Chapter 6

Ophelia’s POV

The morning sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawns of as I pulled into the circular driveway of the mansion. My whole body ached from the marathon surgery session I'd just finished, though if I'm being honest, not all of that soreness came from standing at the operating table. Some of it had more to do with certain... activities from the previous night that I was desperately trying not to think about.

Mrs. Thompson appeared at the front door before I could even reach for my keys. Her familiar figure, always impeccably dressed in her housekeeper's uniform, was usually a welcome sight. Today, however, I felt a twinge of guilt at having to maintain my carefully constructed facade.

"Miss Clarke," she greeted me with that perfectly neutral tone that somehow still managed to convey disapproval. "Another extended shift after night duty?"

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, trying not to wince at the movement. "Major car accident in UCLA's ER," I lied, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. "The surgery just wrapped up. Haven't even checked my phone."

As I took a step forward, a sharp pain shot through my lower back–a reminder of the uncomfortable hospital chair I'd dozed in between surgeries. I must have winced because Mrs. Thompson's eyes narrowed with concern.

"Miss Clarke, are you injured? Your gait seems... irregular."

"Nothing serious," I assured her quickly. Maybe too quickly. "Just been standing too long in surgery. Nothing a hot shower won't fix."

She nodded, but I could tell she wasn't entirely convinced. We'd developed a peculiar relationship over the past six months – she was technically my employee, yet she handled all communication with my mysterious husband. Sometimes I wondered if she knew more about him than I did, which wasn't difficult considering I'd never even met the man.

"Miss Clarke..." Mrs. Thompson's tone changed, becoming more formal. "The Boss called this morning and said he has returned to Los Angeles."

The next second, the coat slipped from my fingers, landing in a heap on the marble floor. "What?"

My heart began to race, and I felt a cold sweat break out across my forehead. Six months. For six months, I'd been married to a man I'd never met. The marriage certificate had been handled by his legal team, the ceremony conducted by proxy. I didn't even have a copy of our marriage license–one of the many stipulations in our unusual arrangement.

The primary condition had been absolute secrecy. Not even my father knew about this marriage, though considering our strained relationship, that hadn't been difficult to maintain. The whole thing had been orchestrated through layers of lawyers and proxies, all to secure my mother's burial rights in City Cemetery–a deal I'd made out of desperation and grief.

"Mrs. Thompson," I heard myself asking, my voice sounding distant to my own ears, "have you ever met him in person?"

She smoothed her apron, a habit I'd noticed she had when choosing her words carefully. "Yes, I used to care for the Boss in Boston."

"What..." I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure. "What kind of person is he?"

Her expression softened slightly. "The Boss is very self-disciplined, but quite considerate of his subordinates." She paused, then added firmly, "I'm afraid I can't say more than that."

I nodded, understanding her position. Still, questions swirled in my mind like autumn leaves caught in a wind tunnel. Who was he on earth? Why did he marry me? And why had he maintained this distance for so long, only to suddenly return now?

Making my way up the grand staircase, each step felt heavier than the last. My five-year-old daughter Ivy's existence was another secret I carried–one that could potentially shatter this precise arrangement. The thought of Ivy’s innocent face, probably just waking up at her preschool, made my chest tighten with anxiety.

The truth was, I was living multiple lives: the dedicated surgical intern at UCLA Medical Center, the secret wife of a powerful unknown figure, and most importantly, the mother of a beautiful little girl who deserved better than all this deception. And now, with Finnegan back in my life, everything felt even more complicated.

I sank onto the edge of the king-sized bed, my mind racing. What did my husband's return mean? Would he expect to meet me? Would our carefully constructed paper marriage suddenly become real? And what about Finnegan? Last night's stolen moments felt like a distant dream now, tainted by guilt and fear.

"Miss Clarke?" Mrs. Thompson's voice floated up from the hallway. "Should I prepare your usual breakfast?"

"No, thank you," I called back, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded. "I think I'll just take a shower and rest for a bit."

As I lay back on the bed, still fully clothed, I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of my situation. Here I was, in a mansion that belonged to my husband but felt nothing like home, married to a man whose face I wouldn't recognize if I passed him on the street, while my heart fluttered for another man...

Sleep tugged at the edges of my consciousness, but my mind wouldn't quiet. Every creak of the house, every distant sound of Mrs. Thompson going about her duties, made me wonder–was this the moment my carefully constructed world would begin to unravel?

As exhaustion finally won out, my last thought was of Ivy's bright smile. In the space between waking and sleeping, I made a silent promise to myself: no matter what happened next, I would protect what mattered most. Even if it meant facing the mysterious man I'd married.

"Mrs. Thompson?" I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the empty hallway.

She appeared almost instantly, as if she'd been waiting nearby. "Yes, Miss Clarke?"

"Did..." I hesitated, then forced myself to continue. "Did he leave any message for me? Any instructions or requests?"

Her expression remained carefully neutral. "No, he simply informed us of his return."

I nodded, trying to ignore the mix of relief and disappointment that flooded through me. "Thank you, Mrs. Thompson."

As she turned to leave, another question burned on my tongue. I called after her, "what does he look like?"

She paused, her back still to me. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer. Then, very softly, she said, "The Boss is... commanding. You’ll know when you see him." She turned slightly, meeting my eyes. "That's all I can say, Miss Clarke."