Revenge Of The Jilted Bride (Ophelia)

Chapter 4 Who Gave You The Right

Liam cast a glance at Ophelia, his curiosity piqued. 'Wasn't she supposed to be some poor girl who grew up in the slums for the first twenty years of her life?' he thought.

But there she stood, a confident smile lighting up her face-no trace of fear, no defensiveness. If anything, she had this effortless grace about her, something wild yet undeniably elegant. With her striking features and radiant eyes, Liam couldn't help but think she and Kenneth made quite the pair.

He led her up to a spacious guest room on the second floor. "Miss Hastings-"

"My name is Ophelia Spencer, actually. Just Ophelia, please," she corrected him gently but firmly.

Liam smiled, bowing his head slightly in respect. "Miss Ophelia, of course. You'll be staying in this room for now. Mr. Kenneth rarely stays here."

With a nod of recognition, she entered the room alone. She'd almost forgotten-during her last life, she hadn't even met Kenneth until a month after her arrival.

The room was massive, with a walk-in closet five times larger than the room she'd stayed at Hastings Villa.

She moved toward the ornate floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing at the sea of city lights that shimmered like stars below. In the courtyard, clusters of roses swayed gently in the evening breeze, their soft pink petals catching the dim lights. The scene was almost too romantic to be real, a stark contrast to the coldness she felt inside.

The last time she had looked out on this view, she'd been a different woman-hopeful, naive. But not this time. Not in this life.© 2024 Nôv/el/Dram/a.Org.

Ophelia wouldn't waste her second chance. She wouldn't let Kenneth down this time.

After a long, hot shower, she sank into the oversized bathtub, letting the heat relax her muscles as she began to map out the plan for the next five years. So much had happened, so much was yet to come.

It had been too long since she had felt the comfort of such a luxurious bath. Slowly, her mind began to drift, and she fell asleep right there in the tub, the warmth lulling her into a deep slumber.

The water cooled over time, and Ophelia's dream shifted to something colder, darker-like being submerged in the icy depths of the ocean.

She struggled to breathe, fighting against the pressure, her chest tightening with the thinning air.

And then, through the haze, a familiar figure emerged a tall silhouette against the dark, moving toward her with deliberate, calm strides. The edges of the vision sharpened, and then she saw him. It was Kenneth. His chiseled features were as striking as ever, and his eyes, always intense, locked onto her with an unreadable expression.

The sensation of being lifted from the cold washed over her as she was pulled into the warmth of strong arms.

*****

When Ophelia's eyes fluttered open, the morning sunlight was streaming in through the windows, bright and cheerful. She was lying in the middle of a plush bed, the soft fabric of a white bathrobe enveloping her like a gentle cloud. Her confusion was instant. 'How did I get back to bed?'

Before she could piece things together, a large woman, one of the maids, entered the room, knocking politely before asking, "Miss Ophelia, you're awake. You fell asleep in the tub last night, and I carried you back to bed." "Oh... thank you," Ophelia muttered, still groggy and trying to process.

"No problem at all, Miss Ophelia. Breakfast is ready whenever you are," the maid responded.

Not dwelling too much on last night, Ophelia glanced at the time, shrugged off the strangeness, and headed downstairs for breakfast.

A full week had passed at Rosewood Manor and she still hadn't seen Kenneth once.

One evening, feeling restless, she decided to run along the winding paths that encircled the villa. The rhythmic sound of her feet hitting the pavement cleared her mind as she dialed a number on her phone.

"Sell the things I left with you. Split it 70-30 and transfer the money to my account," she said simply before hanging up. She needed money, and she needed it fast.

By the time she returned, sweaty and ready for dinner, a cluster of maids were standing in the kitchen, whispering amongst themselves.

Ophelia's gaze swept over them coolly, silencing the group in an instant. Only one maid, a girl with round eyes, had the audacity to roll her eyes at Ophelia, her voice dripping with disdain as she muttered, "What's there to be scared of? She's just here to play wife for show. "Mr. Kenneth hasn't even bothered to visit her. In the old days, she wouldn't even be considered a mistress, let alone anything important. We outrank her."

