I Married My Ex's Billionaire Father

Lottie hadn’t expected it to be this easy.

One moment she was pressing her palm to the keypad outside Dr. Maxwell’s gate, heart thrumming in her chest like a caged bird, and the next—click—the gate had opened, welcoming her like an old friend. She had expected alarms. A barking dog. At least a neighbor’s suspicious glance. But nothing. Only the sound of her own breath and the sharp crunch of gravel under her boots as she stepped up to the door and, with a trembling hand, tried the knob.

Now, standing in the grand foyer of Dr. Maxwell’s house—clean, modern, and smelling faintly of lemons and secrets—Lottie was at a loss. She hadn’t planned for this far. She hadn’t expected to get in.

There had been no next step, only a vague hope that something—a letter, a document, a photograph—would leap out at her and explain everything.

But now, silence loomed, pressing down on her like the thick velvet curtains hanging by the tall windows. She turned slowly, unsure of whether to retreat or press forward into the unknown.

A voice—calm, crisp, unmistakably amused—cut through the silence like a blade.

"Well, this is totally unexpected."

Lottie froze. Her blood iced over.

"I didn’t peg you for a burglar," said the voice. "But I suppose desperate women do desperate things."

Lottie spun, breath catching. Ophelia stood at the top of the sweeping staircase, her tall figure draped in a sleek black coat. Her hair, a cascade of dark gold, was twisted into a low chignon, and she descended with the grace of a queen, each step deliberate.

Behind her, Dr. Maxwell appeared, bewildered but unsurprised, clutching a file to his chest like a shield.