Chapter 15
Benjamin said I was an investment he would never divest.
This compliment, dripping with possessiveness, was a wake-up call for me.
An investment means being treasured when valuable, but also potentially discarded when worthless. Benjamin could be my support, but he could also become my deadliest weakness. I couldn't place my entire fate in another man's appreciation and interest.
I needed my own trump card, real power that truly belonged to me and that no one could take away.
I pulled my gaze away from those unfathomable eyes and put on a perfectly measured smile—neither too distant nor too intimate. "It's an honor to be Mr. Wilson's most promising investment."
I picked up my shopping bag and walked toward the door. "I have some family matters to handle. I'll be going now."
Benjamin didn't try to stop me, just leaned back in his chair, watching my retreating figure with a heavy gaze.
As the car drove away from the Wilson Group, I leaned back in the rear seat with my eyes closed, deep in thought.
Benjamin's words were like a stone thrown into a lake, pulling me back from the brief victory and the thrill of revenge.
The White family was my true foundation.
The legacy my mother left behind could not remain in Marlowe and Amelia's hands forever.
What I wanted back wasn't just money—it was control of the White Group.
"Back to the White Mansion," I instructed Chase.
The car stopped smoothly in front of the White Mansion. Before I could get out, I spotted an unexpected figure.
Michael was leaning against his car. In just a few days, he looked haggard, with stubble on his chin and his expensive suit wrinkled.
He looked like an abandoned dog, waiting pitifully at the door.
When he saw me step out of the car, his eyes lit up with wild joy. He rushed over, trying to grab my hand. "Ophelia! You're finally willing to see me!"
I stepped back, avoiding his touch.
Chase silently positioned himself in front of me like a wall.
Michael's movement froze mid-air, embarrassment flashing across his face, quickly replaced by deeper pain. "Ophelia, I was wrong. I shouldn't have doubted you, and I definitely shouldn't have listened to my mom and Freya and tested you." his voice was hoarse, his eyes red, performing with apparent sincerity. "Come back, please? Without you, that house isn't a home. That project you mentioned—I won't ask about it anymore. I'll support whatever you want to do, just come back to me."
Looking at his devoted act, I felt nothing but nausea.
"Mr. Johnson," I said coolly, my tone as distant as if addressing a stranger, "you look exhausted. Haven't been sleeping well? I suppose setting traps for me while comforting your frightened dear sister must be exhausting."
My words were like a knife, precisely puncturing his fake mask. Michael's face turned deathly pale. "Ophelia, you... You know?"
"What should I know?" I laughed lightly, feigning confusion. "Should I know that your dear sister hired someone to hurt me, or that you hid in the shadows like a coward without the guts to face me yourself?"
He was speechless, his face turning flushed.
I had no interest in wasting more words on him. I told Chase, "Get rid of him. I don't want to see him again."
"Yes." Chase nodded, and two black-suited bodyguards appeared from nowhere, grabbing Michael's arms from both sides.
"Ophelia! Ophelia, you can't do this to me!" Michael finally dropped all pretense and began struggling and shouting. "You heartless woman! I gave you so much, and you got some other man to deal with me! You'll regret this!"
I walked through the gate without looking back, leaving his hysterical screaming behind me.
In the living room, Amelia was sitting on the sofa with her legs crossed, filing her nails. She'd clearly enjoyed the show outside.
Seeing me enter, she put down her nail file and spoke sarcastically, "Your methods are really impressive. One is performing a sob story at the door, and another is backing you up behind the scenes. You really know how to play men."
I tossed my purse on the entrance table and gave her a cold glance. "Better than some people who can only pull dirty tricks behind the scenes."
Amelia's expression changed. "What do you mean?"
I didn't answer, just took out my phone, opened a video, and waved it in front of her.
The video showed dim lighting and noisy music, with Amelia and a strange man in an intimate, compromising position at some party.
"You!" Amelia's face went completely white. She jumped up to grab my phone, but I easily dodged her.
"What do you think," I said slowly, putting away my phone with a cold smile, "would happen if I sent this video to Dad?"
Amelia trembled all over, looking at me with eyes full of fear and hatred, unable to say a word.
"Watch your mouth," I moved closer and warned in a low voice, word by word, "and keep yourself and your mother in check. If there's a next time, I can't guarantee this video won't 'accidentally' leak out."
With that, I ignored her pale face and went straight upstairs.
At dinner, the atmosphere was so oppressive you could wring water from it.
Preston sat at the head of the table, Marlowe beside him, and Amelia kept her head down, silent.
"I heard you kicked Michael out today?" Preston put down his fork, breaking the silence first.
His tone was neutral.
"He came looking for me," I answered calmly.
Preston nodded, seemingly unconcerned with the details. "Just as well. I looked at that project the Johnson Group was interested in—shaky foundation. Better you cut ties with him early. Your situation with Mr. Wilson is what matters now. Don't let these irrelevant people upset Mr. Wilson."
To him, everything was business, including my marriage.
"Dad," I put down my utensils and met his gaze, my tone gentle but firm, "I know how to handle things with Mr. Wilson. But regarding the White Group, I've been away so long—I should come back and help you share the burden."
At these words, Marlowe's expression immediately changed.
She quickly put on a gentle smile and said softly, "Ophelia, your father and sister have the White Group covered. It's so much work. You're about to marry Mr. Wilson—your priority should be preparing properly, learning flower arrangement, and so on. Only then can she become a better mistress of the Wilson family."
Her words were airtight, elevating the Wilson family while excluding me from the White Group's power center.
I sneered inwardly but showed just the right amount of difficulty on my face. "You're right, but Mr. Wilson is low-key and doesn't like his wife being too showy. Plus, he asked me yesterday why, if I have experience managing a company, I don't help with my own family's business. I can't very well tell him I don't even have a position in my own family's company, can I?"
I brought up Benjamin, and sure enough, Preston's expression darkened.
Marlowe was left speechless, only managing an awkward smile.
Preston pondered for a moment, his sharp gaze falling on me as if assessing my value.
"You want to come back to the White Group? Fine." He finally spoke, his tone brooking no argument. "But the White Group doesn't support deadweight. You'll have to prove yourself."
He picked up a document from beside him and tossed it in front of me.
"The White Group has a new media subsidiary, StoryArc Media. It's been losing money for three quarters straight. We've changed management twice—no one can save it." He leaned back in his chair, looking at me coldly. "I'll give you one quarter to turn it around. Do it, and the vice president position at the White Group is yours. Fail," he paused, his eyes growing even colder, "and you'll be Mrs. Wilson quietly. Don't interfere with the White Group again."
This was an impossible task, a hot potato everyone avoided.
Marlowe and Amelia's eyes already showed gloating smiles.
I looked at the document, but a long-dormant fighting spirit ignited in my heart.
I picked up the document, stood up, and smiled slightly at Preston.
"Alright. It's a deal."