. Inside it was a delicate mechanism that played a single melody, the same song Ophelia’s biological father used to hum before alcohol hollowed him out, before he squandered Faye’s inheritance and disappeared into his own ruin and subsequent death.

Lord Welhaven had wanted to give her something meaningful. Something whole. A bridge between the life she had lost and the life he was trying to give her.

Maeve had been three.

She would have shattered the box within minutes.

So he had given her the doll instead.

He had stood at the foot of the stairs afterward, listening to the faint echo of Ophelia’s footsteps retreating. He had turned to Faye, grief etched deep into his face.

"I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me for not being him," he had whispered. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

But Ophelia had never heard that.

She had only heard rejection.

That moment, along with countless others twisted by misunderstanding and resentment had hardened into something bitter and sharp. Over the years, it became easier to believe the world was against her than to accept that she might have been loved imperfectly but sincerely.

Bitterness was simpler.

Bitterness gave her purpose, it gave her push.

And now, at last, she stood on the brink of victory.

Most of her enemies were gone. Ruined. Silenced. Discredited.

Only one remained.

Only one obstacle still breathed.

But she would not let thoughts of Lyse sour this moment. Not today. Today was about her mother, about appearances, about legacy.

Knock. Knock.

"They are ready for you, ma’am," the housekeeper said softly from the doorway.

Ophelia nodded.

She rose, smoothing the front of her tailored black suit, fingers adjusting the angle of her fashionable hat just so. Her reflection in the mirror was flawless, elegant, restrained, powerful.

She looked every inch the woman who belonged at the center of this house.

She strode out of her mother’s, no... Lord Welhaven’s study with measured confidence.

The wake was already underway.

Welhaven House hummed with low murmurs and the clink of porcelain teacups. Black-clad guests moved through familiar halls, their voices hushed, faces solemn. Floral arrangements perfumed the air with something cloying and sweet, a sharp contrast to the heaviness that pressed against Ophelia’s ribs.

She accepted condolences graciously.

"I’m so sorry for your loss."

"She was a remarkable woman."

"You’re being very strong."

She inclined her head. Thanked them. Allowed her eyes to glisten just enough.

Inside, she felt untouchable.

This was her house now.

Her stage.

As she moved through the room, offering practiced smiles and nods, her gaze drifted over the gathered crowd, faces she expected, faces she tolerated, faces she despised, all gathered for her.

And then...

Her foot faltered.

Just slightly.

Her breath caught.

Across the room stood someone who should not have been there.

An unexpected guest.

Ophelia’s fingers tightened around her handkerchief as the room seemed to tilt, ever so subtly, around her.

For the first time that day, her perfect composure cracked.

Just a little.