Chapter 2
Michael's face darkened too. He stood up and walked over to me, trying to ease the tension: "Ophelia, go back to your room and rest. Leave this to me."
He reached out to grab my arm, but I stepped aside to avoid him.
I let out a light laugh and kept my distance: "Fine. There's no place for me here anyway."
Without another glance at their increasingly grim faces, I turned and headed straight for the stairs.
I'd barely climbed two steps when Freya's weak, pitiful sobbing came from behind me: "Michael, did I do something wrong to make Ophelia angry? Maybe I should move out. I don't want to make things difficult for you two..."
Michael rushed to comfort her: "Don't talk nonsense! This is your home. You're not going anywhere!"
Winter chimed in sympathetically: "Don't overthink it, it has nothing to do with you! Some people have no manners, acting like a shrew..."
I'd never seen them care about me this much. I used to think they just saw Freya as a sister, as a daughter, so whenever I felt disgusted by Freya's behavior, I would blame myself.
Now I see clearly—I was never the one who needed to reflect.
Without looking back, I quickened my pace up the stairs.
Back in the bedroom, I felt completely drained. I leaned against the door and slowly slid down onto the carpet.
Looking around at the furniture I'd carefully chosen, I remembered how full of hope I'd been about this home. Now it just felt bitterly ironic.
I opened the closet and started quietly packing my things.
After some time, there was a knock at the door.
"Ophelia, it's me."
Michael's voice.
I didn't answer. After a moment of silence outside, the door opened.
Michael walked in carrying a fruit plate with my favorite kiwis and strawberries.
Seeing me packing, he froze for a moment, then came over and grabbed my suitcase, his tone slightly reproachful: "It's just a small disagreement. Why are you taking it so seriously?"
A small disagreement? I smiled bitterly to myself.
Michael reached out his arms to hug me, like he always did after our little arguments to make up.
But this time, I pushed his hands away without hesitation.
Michael's arms hung awkwardly in mid-air, his expression embarrassed.
After holding that position for a few seconds, he slowly lowered his hands and walked up to me, his voice softening: "Still mad? My mom was a bit harsh, but she didn't mean any harm. Freya's not well and is emotionally fragile. It's only right that we take extra care of her. Don't take it to heart, okay?"
My gaze passed over him as I asked calmly: "Did you need something?"
Michael was silent for a few seconds, then spoke somewhat awkwardly: "Ophelia, did you freeze my card?"
Since our marriage, I'd set up family sharing on my bank accounts and given him access to the supplementary cards.
Michael was used to spending my money, so he'd notice immediately if it was frozen.
"Freya cried for a long time just now. I wanted to buy her a bag to cheer her up." Michael took my hand, gentle as usual: "She's just a young girl. If she does something wrong, just be patient with her."
I looked up at this face I once loved deeply but now found completely unfamiliar, feeling only desolation.
Thinking back to earlier at the Vital Records Office, when I was told he and Freya had already registered their marriage, a nameless rage rushed to my head.
I shook off his hand: "Why should I?"
Michael looked confused: "What?"
"I said, why should I?" I stared at him hard, enunciating each word: "My money—why should it go to buying bags for your mistress?"
Michael froze, then his eyes filled with panic: "Ophelia, are you crazy? Freya is my sister!"
Watching his terrible acting, I wanted so badly to tell him everything I'd learned today.
But I held back.
Now wasn't the time. I needed to wait until I'd gotten back all the shares and assets I'd given Michael, then I'd tear off the mask.
Otherwise, knowing Michael's desperate nature, he'd probably run off with the money overnight.
I couldn't let them off that easily.
I took a deep breath, and my expression returned to calm: "If she's your sister, then you pay for it yourself. I need my money for something else."
"For what?" Michael's face showed impatience: "You stay home all day with everything you need. What could you possibly need money for?"
I laughed coldly: "Well, Freya also stays home all day, living off you all. Does she need things to spend money on?"
Michael opened his mouth, seemingly at a loss for words.
After a long pause, he looked at the suitcase in my hand, his expression cold: "I see your temper is getting worse and worse. Why don't you go home and cool off for a few days?"
So Michael couldn't even be bothered to pretend anymore—he was directly kicking me out.
"Perfect, I was thinking the same thing." I picked up my suitcase and left the room without looking back.
Going downstairs, I saw Freya looking at me with surprise: "Ophelia, where are you going?"
She grabbed my suitcase with fake concern, her eyes welling up: "Is it because of me? Did you and Michael fight? Ophelia, it's all my fault. Please don't be mad at Michael, okay?"
I looked at her coldly: "Let go, or I really won't leave."
Freya immediately released her grip.
Suddenly, she leaned close to my ear and whispered: "You'd better leave and never come back, because Michael is mine alone."
I looked at the corners of her mouth curling up—completely different from her usual weak and innocent appearance.
"Is that so? Then I wish you both happiness."
I gave her a cold smile and left without looking back.
When I returned to the White Mansion, my emotions were all over the place.
My father, Preston White, had married Marlowe Grey shortly after my mother, Cecilia Thorne, died. I'd had a huge fight with him over it and never came back here again.
Carrying my suitcase into the living room, I ran into Preston and Marlowe drinking wine by the fireplace.
When Preston saw me, he looked stunned, then frowned: "Why are you back? Wasn't the property already divided up?"
My heart sank. After two years away, all Preston cared about was still that bit of property.
Marlowe glanced at my suitcase, a mocking smile on her lips: "If it isn't our Mrs. Johnson who married into wealth. In the middle of the night—did they kick you out?"
I ignored her and set down my suitcase, looking calmly at Preston: "I came to tell you that I agree to the arranged marriage with the Wilson family."