Chapter 33
The air in the living room froze into a heavy block of ice because of Michael's shocking kneel.
Preston's face darkened, probably thinking Michael's behavior was too cheap and low-class.
Amelia's eyes went wide, her face showing undisguised shock and a hint of secret satisfaction.
Just then, a sharp female voice came from the stairway, breaking the eerie silence.
"What's going on here? Michael, even if our Ophelia is being unreasonable, you can't bow down like this."
Marlowe came down the stairs in a silk robe, wearing a concerned smile on her face, but every word she spoke had a sting to it.
She walked over to Amelia's side, and they exchanged a look of watching a good show, then started talking in turns.
"That's right, Ophelia," Amelia covered her mouth, pretending to be surprised. "Look how deeply Michael cares for you. He's even kneeling to ask for your forgiveness. No matter how angry you are, you shouldn't treat his true feelings like this."
They went back and forth, trying to put me on the hot seat as someone "cold-hearted and ungrateful," painting me as a heartless woman in front of Preston.
I watched their clumsy performance with cold eyes, finding it ridiculous.
I ignored Michael kneeling on the ground and turned my gaze to Marlowe instead, a faint smile curving my lips. "Marlowe, you just said I'm being unreasonable? I'd like to ask, when Michael cheated and trampled the White family's dignity under his feet, why didn't you come out and criticize him for being unreasonable?"
The smile on Marlowe's face froze.
I turned to Amelia, my eyes cold. "And you, you think his feelings run deep? You think his sincerity is earth-shattering?"
My gaze moved between her and Michael, my tone carrying a hint of malicious amusement. "Since you admire him so much, why don't you take this wonderful marriage for yourself? Look, he's kneeling right here, desperately needing a kind leading lady to help him up and get him through this crisis. Amelia, isn't this the perfect chance for you to show how kind and understanding you are, and play the hero saving the damsel in distress?"
"What nonsense are you talking?" Amelia's face instantly turned red.
My words not only tore her fake act to shreds, but also subtly pointed out the unclear history between her and Michael in front of Preston.
Michael finally snapped out of his one-man show.
He looked up at me in disbelief, as if he hadn't expected to hear such harsh and heartless words from my mouth.
What he saw was no longer the Ophelia whose heart and eyes were full of him, but a stranger with cold eyes who wouldn't spare even a trace of pity.
All his performance, all his schemes, became a joke in the face of my absolute calm.
That bit of fake love and pleading faded from his eyes, replaced by the venom and hatred of being humiliated.
He scrambled up from the ground awkwardly, pointed at me, and cursed in frustration: "Ophelia, you just wait! Don't think I can't make it without you. One day, I'll make you come back crying and begging me!"
With that, he slunk away under the complicated gazes of the White family.
I didn't even bother to give him an extra glance.
I knew that Michael, pushed to the edge and completely cut off from hope by me, would definitely be like a crazed gambler, betting all his last chips on that "new opportunity" I had carefully prepared for him.
Sure enough, the next day, in a corner of the financial section, there was an inconspicuous piece of news: former Johnson Group CEO Michael Johnson mortgaged all his personal assets to bet on a metaverse social project, and overnight, declared bankruptcy, drowning in debt.
I looked at that line of text without any ripple in my heart.
I had no time to appreciate a loser's downfall, because that evening, I had plans with Benjamin.
However, before I could leave, the doorbell of the White Mansion rang.
The servant opened the door, and everyone froze.
At the door stood a row of men in black suits, holding various beautifully packaged gift boxes—from top-tier jewelry and vintage wines to famous artworks and rare antique ornaments—piled up like a small mountain.
Surrounded by these people, Benjamin walked in with long strides, calm and composed.
Today, he wore a dark gray custom-tailored suit, perfectly cut, making his figure even more upright.
He walked straight to Preston, who was sitting on the sofa, looking stunned, his manner polite but his tone carrying weight.
"Mr. White, hello, I'm Benjamin Wilson. I apologize for this unexpected visit."
Preston had been in the business world for years, and he knew better than anyone the weight of Benjamin's name.
He quickly stood up, his face breaking into an enthusiastic smile I rarely saw. "So it's Mr. Wilson, please have a seat!"
"Mr. White, just call me Benjamin." Benjamin sat down on the sofa across from him, every movement showing natural nobility and composure.
The gifts he brought were each precisely chosen to touch Preston's heart—both valuable and tasteful.
"I've long heard of Mr. White's legendary achievements in business, and I greatly admire you," Benjamin spoke, his voice steady and pleasant. "I'm here today, first to visit an elder, and second to discuss the engagement process between Ophelia and me with you."
His voice wasn't loud, but it was like a bombshell exploding in the living room.
Preston was stunned, and Amelia and Marlowe were so shocked their jaws nearly hit the floor.
I stood at the stairway, quietly watching this scene.
Watching how Benjamin, in just a few words, transformed himself from a "business partner" into a "prospective groom" about to marry into the White family.
When dealing with Preston's probing and testing, he was neither humble nor arrogant, but clear and organized.
When talking about our future, the picture he painted both respected the White family's dignity and demonstrated the Wilson family's strength. He packaged this transaction as a well-matched, sincere alliance.
He firmly held the initiative in his hands and, with ease and humor, made the usually arrogant Preston show a satisfied and appreciative expression.
I had to admit, Benjamin's skills and emotional intelligence were terrifyingly high.
As he was leaving, Benjamin walked to my side and, in front of Preston, naturally tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
He leaned in close and said in a voice only the two of us could hear: "Your family is easier to handle than I imagined."
I looked at the fleeting smile in his deep eyes, suppressed the strange feeling in my heart, and replied coolly: "That depends on who's doing the handling."