Ophelia's sharp ears caught every word, but she barely reacted. The maid who spoke was Karen Phillips. Ophelia recognized her. She was sour and conniving-lazy whenever Liam wasn't around, often lounging in the living room and watching TV as if she owned the place. "Is this what I'm supposed to eat?" Ophelia's voice was icy as she gestured toward the sad array of dishes on the dining table-cold, limp vegetables and a plate of pasta that had clearly been sitting out for hours.

The pasta had swollen to an unnatural size, like bloated worms, with a film of something suspiciously like spit glistening on top. The sight was enough to make her stomach turn.

"You work out a lot, so I figured you'd appreciate something light," Karen smirked, not even attempting to hide her snark.

Ophelia's lips curved into a smile so pure and innocent that it could fool anyone when combined with her angelic face.

In her last life, she had played the fool, constantly running to Hastings Villa like a loyal dog, barely spending any time at Rosewood Manor. She had never realized just how petty and dull the servants here were behind her back.

She crooked her finger at Karen, the smirk never leaving her face.

Karen, completely unguarded, folded her arms and strutted over, utterly oblivious to the dangerous glint that flashed in Ophelia's eyes. "What's the matter? Don't like the food? From what I heard, you grew up in the slums. You should be thankful that you've got anything to eat at all, let alone complain about-" Before Karen could finish her sentence, a shrill scream echoed through the dining room.

In a swift motion, Ophelia grabbed Karen by the hair and slammed her face down into the plate of pasta in front of her. "Let me teach you something from the slums." Ophelia's voice was calm as she pressed harder with unexpected strength. "It's called survival of the fittest."

Caught off guard, Karen panicked and her body flailed helplessly, cutlery clattering to the floor as she gasped and sputtered, "Let me go. Who the hell do you think you are? Mr. Kenneth only married you as a joke, you're nothing but a... Help, someone, please..." Pale and wide-eyed, the other maids stood frozen, too frightened to even consider helping.

Ophelia lifted Karen by the collar and threw her across the room with surprising strength. She landed with a loud thud, crashing into the dining chairs.

"If he married me," Ophelia said icily, stepping forward with regal grace, "then that makes me the lady of this manor. You would do well to remember that."

Karen, now covered in sauce, spaghetti stuck to her face and hair, struggled to compose herself, coughing violently.

After a few seconds, she pointed a shaky finger at Ophelia, her voice hoarse and furious. "You're delusional. You're just a plaything to Mr. Kenneth. Has he even come to see you since you arrived here ages ago? Lady of the manor? Don't make me laugh." As her words fell, the entire room plunged into silence.

Karen suddenly realized something and her expression shifted, the color draining from her face as her eyes slowly darted toward the entrance. There, sitting in his wheelchair, was Kenneth.

His devastatingly handsome face was framed by those gorgeous, alluring eyes, his gaze sharp as a blade, exuding an innate arrogance. His lips curved slightly into a smirk though it carried a dangerous edge. He wore a black shirt, the top two buttons left casually undone, revealing the chiseled lines of his collarbone, a striking contrast to the ruthless expression on his face.

With Kenneth's arrival, the entire estate seemed to hold its breath.

Karen's legs trembled and her eyes widened in shock as she realized the gravity of the situation, praying silently that Kenneth hadn't overheard her. But the cold sweat running down her back told her otherwise.

Ophelia's eyes reddened at the sight of Kenneth. Even now, confined to a wheelchair, he sat with his back straight, never allowing himself to appear weak. But in her last life, he had knelt by her side, pleading for her to wake up again and again, his pride shattered. Karen, realizing Ophelia hadn't immediately spoken up, crawled toward Kenneth, her voice trembling as she pleaded, "Mr. Kenneth... it's the food. Miss Ophelia didn't like it, so she took it out on us. We're just the servants, Mr. Kenneth, we're human too..." Kenneth's piercing gaze slid from Ophelia to Karen. His voice, low and velvety, rumbled like a cello, the final syllable lingering seductively in the air. "Who gave you the right to act out in my house? Hmm?"

Karen's heart leapt at his words, and a glimmer of hope surged in her chest. She thought to herself, 'I knew it. She's just a pawn Kenneth brought here. She's nothing but a plaything to him. There's no way he'd let her act like she owns the place.'