I Married My Ex's Billionaire Father-Chapter 321: Pure Hatred

GASP!!

"Ms. Ophelia, how...?"

Susan’s voice cracked in the middle of the question, her face draining of color as she stood frozen in the doorway of her own living room.

Ophelia tilted her head slightly, lips curling.

"You must have forgotten that I gave you this apartment," she said coldly. "Why did you not answer my calls, Susan?"

The small flat suddenly felt even smaller.

The curtains were half drawn, letting in streaks of weak afternoon light that revealed the dust in the air. A kettle still whistled faintly in the kitchen. The scent of overboiled cabbage lingered.

Susan dropped to her knees.

It wasn’t even a conscious decision. Her legs simply gave way beneath the weight of shock.

"You thought you could get rid of me, didn’t you?" Ophelia stepped forward and seized Susan’s jaw in a painfully tight grip. Her nails dug into soft skin, forcing Susan to look up. "You thought that once I fell, you could disappear."

She shoved her away.

Susan’s shoulder hit the edge of the sofa.

"Everyone else might discard me," Ophelia continued, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress as though she were the one wronged. "But not you."

She began to walk slowly around the cramped apartment, heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor. Her gaze swept over everything with open disdain, the second-hand couch, the chipped coffee table, the cheap curtains.

She stopped at the mantelpiece.

Her fingers hovered over a framed photograph before lifting it.

In it, Susan stood smiling timidly beside a little red-haired boy who looked so much like her that it was almost painful to see. His grin was wide and careless, his freckles bright against pale skin.

Ophelia’s eyes hardened.

Susan scrambled up and rushed forward, snatching the frame from her.

"You can’t be here, Ms. Ophelia," she said breathlessly, clutching the picture to her chest as though it were a shield. "What if the police come asking about you?"

Ophelia turned slowly.

"You seem to have forgotten your place."

Her voice had dropped, lost its theatrical sharpness. It was quieter now.

More dangerous.

"You have forgotten all I did for you."

Susan shook her head quickly. "I haven’t..."

"It is shameful," Ophelia cut in, "how quickly people forget kindness when fortunes change."

She stepped closer.

"I can take back everything I have given you."

Susan’s breathing grew uneven.

"I bet those traffickers would be eager to know where Esther Delgado is," Ophelia continued casually. "I imagine they would pay very well for that information."

The name landed like a blow.

Susan went utterly pale.

Her fingers tightened around the photograph.

Esther Delgado.

The girl she had once been.

The girl who had run.

The girl who had owed dangerous men far more than she could ever repay.

Susan fell back to her knees, crawling forward until she reached Ophelia’s hem.

"Ms. Ophelia, I will do anything," she sobbed. "Please. Please don’t tell them where I am."

Ophelia bent slowly until they were eye level.

Her expression softened, but it was a practiced softness. A mask she wore with ease.

"Things don’t have to be so dramatic," she said gently. "I always take care of you, don’t I?"

Susan nodded rapidly, tears slipping down her cheeks.

"Yes, Ms. Ophelia. You saved me."

Ophelia straightened.

"Then show your gratitude."

She walked toward the hallway.

"Run a bath for me. And prepare something proper to eat."

Susan scrambled to her feet immediately.

"Yes, Ms. Ophelia."

As Susan hurried toward the bathroom, Ophelia exhaled slowly.

Control.

It had been slipping from her fingers these past weeks. Allies had vanished. Phones had stopped being answered. Doors that once opened instantly had been slammed shut in her face.

But here, here she was still someone.

Still feared.

She moved into the bedroom and paused at the threshold.

The space was small. Bare. A narrow bed pushed against the wall. A wooden wardrobe with one crooked door. A nightstand with a single lamp.

Ophelia wrinkled her nose.

"I suppose this will have to do," she muttered.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, allowing her composure to slip for just a second.

The week had been exhausting.

She had not slept properly in days. She had been moving constantly, switching cars, avoiding familiar routes. The men watching the house in the green bricks had been discreet but not discreet enough.

She had noticed.

And once she noticed, she had vanished.

They would be searching for her in the obvious places. Her townhouse. Her usual associates. The clubs she frequented.

Not here.

No one would think to look in a forgotten apartment gifted to a former maid, there were no traces that would lead them here.

Ophelia moved to the window and parted the curtain slightly, scanning the street below. Old cars. A grocery vendor. Children kicking a worn-out ball against the curb.

No black sedans.

No men in dark suits.

Good.

She reached into her handbag and pulled out the disposable phone she had purchased with cash two days ago.

It felt strange in her hand. Cheap. Temporary.

But necessary.

She dialed a number she knew by memory.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then clicked.

"Yes?" A male voice answered, clipped and cautious.

"Have they gotten out of the house?" Ophelia asked without greeting.

"Yes. Twenty minutes ago."

"And?"

"We’re tracking the vehicle. They’re heading south."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Send me their location."

There was a brief pause.

"Understood."

The line disconnected.

Ophelia lowered the phone slowly.

Lyse.

Even thinking the name made something acidic coil in her belly.

She had underestimated her.

That had been her mistake.

She had assumed Lyse would crumble under pressure, retreat under scrutiny, beg for protection.

Instead, the girl had turned the tables. Publicly. Brutally.

Ophelia’s humiliation had not been quiet.

It had been spectacular.

And that was something she could not forgive.

She moved toward the small wardrobe and opened it, pushing aside Susan’s modest clothing until she found space to hang her own garment bag.

The bathwater began running in the adjacent room.

Ophelia allowed herself to imagine Lyse’s expression when everything unraveled.

The confusion.

The fear.

The realization that Levi could not protect her from everything.

Because men like Levi believed in power through influence and money.

But sometimes, power and Influence were not enough.

Sometimes all it took was pure hatred.

The bathroom door knocked softly.

"It’s ready, Ms. Ophelia," Susan’s voice trembled from the other side.

Ophelia stepped out of the bedroom and moved past her without a word.

The bathroom was small but clean. Steam fogged the mirror. The tub was filled nearly to the brim.

She shut the door behind her and locked it.

As she sank into the hot water, a long breath escaped her lips.

For the first time in days, her muscles began to loosen.

But her mind did not rest.

Lyse had embarrassed her.

Her mother had humiliated her by supporting that girl so openly.

By discarding Ophelia as though she had been a temporary arrangement.

Temporary.

The word made her jaw tighten.

No.

She had built too much to be dismissed so easily.

She would not chase Welhaven money anymore. That path was blocked, and she was not foolish enough to waste resources battering against a sealed door.

But revenge? She would get that even if it was the last thing she did.

Her new objective was simple.

Destroy Lyse’s sense of safety.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Not in one dramatic move.

But in a thousand subtle ones.

She leaned back, closing her eyes.

Somewhere across the city, Lyse was laughing. Relaxed. Confident in her position.

Ophelia smiled faintly.

Let her enjoy it.

The location message buzzed through on her phone, vibrating against the tiled floor.

Ophelia reached for it and glanced at the address.

Crown Hotel.

Her smile widened.

So that was where they were.

Perfect.

She sank deeper into the bath.

If Lyse thought the night belonged to her, she was very mistaken.

Because Ophelia had always been patient.

And revenge, when done properly, required exquisite timing.