I Married My Ex's Billionaire Father-Chapter 312: Kicked Out Of The House

The car slowed down as it approached the wrought-iron gates of the Welhaven residence.

Even in the fading light, the estate stood like a monument to beauty, tall hedges trimmed to precision, white stone pillars flanking the entrance, security cameras discreet but watchful of all the corners.

Home.

Ophelia leaned her head back against the leather seat and closed her eyes.

She was exhausted.

Not just physically, she had been unable to sleep even a wink in that jail, but also socially, emotionally, spiritually exhausted. The kind that clung to the skin like smoke and probably smelled.

All she wanted was to sink into the comfort of her marble bathtub. To disappear beneath water perfumed with imported oils. To light her French candles. To wash away the humiliation of the past couple of days

To pretend none of it had happened.

The horn sounded once.

Then again.

Ophelia frowned and opened her eyes.

Why wasn’t the gate opening?

There was always someone watching. Always someone ready to swing those gates wide the moment her car appeared.

She sat upright.

The driver hadn’t stepped out.

The gates hadn’t moved.

The security lights hadn’t flickered.

Annoyance prickled.

She reached for the door handle, ready to scream at whoever was on duty, and then froze.

This wasn’t her car.

The realization hit her like cold water.

The vehicle she had come in was sleek, dark, anonymous.

Unfamiliar.

Of course.

The Welhaven guards had strict instructions. They were not to open the gates to unknown vehicles.

They must think this is a stranger.

Relief flickered through her.

Yes. That had to be it.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Winston.

The butler answered on the second ring.

"Winston," she said briskly, already reaching for the disconnect button. "I’m at the gate. Have them open it immedisately and have a cheese platter prepared and sent to my room."

"Ms. Welhaven—"

His tone stopped her.

It was careful.

Too careful.

"Yes?" she snapped.

"Unfortunately, I have been given instructions not to let you in."

For a moment she didn’t understand the words.

They hovered in the air between them, strange and senseless

"Wa... what?" Her voice broke before she caught it. "I do not have patience for jokes, Winston. Open the gate immediately."

There was a pause.

"I’m afraid you will have to speak to the solicitor, Ms. Welhaven. My hands are tied."

Her stomach dropped.

"What solicitor? What are you talking about?"

But the line had already gone dead.

She stared at the phone.

Then redialed.

No answer.

Again.

Straight to voicemail.

Ophelia’s breath shortened.

This was a mistake.

A stupid error and when she got in there she would fire every single one of those useless staff.

She flung open the car door and stepped out, heels striking the pavement sharply.

"Open the gate!" she screamed, marching toward the iron bars. "Do you know who I am?!"

The guards inside the security booth did not move.

Did not react.

Did not even look at her.

The indifference was worse than resistance.

Her vision blurred with rage.

She yanked off one shoe and hurled it at the gate.

It struck metal and fell uselessly to the ground.

The sound echoed far louder than it should have.

"Ma’am, it seems they are not prepared to let the car in." The chauffeur stepped out, professional and composed. "Is there somewhere else you would like me to take you?"

She ignored him.

She rattled the gate.

It did not budge.

And then she noticed it.

Movement.

Across the street.

Curtains shifting.

A front door opening.

A woman standing at her mailbox far longer than necessary.

They were watching.

The Welhaven heiress.

Locked out of her own estate.

Humiliation crept up her spine like frost.

No matter how low she had sunk, no matter what had been whispered about her in private or public, she would not allow the neighborhood to witness this.

Not like this.

She would not be a spectacle for them to jeer at.

She straightened slowly.

Composed her face.

Smoothed her hair.

Picked up her shoe.

She walked back to the car with as much dignity as she could salvage.

The chauffeur opened the door for her without comment.

She slid inside and took deep fortifying breaths.

"Take me to the Presidential Hotel," she said coldly.

The door shut with a soft, devastating thud.

The drive felt longer this time.

Her reflection in the tinted window looked different.

Not defeated.

No.

Displaced. like a refuggee.

The Welhaven estate had never rejected her.

Even when arguments had shaken the walls. Even when alliances shifted inside those halls. Even when trust fractured.

She had always belonged there.

Until now.

Her phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

She hesitated before answering.

"Yes?"

"Ms. Welhaven." A crisp male voice. Controlled. Legal. "This is Attorney Dufort. I heard you came by the house."

Her pulse thudded.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Why am I being denied entry to my own home?"

There was a pause.

"Per the updated terms of the Welhaven Trust, effective immediately, your residential privileges have been suspended pending review."

The words were sharp and clinical.

"Suspended?" she repeated faintly.

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"By the acting executor."

Her throat tightened.

"And who," she said slowly, "is the acting executor?"

Another pause.

"Mr. Adrian Benoit

The world narrowed.

Adrian.

Of course.

Of course it was him.

Her mother’s brother.

The quiet one.

The overlooked one.

The one she had dismissed for years.

"When was this decided?" she asked.

"This afternoon."

This afternoon.

While she had been dealing with disaster after disaster.

While she had assumed the house would still be hers at the end of the day.

"Surely there has been some mistake," she said, the words tasting like ash.

"There has been no mistake. I believe the will was read in your presence."

"But that was just a couple of days ago, why is everything moving so fast."

"I unfortunately can’t answer right now, miss."

"You better give me some damn answers." Ophelia snarled.

The call ended.

Ophelia lowered the phone slowly.

Lyse had moved.

And she had not seen it coming.