Chapter 271

Chapter 271
Ophelia’s POV

The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the presidential suite, casting golden rays across the luxurious furnishings. Now here I was, about to serve breakfast to a man who claimed he didn't know me—my supposedly dead husband.

I applied a fresh coat of lipstick, pressing my lips together to ensure even coverage. Taking a deep breath, I pressed the doorbell, steeling myself for another encounter with Finnegan.

Through the security monitor, I could see him in his wheelchair, studying my image on his screen. For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—recognition? Regret?
Whatever it was vanished quickly, replaced by his now-familiar cold indifference.

"Come in!" His voice was clipped, professional.

I swiped my keycard and entered with the breakfast cart. "Good morning, Sir. I've brought your breakfast."

I wheeled the cart to the dining area and began arranging the meal on the elegant marble table. The suite was silent except for the soft clink of silverware against fine china. I felt his eyes on me but didn't dare look up.

When I finished setting the table, I noticed Riley wasn't present. "Sir, where's your son?"

Finnegan glanced toward the guest bedroom but didn't answer.

"Do you need me to wake him up?" I offered, desperate for any excuse to stay longer.

He wheeled himself into the dining area, still avoiding my gaze. "Help him get dressed."

I nodded, suppressing a small smile. These tasks were typically Vivian's responsibility, but her absence gave me the perfect opportunity to learn more about the mysterious boy who called Finnegan "Daddy."

I knocked gently on the guest bedroom door before entering. The room was beautifully decorated in subtle blues and grays. Riley was already awake, struggling adorably with a navy blue sweater that seemed determined to defeat him.

"Ma'am..." he said when he saw me, his voice small and shy, his eyes clearly asking for help.

I couldn't help but smile. Despite knowing he was supposedly the child of Finnegan and other woman—I couldn't bring myself to dislike this sweet little boy.

"Come here, let me help you," I said, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Thank you, ma'am!" Riley handed me his sweater and moved closer.

As I helped him dress, I casually asked, "Where did you and your dad live before? London?" I kept my tone light, as if making simple conversation rather than fishing for information.

"Yes," he confirmed with a small nod, his blond hair falling across his forehead in a way that reminded me painfully of how Ivy's would do the same.

"And your mom?" I probed gently.

Riley blinked his big blue eyes. "Mom's in Los Angeles!"

I frowned, confused. "In Los Angeles?" This contradicted what Finnegan had told me.

"Yes!" Riley nodded enthusiastically. "I came here to find Mom."

He leaned closer, his eyes darting toward the door to check for his father. Then, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his small hand cupping around his mouth in that dramatic way children do when sharing secrets. "But Dad doesn't know. Please don't tell him, or I'll be in big trouble..." His eyes were wide and earnest, reminding me so much of how Ivy would look when asking me to keep a secret from Finnegan.

I nodded, my mind racing. The familiarity in his mannerisms was uncanny, almost unsettling. So this family situation was even more complicated than I'd thought, with layers of secrets I was only beginning to uncover.

From outside, Finnegan's stern voice called, "Riley, time to get up!"

"Coming!" Riley replied, suddenly anxious.

"Thank you for helping me get dressed, ma'am," he said politely.

I ruffled his golden hair. "Do you know how to wash up?"

"Yes."

"Hurry up and go eat breakfast before it gets cold."

"Okay." Riley scampered into the bathroom but soon realized he couldn't reach his toothbrush and cup on the high shelf.

I retrieved them for him, earning another grateful smile. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Hurry and brush your teeth," I encouraged.

He began to brush, then turned away shyly when he noticed I was still watching. His self-consciousness was endearing—unlike his father's calculated coldness.

"Riley!" Finnegan called again, impatience edging into his voice.

"Coming!" Riley quickly finished washing his face.

As he passed me in the doorway, he suddenly stopped and looked up. "Ma'am, do you have a boyfriend?"

The question caught me completely off guard. "No, I don't."

A broad smile spread across his face as he blushed. "Good." Then he ran out to join his father.

I stood there, bewildered by the child's reaction. What did he mean by "good"?

When I finished tidying the room and returned to the dining area, I overheard Riley speaking to Finnegan.

"Dad..." Riley began.

Finnegan was engrossed in reviewing something, barely acknowledging his son with a grunt.

"I want to tell you something," Riley persisted.

"Go ahead," Finnegan replied without looking up.

Riley moved closer, his face bright with excitement, lowering his voice to what he clearly thought was a whisper but was actually perfectly audible. "What do you think of the pretty lady who's taking care of us?" His eyes sparkled with mischief as he asked the question.

My heart skipped a beat as I lingered just outside their view. Was this child trying to play matchmaker? The way he gossiped and meddled reminded me so much of Ivy that it was almost painful. If the past years hadn't happened, I would have sworn I was listening to my own child's scheming.

Finnegan finally set down his papers and glanced in my direction, his expression unchanging, though I noticed a muscle twitch in his jaw. "Not impressed," he stated flatly, his tone deliberately dismissive.

I clenched my fists, fighting back the hurt his callous words inflicted, my nails digging into my palms.

"You really think so?" Riley asked, seemingly pleased by this answer, his eyes twinkling with what looked strangely like satisfaction.

"Absolutely," Finnegan confirmed with finality, but I caught the faintest hint of exasperation in his tone, as if he was well-acquainted with his son's matchmaking tendencies.

Riley spotted me then, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. He abandoned his breakfast with such haste that his fork clattered loudly against his plate, causing Finnegan to wince slightly.

The boy rushed toward me with unbridled enthusiasm, grabbing my hand with a grip surprisingly strong for a child his age. His small face flushed with excitement, eyes shining with obvious adoration. "What's your name, ma'am?"

"I'm Ophelia Clarke."

"I'll call you Ophelia," he declared.

I couldn't help smiling at his boldness. "OK! You can call me whatever you like."

"Have you had breakfast?" he inquired earnestly.

"Yes, I have."

"Are you full? Would you like some more?"

"I'm full, thank you."

His next request came with pleading eyes and an adorable tilt of his head that reminded me startlingly of how Ivy would look when asking for ice cream before dinner. "Then would you feed me? Please?" He tugged at my hand, clearly developing a crush that was both innocent and heartwarming.

Before I could respond, Finnegan's cold voice cut through the moment. "Riley—if you don't come back here and eat properly, I'll send you back to London!" His knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of his wheelchair, clearly unsettled by his son's obvious attachment to me.

I watched them, my mind swirling with questions. The boy's immediate attachment to me was puzzling yet touching. I found myself wondering if, somehow, he sensed our connection—if children could perceive bonds that adults tried to hide.

If I didn't know better, I could almost believe he was our child—mine and Finnegan's. The thought was as disturbing as it was tantalizing.

Who was this child really?