Chapter 5

"Ms. White," he looked at me, his eyes like he'd discovered some interesting prey, "you're much more interesting than my father described."

He walked back behind the desk in the reception room, pulled out a cigar from an exquisite wooden box, but didn't light it—just played with it between his fingers.

"I can sign the agreement." He agreed quite readily. "My lawyer will contact you tomorrow. As for our relationship, I'll play along with you until you get your things back."

I felt a weight lift from my chest, but didn't let my guard down completely.

"However," he changed his tone, his eyes locking onto me precisely, "I never make a losing deal. From this marriage, I expect more in return than just the title of husband."

My heart tightened again. "What do you mean?"

Benjamin placed the cigar near his lips, leaning forward slightly. Across the wide desk, his gaze burned into me as his thin lips parted, speaking each word deliberately: "I want you, Ophelia White, to become my wife in every sense of the word."

His words struck like thunder in my ears.

I thought our deal was about mutual benefit, but I never expected that what he wanted included me as a person.

Seeing my shocked expression, the curve of Benjamin's lips deepened.

"Of course, after you've dealt with your troubles." He leaned back in his chair, his posture lazy yet commanding. "You can consider this an additional clause in our cooperation."

I fell silent.

Things had come this far—there was no turning back.

Compared to Michael's hypocrisy and scheming, Benjamin's directness and honesty actually made me feel more secure.

At least he'd laid his ambitions out in the open from the start.

"Alright." I finally nodded. "I agree."

He smiled with satisfaction.

When I left the club, it had already gotten dark.

I drove back to the Johnson Villa.

I just wanted to take some of Cecilia's belongings and my personal items, then cut ties with this place forever.

The villa was brightly lit. As I got out of the car, I felt those lights held no warmth at all.

I unlocked the door with my key. The living room was empty, except for Freya's cashmere blanket still draped over the sofa—painfully conspicuous.

I didn't linger, went straight upstairs, and pushed open the master bedroom door.

Everything in the room remained as I'd left it. I opened the walk-in closet, took out another suitcase, and began silently packing jewelry and clothes that held special meaning for me.

Just as I was placing a sapphire necklace Cecilia had left me into a jewelry box, the bedroom door was suddenly pushed open from outside without warning.

I jumped, turned around, and saw Michael standing in the doorway, his face extremely dark.

He'd changed out of the suit he wore at the club, wearing only a shirt with his tie hanging loosely around his neck. His hair was somewhat disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot.

He clearly hadn't gone to work—he'd been waiting here for me.

"I knew you'd come back." He spoke, his voice hoarse, walking toward me step by step, carrying suppressed fury.

I ignored him, closed the jewelry box, and turned to put it in my suitcase.

"Ophelia!" He suddenly grabbed my wrist, with such force that the area that had just stopped being red started hurting again. "Stop this nonsense!"

His words struck me as both absurd and laughable.

I looked at him coldly. "Michael, have you forgotten? You're the one who told me to leave."

"That was just said in anger!" A flash of discomfort crossed his face, then he raised his voice. "What was that at the club today? You and Benjamin... what's your relationship? Are you trying to use him to get back at me?"

He stared at me intently, as if trying to find some trace of love turned to hate on my face—the reaction he expected.

Unfortunately, he saw nothing.

I looked at him, my eyes holding only cold disgust. "I have nothing to do with him, but we're finished. Let go of me."

"Finished?" Michael seemed stung by the word. Not only did he not release me, but he also pulled me closer, almost completely enclosing me in his shadow.

That handsome face that once made my heart flutter now looked somewhat twisted with jealousy and anger.

"I don't agree!" he growled. "Ophelia, you're my woman! I won't let you leave me!"

He suddenly softened his tone, reaching out to touch my face with a kind of false tenderness.

"I know you're still mad at me. It's my fault—I shouldn't have lost my temper with you. Just come back, and I promise I'll listen to you from now on. I'll have Freya move out, okay? We'll be like we were before."

He was still using his self-righteous gentleness to deceive me, thinking I was still the fool who could be won over with a few sweet words.

I felt nauseated.

I turned my head to avoid his hand, my gaze falling on the bed behind him where we once slept together, my voice cold as ice.

"Michael, I came back only to get my things."

I spoke each word clearly: "This place makes me sick."

With that, I forcefully shook off his hand, grabbed my packed suitcase, and walked toward the door without looking back.

Michael froze in place, the color draining from his face instantly. He watched my resolute back, his expression shifting from rage to a hint of panic.

"Ophelia!" He caught up, blocking my way again, his tone carrying a pleading note he himself hadn't noticed. "Stop this, okay?"

I looked at him, this man I once loved deeply, his face now showing a mixture of panic, anger, and a trace of almost humble desperation.

He was probably truly scared—scared of losing me, his cash cow, scared that the wealthy life he'd finally climbed into would turn to nothing.

My assets hadn't been completely transferred yet. Breaking things off completely with him now would only push them to do something more extreme.

I needed time, and I needed a legitimate reason to stay here and take back what belonged to me.

With this thought, the coldness in my heart was suppressed by reason, and the resolute expression on my face gradually faded, replaced by a weary numbness.

I lowered my eyes, my long lashes concealing all the emotions beneath. "Michael, I'm tired."

My voice was soft, with just the right touch of hoarseness. "How can I trust you? You and Freya..."

Seeing my attitude soften, Michael immediately grabbed this lifeline.

He eagerly interrupted me. "Don't worry about Freya—I'll handle it! I'll have her move out, or I'll send her abroad for treatment. Either way, I won't let her affect us anymore."

He made his promises earnestly, as if Freya were just some object he could discard at will.