The Unwanted Daughter's Secret Billionaire Identity

The sound of Richard Barnes's knife scraping against the porcelain plate was a violence all its own. It cut through the silence of the dining room, a high-pitched screech that made the fine hairs on Ophelia's arms stand up. She didn't look up from her plate, but she could feel the weight of the air in the room. It was heavy, suffocating, pressing against her chest like a physical hand. Susan dabbed the corner of her mouth with a silk napkin, her movements precise and practiced. Her eyes flicked over Ophelia's sweater-a charcoal wool blend that had seen better days-and a tiny, almost imperceptible scoff escaped her throat. It wasn't loud enough to be an insult, but quiet enough to be a dismissal. "So, Ophelia," Mia chirped, her voice too bright, too sweet for the gloom of the room. She twirled a forkful of pasta, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Have you thought about what you're going to do? After... well, you know." Ophelia finally lifted her gaze. Mia was smiling, but the expression didn't reach her eyes. It was a predator's smile, sharp and waiting for blood. "I'll figure it out," Ophelia said, her voice steady. "I always do." Richard set his knife down with a clatter. He cleared his throat, a wet, nervous sound. His hand went to the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and he pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. He placed it on the marble table and slid it across the smooth surface. It spun slowly, coming to a stop just inches from Ophelia's water glass. Ophelia didn't reach for it. She just stared at Richard. Her stillness was a weapon, and she knew how to use it. Richard shifted in his seat, his face flushing a mottled red. "It's a severance package, of sorts," Richard said, refusing to meet her eyes. He looked at the centerpiece instead. "To help you get settled. Your... biological parents contacted us. They'll be here tomorrow to pick you up." "Those people are from the middle of nowhere," Susan interjected, taking a sip of her wine. "Farmers, or something equally tragic. You'll need every penny in that envelope, Ophelia. God knows they probably can't afford to feed another mouth." Ophelia reached out, her long, slender fingers pressing down on the envelope. She could feel the paper beneath her skin, cool and crisp. She didn't hurry. She slid her thumb under the flap and tore it open. The sound was loud in the quiet room. She pulled out the check. One hundred thousand dollars. Susan leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with expectation. She wanted gratitude. She wanted tears. She wanted Ophelia to crumble. Ophelia flicked the edge of the check with her fingernail. Snap. "A little less than I expected for ten years of playing the grateful orphan," Ophelia said, her tone bored. "But it's enough to buy some peace and quiet." The silence that followed was absolute. Richard slammed his hand on the table, the silverware jumping. "You ungrateful little-! We took you in! We fed you!" Ophelia's eyes snapped to his. The coldness in them was absolute, a frozen lake that Richard suddenly realized he was standing on. He faltered, his mouth hanging open. Mia let out a small, frightened squeak and shrank against her mother, peeking at Ophelia through her lashes. Ophelia didn't even look at her. The chair legs scraped against the hardwood floor-a harsh, grinding noise-as Ophelia stood up. "I accept the arrangement," she said. "I'll start packing tonight." "Don't bother taking the furniture," Susan spat. "None of that junk is worth moving." "Some things are worth more than money, Susan," Ophelia said quietly. She turned and walked out of the dining room. Her footsteps were steady, rhythmic. Behind her, she heard Susan start to curse, a low stream of vitriol, but Ophelia felt nothing. Her heart rate hadn't even spiked. She climbed the stairs to the guest room-the smallest room in the manor, the one with the drafty window. She closed the door and locked it. From under the bed, she dragged out an old leather suitcase. It was scuffed and worn, the only thing she truly owned. She didn't go for her clothes. Instead, she walked to the bookshelf and pulled out a thick medical textbook. From the hollowed-out center of the pages, she removed a black, encrypted hard drive. She placed it in the hidden lining of the suitcase, her fingers brushing the cold metal. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. The screen showed an encrypted number. She answered. "Yes." "Miss Pennington," a voice said. It was Arthur. His voice was shaking slightly, thick with emotion. "We are ready." "Stick to the plan, Arthur," Ophelia whispered. "Tomorrow." Downstairs, Mia's laughter rang out, shrill and mocking. They were celebrating. Ophelia walked to the window and looked out at the moonlit grounds. She turned back to the room and began tossing heavy books into the suitcase-German anatomy texts, Latin surgical guides. The door handle jiggled, then the lock clicked. Mia stood in the doorway, swinging a spare key on her finger. "Just wanted to make sure you weren't stealing the silver," Mia said, stepping into the room. She sat on Ophelia's bed, bouncing slightly, claiming the space. "God, you're going to be so miserable. I hear the water in that town tastes like rust." Ophelia continued to fold a sweater, her back to Mia. "Get out." "Make me." Mia kicked the small wastebasket by the desk, sending trash spilling across the floor. Ophelia turned. She moved so fast it was a blur. One second she was by the suitcase, the next she was looming over Mia. She didn't touch her, but she leaned in close, her shadow swallowing the girl. "Don't make me leave you a parting gift you can't wash off," Ophelia said. Her voice was a low hum, vibrating with a threat that felt very, very real. Mia's eyes widened. She scrambled back, nearly falling off the bed. The air in the room felt suddenly thin. "You're crazy," Mia whispered. She stood up, trying to regain her composure, smoothing her skirt with trembling hands. "We'll see who's laughing tomorrow." She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled. Ophelia walked to the door and threw the deadbolt. She went back to the suitcase, checking the lining one last time. Then, she picked up the check Richard had given her. She opened a book on neurosurgery and slipped the check between pages 402 and 403. A bookmark. That was all it was. She turned off the light. In the darkness, her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. "Game on," she whispered.