Chapter 71
# Ophelia POV
After hanging up the phone, Benjamin immediately turned the car around and headed for the Wilson Mansion.
The Wilson Mansion, shrouded in night and ringed with trees, exuded a quiet gravitas and time-worn dignity.
But as the car slowly turned in and rolled down the long, tree-lined driveway, when I saw the two warm, bright lights at the entrance of the main house, the nervousness I'd felt about facing this elite family was quietly replaced by a calm, unexpected sense of coming home.
The car had barely stopped when two elderly people with gray hair emerged from inside, supported by the butler.
"Benjamin, Ophelia, I've been waiting so long for you two to come back!" The moment Sloane saw me, her face lit up with joy. She let go of the butler's hand and hurried forward, grabbing my hand. Her palm was warm and soft, filled with the special affection of an elder, gently patting the back of my hand. "Come inside quickly, it's cold out here. Don't want you to freeze."
"Grandma, Grandpa." I greeted them somewhat nervously.
"Oh, good child." Quentin stood off to the side, still looking strong and healthy, his face showing the same delight and affection as Sloane's. He looked at me, then glared at Benjamin with mock reproach. "You rascal, did you even propose? Just bringing her back like this — what kind of behavior is that!"
For once, Benjamin didn't argue back. He just put his arm around my shoulder and said quietly, "Grandpa, let's talk inside."
The living room was warm and cozy, done in an elegant, traditional style. It wasn't the gaudy opulence I'd imagined — everything radiated the warmth of home. Sloane pulled me to sit on the soft sofa, asking after my well-being with such genuine, undisguised affection that I felt a bit overwhelmed, my eyes growing hot before I even realized it.
I had never felt anything like this warmth from the White family.
Benjamin placed the slightly lopsided cake box on the table and opened it, revealing our afternoon "masterpiece."
"This is the birthday cake Ophelia made for me herself today." He looked at me, his eyes full of tender warmth, as he introduced it to Sloane and Quentin.
Sloane's eyes immediately brightened. She leaned over to look, exclaiming with exaggerated praise, "Ophelia is so talented! This cake looks wonderful!"
Her praise made me feel a bit embarrassed, my face growing warm.
Benjamin found candles in the kitchen and inserted them one by one into the cake, then lit them.
The dim candlelight flickered, illuminating his chiseled features and softening the usual depth in his eyes with warmth.
"Quick, sing the birthday song, make a wish!" Sloane urged, clapping her hands and starting to sing.
I joined in softly, but my gaze remained fixed on Benjamin.
He sat there quietly in the candlelight, looking at me intently. In those deep eyes, my reflection was clear in them, as if in that moment I was the only person in his world.
My heart suddenly skipped a beat under that gaze.
"Make your wish," I urged, my cheeks burning from the way he was looking at me.
His lips curved slightly. He looked at me deeply once more, then slowly closed his eyes.
His long, thick lashes cast a faint shadow beneath his eyes, his expression almost reverent, as if he were handling a priceless treasure. In that moment, I was almost certain that his wish had something to do with me.
This thought made my heart beat even faster, my face growing hotter.
He blew out the candles, picked up the knife, cut the first slice of cake, and quite naturally placed it in front of me.
"Thank you."
I took the cake and tasted a bite. The sweetness of the cream mixed with the slight bitterness of chocolate, melting on my tongue — a taste of happiness I had never known before.
"Delicious, really delicious!" Quentin and Sloane also praised it enthusiastically, looking at me with growing satisfaction.
I immersed myself in this simple, pure happiness, unable to suppress the smile on my lips.
So this is what it feels like to be loved, to be truly cherished.
Just as we were enjoying this harmonious moment, Benjamin's phone rang abruptly, shattering the warmth that had filled the room.
He glanced at the screen, answered, and put it on speaker. A face appeared on the screen that resembled his but was colder and more severe.
It was Benjamin's father, Brent Wilson.
"Dad," Benjamin responded flatly.
The man on the screen seemed to be in his office, with a wall of bookshelves in the background. Seeing Benjamin's surroundings, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
His gaze swept across the screen before finally landing on me. That look was sharp and scrutinizing, without a trace of warmth.
My heart tightened. I instinctively sat up straighter and politely said, "Mr. Wilson, hello."
Brent only gave a brief response before looking away, his attitude so cold it bordered on rude.
The smile on my face stiffened, and the atmosphere turned awkward in an instant.
"Brent! What kind of way is that to talk?" Quentin couldn't stand it anymore and frowned at the screen. "This is Ophelia, your daughter-in-law! Is this how you treat your daughter-in-law? And have you forgotten what day it is? It's Benjamin's birthday, and you, as his father, can't even say happy birthday?"
Brent ignored Quentin's reproach as if he hadn't heard it at all. He looked at Benjamin and got straight to the point, his tone purely businesslike. "About that merger I mentioned before — the other party added a clause at the last minute. I've sent the documents to your email. Look at them now and give me a proposal by tomorrow morning."
In his words, there was no concern for his son, no blessing for our new marriage — just cold, impersonal work talk.
Whatever warmth had been on Benjamin's face was gone, replaced by his usual composure.
He picked up his phone and stood up.
"Got it."
With that, he did not look at us again and walked straight upstairs to the study with his phone in hand.
The cake on the table, with one corner cut away, still sat there quietly, but the warm sweetness it carried had been completely scattered by Brent's cold phone call.
After Benjamin went upstairs, the atmosphere in the living room fell into a quiet, uneasy silence.
I held my unfinished piece of cake, suddenly finding it tasteless.
"Ophelia, don't take it to heart." Sloane took my hand and patted it gently, her face full of apology and sympathy. "Brent just has that awful temper. He's like that with everyone, especially with Benjamin. He's never given him a kind look since childhood. He's not targeting you specifically — don't overthink it."
Quentin chimed in, "He's just a workaholic. There's nothing in his head except work. Those two barely say a few words to each other all year. Their relationship isn't even as good as mine with your grandma."
Listening to their explanations, the ripples in my heart stirred up by Brent's coldness gradually began to settle.
I wasn't feeling wronged for myself — rather, I felt inexplicably sorry for Benjamin.
Growing up in such a harsh, loveless environment, for him to have become the steady, reliable person he is now, he must have gone through hardships unknown to others.
"Come on, let me show you your room." Seeing my expression soften, Sloane smiled, pulled me to my feet, and gently changed the subject.