Chapter 412 Are You Making Peace With Me?
Ophelia woke from her hangover clutching a handbag—the pale yellow crocodile leather Kelly she'd been eyeing.
Katerina appeared with hangover soup. "Ma'am, you were completely wasted last night. Threw up twice. Mr. Robert Brown took care of you the whole time."
Robert? Actually taking care of someone?
Ophelia glanced down, realizing she was wearing clean silk pajamas. She lifted her arm and caught the scent of crisp, fruity body wash—no trace of alcohol or vomit.
Her cheeks flushed. "Katerina, did you give me a bath last night?"
"I was supposed to, but you were too drunk for me to handle. Mr. Brown sent me to bed and took over—bathed you, changed your clothes, everything."
Ophelia's ears burned red. "And... this bag?"
Her memory was fragmented from the alcohol. She vaguely recalled crying at the bar with Juniper, ranting about what a bastard Robert was, but everything after that was a blur.
Katerina shook her head. "No idea about the bag. When Mr. Brown carried you home, you were clutching it like your life depended on it. Every time I tried to take it away, you'd start crying and screaming. He spent ages calming you down before you'd let go."
Ophelia's mouth twitched. Was she really that much of a nightmare when drunk?
"You were quite the handful," Katerina continued. "When he was bathing you, you kept thrashing around—nearly clawed his face off."
After Katerina left with reminders to drink the soup, she couldn't help adding, "That bag was probably from Mr. Brown. He really does care for you, you know. I've worked for the Browns for decades, watched him grow up. I've never seen him show that kind of patience with anyone. You threw up all over him last night, and he didn't even get angry."
Ophelia held the Kelly bag, feeling something soften unexpectedly in her chest.
In the walk-in closet, transparent cases lined two walls, each compartment displaying designer bags worth at least six figures. Nearly every space was filled except for a few spots on the top shelf.
Standing on her tiptoes, Ophelia couldn't quite reach. As she considered getting the step ladder, a solid, warm chest pressed against her back. Robert's muscular arm reached over her head, effortlessly opening the top compartment and sliding the Kelly inside.
Her heart skipped. "Did you buy this for me?"
Robert looked down at her, his expression unreadable. "Which bag in here didn't I buy for you?"
True enough—every single one had been purchased with his credit card.
"Well, I can't take them when we divorce anyway," she mumbled. "They'll still be your assets."
His brow furrowed with displeasure. "You really think I'd haggle over pocket change?"
As a Brown heir, money and status were the least of Robert's concerns. The combined value of every bag in this room was barely a drop in the bucket for him.
Something stirred in Ophelia's chest as she stepped back. "Thank you for taking care of me last night."
"You're Mrs. Brown. Taking care of you is my responsibility—just like these bags. As long as you're Mrs. Brown, they belong to you completely."
She studied his face, confused. "Are you trying to make peace with me?"
His expression remained neutral. "If you and Thomas kept things appropriate during our marriage, then that bag is my apology. I'm willing to buy you more if you want. But let me remind you—these privileges belong to Mrs. Brown, not to Ophelia."
Her face went rigid, fingers clenching. "I don't need the reminder. I've always known who these bags really belong to."
As she moved to leave, Robert caught her arm and spun her back, pinning her against the glass case. "What exactly happened between you and Thomas in that car?"
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