Chapter 270

Ophelia’s POV

I stood in the elegant office of the hotel manager, trying to maintain my composure as he berated me.

"Ophelia, the VIP guest in the penthouse suite has requested a different personal attendant. Can you explain what you did to displease him? I specifically assigned you because of your experience and service standards, yet you failed within a day! This guest is extremely important to our hotel."

"I'm sorry, sir. I apologize for disappointing you," I replied, keeping my voice steady despite the churning in my stomach. How could I explain that the "important guest" was my supposedly dead husband who was now pretending not to know me?

"Your service bonus for this month is canceled," he announced with finality. "You'll switch positions with Jasmine effective immediately."

"Yes, sir." I nodded and turned to leave, relief mixing with disappointment.

In the hallway, Jasmine intercepted me, her expression curious. "Ophelia! About switching our assignments—you don't mind, do you?"

I shrugged, feigning indifference. "Does it matter who we work with?"

Her eyes lit up. "They say he's a legend in the business world! So mysterious!" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What did you do to upset him? You're usually so good with clients. Is he particularly difficult?"

I managed a tight smile. "I crossed a boundary. You should be careful—maintain professional distance at all times."

I stepped into the elevator, leaving Jasmine looking puzzled behind me.

A week later, my phone rang at dawn on Saturday. Jasmine's congested voice came through.

"Ophelia, help! I'm terribly sick and can't work today. Could you cover my shift?"

I froze, my heart suddenly racing. Cover for her meant facing Finnegan again—exactly what I'd been secretly hoping for since our last encounter. I had to bite my lip to contain the unexpected surge of excitement. This was the perfect opportunity to get closer to him, to look for cracks in his facade.

"There's an important business meeting this morning," she continued. "Someone needs to prepare refreshments and materials."

I paused deliberately, not wanting to seem too eager. "I suppose I could help," I replied, trying to sound reluctant while my mind was already planning ways to make Finnegan slip up and reveal he knew me.

"Thanks! But seriously," she added with a cough that sounded suspiciously fake, "remember to stay professional and control your... impulses."

I hung up without responding, a small smile forming on my lips. Let him try to maintain his act with me around all day. Everyone has a breaking point—even the great Finnegan Shaw.

Standing outside the VIP suite later that morning, I pressed the doorbell with trepidation. To my surprise, permission to enter was granted immediately without anyone checking the camera.

Inside, I found Finnegan in the kitchen, leaning on crutches while attempting to heat milk. His eyebrows furrowed into a deep frown when he saw me.

"Jasmine is sick today. I'm just covering for her," I explained quickly, keeping my tone professional despite the ache in my chest. Six years of mourning him, and here he stood—alive but unwilling to acknowledge our past.

I moved toward him. "Let me help with that. It must be difficult," I said, deliberately brushing my fingers against his as I took the kettle. I watched his face intently, hoping for even the slightest reaction to my touch.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.

I moved closer than necessary as I prepared the milk, my arm occasionally grazing his. "What would you like for breakfast?" I asked, my voice softer than required for professional interaction.

"Whatever," he muttered, clearly displeased by my presence, shifting away from my proximity.

I persisted, leaning across him to reach for a spoon, my face momentarily inches from his. "And your son, Riley? What does he eat?"

"Milk plus soft foods... bread, oatmeal, nuts, fruit," he replied stiffly, his body tensing at my closeness.

I nodded, making mental notes. "Any other questions can wait for Vivian's arrival."

He finished his milk, leaving a white streak on his upper lip. This time, I didn't hesitate. I reached out and gently wiped it away with my thumb, a gesture that had once been so natural between us. His skin was warm, familiar under my touch.

For a split second, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes—surprise, perhaps recognition? But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by cold anger. He jerked back as though burned.

"Go prepare breakfast," he ordered icily, his voice cutting through the air between us.

I turned away, hiding a small smile of satisfaction. That reaction wasn't nothing. Beneath his cold exterior, something had stirred. I was certain of it.

I turned to leave but paused. "Do you need help with your wheelchair?"

"No!" His refusal was immediate and harsh.

After stepping out, I glanced back to see him struggling painfully toward the living room, each step with his crutches causing him to wince.

I returned, pretending to ask about the meeting time.

"Nine," he answered curtly.

"Let me help you with the wheelchair," I offered again.

"I said no."

Making a split-second decision, I took his crutches away. "Sir!"

He glared at me furiously. "Ophelia Clarke!"

I positioned my shoulder under his arm. "Let's go."

He remained immobile, his piercing eyes boring into mine. I realized he wouldn't push me away—he was too proud to risk falling.

"You're meddling," he accused.

"Sir, don't misunderstand. As your temporary personal attendant today, my duty is ensuring your comfort and convenience. Being your human crutch is simply part of my job, not meddling. Your needs are my concern."

He relented slightly, shifting some weight onto me. I nearly buckled.

"You're heavier than you look," I complained softly as I helped him to the sofa. "So thin, yet so heavy to support!"

"Get out!" he commanded once settled.

"How ungrateful!" I snapped, my professional veneer cracking. "I kindly help you from the kitchen to here, and not only do I not get a 'thank you,' but you're downright hostile! If you don't want me here, just say so—I don't want to stay either!"

I stormed out, my heart racing with anger and something deeper—hurt. Six years had passed, but his coldness still had the power to wound me.

In the hallway, I paused, taking a deep breath to compose myself. Despite his icy demeanor, I wasn't giving up. The way he'd reacted to my touch told me something was there—buried deep beneath layers of pretense. I'd seen it in the momentary flash in his eyes, felt it in the tension of his body when I'd gotten too close.

The real Finnegan was in there somewhere. The man who had loved me, who had sacrificed himself for me. Whatever game he was playing, whatever reason he had for this elaborate charade, I would uncover it.

I straightened my uniform and squared my shoulders. This was just round one. If Finnegan thought his cold act would drive me away, he'd severely underestimated my determination. After spending years mourning him, I deserved answers—and I would get them, no matter how long it took.

"You can pretend all you want, Finnegan," I whispered to myself. "But I know you. And I will make you remember."