Chapter 280

Ophelia’s POV

My finger hesitated over Lance's number. At 2 AM, with only the soft glow of my hotel lamp illuminating the room, I struggled with my growling stomach and racing thoughts. The instant ramen I'd prepared steamed beside me, momentarily forgotten as I gathered my courage.

When Lance answered, his voice was thick with sleep. "Hello?"

"It's Ophelia," I said firmly. "I need Finnegan's address."

A heavy silence followed before Lance spoke cautiously. "Mrs. Shaw—I mean, Ms. Clarke—I can't—"

"Lance," I cut him off, "I've spent six years believing he was dead. Six years carrying his ashes around my neck. I deserve answers."

"Mr. Shaw would—"

"Your Mr. Shaw?" I hissed. "The man I buried? The man whose 'death' nearly destroyed me? Lance, I'm not asking for state secrets. I just want to see where he lives."

His sigh carried a world of resignation. "I understand your position, but—"

"You watched me grieve," I whispered, my voice breaking. "You saw what his 'death' did to me, to Ivy. All I'm asking for is his address. I'll handle the consequences."

After another lengthy pause, Lance relented. "I'll send it to your phone. But please... be careful."

"Thank you," I said, genuinely grateful. "I know this puts you in a difficult position."

My phone buzzed moments later with a text message containing an address in an upscale London neighborhood. I quickly devoured the now-lukewarm ramen, changed into fresh clothes, and headed out into the London night.

The taxi ride through the rain-slicked streets felt surreal, like a dream where I was chasing a ghost. When we finally reached the gated community, I spent nearly fifteen minutes searching for the right house number among the imposing mansions.

When I finally found it, I froze. Finnegan's residence was a modernist masterpiece of glass and stone, illuminated by subtle landscape lighting despite the late hour. I paid the driver and stood before the gates, raindrops beginning to fall around me.

What exactly was I doing here? It was nearly 3:30 AM, and I was standing outside the home of a man who clearly wanted nothing to do with me. Yet I couldn't turn back—not when I was this close.

I stood there as the light drizzle transformed into a steady downpour, soaking through my coat and plastering my hair to my face. Water mixed with the tears I hadn't realized were falling. Six years of grief, confusion, and longing condensed into this moment of absolute vulnerability.

A light suddenly flickered on in an upstairs window. My breath caught as a familiar silhouette appeared. Finnegan—not in his wheelchair but standing with what appeared to be a cane—looked down at the street. Our eyes met across the distance, through sheets of rain and years of separation. Without thinking, I smiled up at him, water streaming down my face.

For a moment, he remained frozen. Then he disappeared from the window. My heart sank—until the front door opened, spilling warm light onto the wet driveway.

Finnegan stood in the doorway, supporting himself with a sleek black cane, his expression inscrutable. "You're just going to stand there in the rain?" he called, his voice carrying across the yard. "Get in here!"

I approached slowly, my shoes squishing with every step. In the entryway, I removed my soaked shoes and socks, setting them aside before stepping barefoot onto his pristine marble floor.

"For God's sake," he muttered, disappearing briefly before returning with a pair of house slippers. "Put these on. You'll catch pneumonia walking around barefoot."

Without waiting for my response, he turned and disappeared into an adjacent room, leaving me alone in the vast foyer. I stood there, dripping and disoriented, until he reappeared with a stack of clothing and a thick towel.

"Bathroom's down the hall," he instructed coldly. "Go shower before you freeze. Leave your wet clothes outside the door."

In his luxurious bathroom, I inhaled deeply as I slipped on his crisp white shirt after my shower. The familiar scent—his scent—enveloped me, and for a moment I could almost believe the past six years had never happened. I deliberately left the athletic pants he'd provided folded on the counter, his oversized shirt falling mid-thigh on my frame.

When I emerged, Finnegan's eyes widened momentarily before narrowing into a disapproving frown. "Where are the pants I gave you?"

"Your shirt is long enough," I replied, watching him swallow hard.

"Why are you here?" he asked, pointedly looking away.

"Lance gave me your address."

"I gathered that much," he said dryly. "I meant, what do you want?"

"A place to stay tonight," I answered simply. "Just tonight."

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded curtly. "You'll leave first thing in the morning."

"Thank you," I whispered.

He led me to the elevator, using his cane with surprising grace. Inside the small space, our proximity was almost unbearable.

"Why are you in London?" he asked, staring straight ahead.

"Hotel training program. I'll be here for a month."

His jaw tightened at this news as the elevator doors opened to the second floor. I automatically moved to help him, but he stiffened.

"I can manage," he said sharply, making his way toward the master bedroom.

I followed, my eyes scanning the space for any sign of the "wife" he'd mentioned. But the room was distinctly masculine—no feminine touches, no family photos, nothing to suggest he shared this space with anyone.

I watched as he stubbornly made his way to the bed, refusing my offered hand, using his cane with grim determination.

"Why won't you let me help you?" I asked, moving closer.

"I don't need help," he replied coldly.

"You allow Vivian to assist you. You let hotel staff help you," I pressed, stepping even closer. "Why not me?"

"Ms. Clarke," he said, emphasizing the formality, "please keep your distance."

When he tried to push me away, I instinctively reached out, my arms encircling his neck. His balance faltered, and suddenly we were falling, landing together on the massive bed, my body pressed against his, our faces inches apart.

For one breathless moment, the world stood still.