I Married My Ex's Billionaire Father-Chapter 286: I’ll Have To Do It Myself

The heavy crystal decanter hit the far wall with a sound like a gunshot, shattering into a thousand glittering diamonds. The amber whiskey inside bled down the expensive silk wallpaper, a dark, jagged stain that looked remarkably like a fresh wound.

"What do you mean he survived and can no longer be touched?" Ophelia demanded, her voice vibrating with a pitch of rage that made the remaining glassware on the side table hum.

Troy flinched, the sound of the glass shattering still ringing in his ears, but he remained rooted in place. He knew from bitter experience that moving while Ophelia was in this state only drew her fire. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on a point just above her left shoulder, trying to maintain a mask of professional neutrality while his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He hated this. He hated being the one who had to relay the bad news to Ophelia because she did not do well with disappointing news. To Ophelia Welhaven, a "no" or a "failure" was not a logistical hurdle; it was a personal insult, an act of treason committed by the universe itself. He wanted nothing more than to slink out of her office, down the grand marble staircase, and run far away to a place where he would never have to witness her wrath again.

After all, it was not his fault that Ken Stuart had been not only able to protect himself but also disable his attacker with the ruthless efficiency of a man who had spent a lifetime in the shadows. Troy felt a flicker of resentment. He had done his part. He had found the man, paid the bribe, and synchronized the distraction in the cell block. The only good thing, the only reason Troy hadn’t been fired or worse already was that he’d had the foresight to have one of their people on the inside eliminate the failed attacker immediately after the struggle. The assassin was dead, his silence permanent, ensuring the trail would not lead back to Ophelia.

But no, she is not going to thank me for such quick thinking, Troy thought bitterly. She is going to blame me for something which had no guaranteed outcome. She expects the world to bend to her will like a well-trained dog.

"When Mr. Stuart was stabbed," Troy explained, his voice remarkably steady despite the sweat slicking his palms, "he reached out and stopped the attacker’s hand from reaching a part of his body that would have led to a fatal injury. It was a matter of inches and reflexes, Ophelia. The outcome is that his side was stabbed, yes, but no vital organs were harmed. He didn’t just survive; he took down the attacker. In the chaos that followed, the warden had him sent to a high-security hospital outside the prison. Our guys can’t reach him there."

"Then get some of our guys to go where he is and finish him up!" Ophelia yelled, her face contorting. She stepped toward him, the scent of the spilled whiskey rising around them like a toxic cloud. "I don’t care about the security! I don’t care about the hospital! I want him dead before he breathes another word to the police!"

"Mr. Van Doren has employed private security for Mr. Stuart," Troy continued, his voice dropping an octave as he delivered the final, crushing blow. "It’s a specialized firm, Ophelia. Ex-special forces. They’ve locked down the entire floor. Everyone who comes into that room, doctors, nurses, janitorial staff has to be appraised thoroughly first. Biometric scans, background checks, the works. It’s a fortress."

"Anybody can be paid!" Ophelia demanded, her eyes wide and frenzied. "Find out what they want! Triple their salary! Quintuple it! Get them to have it done immediately!"

"We have tried that," Troy explained, his voice tight. He winced as Ophelia’s crazed eyes settled on him, the pupils dilated with adrenaline. "No one is taking a bite. It seems Mr. Van Doren chose the best he could find, men with reputations that are worth more to them than a one-time payout. They are loyal to the contract, and right now, the contract says Ken Stuart stays alive."

"What did you say?" she asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low hiss. She began to stalk him, moving with a predatory grace that forced Troy to step back nervously until his heels hit the mahogany door.

"We can’t get to Mr. Stuart right now," he stammered, his bravado finally crumbling. "The window has closed. Maybe we can wait a little while, let the guard drop, and try again in a few weeks when he’s moved to a less secure facility..."

"Useless!" Ophelia bellowed. The word seemed to rattle the very foundations of the room.

"You are useless! All of you! I am surrounded by idiots and cowards who can’t finish a simple task!" She screamed at Troy, her face inches from his. "Get out! Get out before I find a way to make you as silent as that assassin!"

Troy did not need to be told twice. He turned and fled, his footsteps echoing down the hallway in a frantic rhythm of escape. He didn’t look back, not even when he heard the first heavy object hit the floor inside the study.

Left alone in the wreckage of her office, Ophelia’s chest heaved. The silence that followed Troy’s departure was thick and suffocating. She looked down at her hands; they were shaking, not with fear, but with a primal, unadulterated fury.

She began to pace the room like a caged animal. Every time she passed a piece of furniture, she struck out. A priceless Ming vase was swept off its pedestal, shattering against the floor. A stack of leather-bound ledgers was hurled across the room, the pages fluttering like wounded birds. She grabbed a heavy brass lamp and swung it against the edge of the desk, the metal denting with a satisfying groan.

She was losing control. For years, she had been the master of her domain, the invisible hand that guided the Welhaven fortune and silenced any dissent. But now, the walls were closing in. Ken was alive, a living testament to her past sins. And Levi Van Doren, the man she had once viewed as a mere social peer had become a formidable wall standing between her and her survival.

She stopped in the center of the room, her breathing ragged, surrounded by the carnage of her own making. The destruction of the room hadn’t sated her; it had only clarified the problem.

The problem wasn’t Ken. Ken was a symptom. The problem was the girl.

Lyse.

As long as Lyse existed, Ken had a reason to fight. As long as Lyse walked the earth with that face, that haunting, perfect replica of Maeve’s face the truth would never stay buried. People were starting to look. Levi was starting to dig. Brooke was dead, Sutton was in a coma, and yet the threat remained because the girl was the heart of it all.

Ophelia walked over to the window, looking out over the manicured gardens of the estate. The morning sun was bright, illuminating the world in a way that felt offensive to her. She realized then that she had been attacking the problem from the wrong angle. She had tried to kill the man to protect the secret, but the secret was embodied in the girl.

If Lyse was gone, the connection died. If Lyse was gone, Levi’s interest in the Welhaven history would wither away. If Lyse was gone, Ken Stuart would have nothing left to live for, and his will to protect himself would crumble.

The anger in Ophelia’s veins cooled, replaced by a terrifying, icy resolve. The frantic heat of her rage transformed into the cold, calculated precision of a predator. She didn’t need to get through a wall of elite guards at a hospital. She didn’t need to bribe prison wardens.

She just needed to reach the girl.

"Useless," Ophelia whispered to the empty room, her eyes fixed on her own reflection in the windowpane. "I’ll have to do it myself."

She reached into the pocket of her silk robe and pulled out a small, burner phone she kept for emergencies. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She wouldn’t use Troy for this. She wouldn’t use the usual channels. This required someone who operated entirely outside the known circles, someone who didn’t care about the Van Doren name or the Chadwick scandals.

Lyse had to go. Not because Ophelia hated her though she did, with a passion that burned like acid but because Lyse was the final obstacle to Ophelia’s absolute security.

The carnage in the study was forgotten. The broken glass and spilled whiskey were mere footnotes. Ophelia stood tall, the queen of a crumbling castle, finally deciding to burn the bridge behind her.