Mr. Whitmore's Ninth Wife

All of Ravenbrook knew that the wealthiest clan, the Whitemore family, followed an eerie tradition.

Whenever a new bride entered the household, she was required to spend a night alone in the ancestral temple, chanting Buddhist sutras. If she emerged unharmed by dawn, she would be considered accepted by her ancestors and fully recognized as a member of the Whitemore family.

It was supposed to be symbolic—a mere custom to honor the past.

But something went terribly wrong when Julian Whitmore, the current heir, married for the first time.

His bride was found dead in the ancestral temple the next morning. Her throat was cut open more than ten centimeters wide. The tendons in her hands and feet were snapped and twisted at unnatural angles, her body mangled and terrifying.

Authorities reviewed every inch of the surveillance footage. The footage clearly showed no one entering or exiting the temple throughout the night. No intruders. No staff. Only the bride.

What should have been a one-time tragedy turned into something even darker.

After the first death, Julian went on to marry seven more women. Each one died tragically in the same ancestral temple, on her wedding night.

Each death was brutal. Each scene was soaked in blood.

In each case, after months of investigation, no answers were found. No evidence. No suspects. The official verdict for all was suicide.

But no one in Ravenbrook believed it.

Rumors spread like wildfire. People whispered that the Whitmore household was cursed, haunted, perhaps even possessed.

Some believed that the ancestral spirits themselves rejected the brides. Others believed something far more sinister lurked behind the high walls of the Whitmore estate.

No one dared send their daughters into that house again. Matchmakers turned cold. Even the wealth of the Whitemore family could no longer entice a willing bride.

But today, dressed in a blood-red wedding dress, I stood before Mrs. Whitmore with poise.

"Mr. Whitmore is handsome and unmatched in charm,” I said with calm confidence. “I’ve long harbored feelings for him. I am willing to be his ninth wife.”

She looked at me, stunned.

I smiled. “Don’t worry. The ancestors didn’t like the others, but they’ll like me.”

——

My family runs a modest steamed bun shop on Northbank Road.

Every morning, long before sunrise, my older sister would wake up to help my parents.

She was skilled at fast—kneading dough, preparing fillings, shaping the buns, and brewing soy milk.

She never let me help.

"Claire, you're smart. You need to focus on your studies,” she would say with a warm smile. “With me at home, we’ll get you where you need to be. You’ll be someone important one day.”

Eight years ago, I topped the college entrance exams in Ravenbrook. My name appeared at the very top of the list.

That same day, my sister sat shyly in a luxurious wedding car sent by the Whitemore family.

Everyone in the neighborhood whispered in awe.

She had only sold a cup of soy milk to Julian one morning, and somehow that led to her becoming the bride of the city’s most eligible bachelor.

I was happy for her. Not because she had married into money or power, but because of the way she looked at me before she left.

She held my hand tightly and whispered,

“Claire, don’t worry about me. Julian is gentle. The Whitemore family has treated me well so far.”

“If I fly higher, it means you can go further. No matter what happens, I’ll always protect you, no matter the cost.”

That night, I dreamt of her holding a child—chubby and giggling, calling me ‘Auntie’ with joy in his little voice.

I woke up smiling.

But the smile vanished instantly the moment I heard the news.

My sister was dead.

I rushed to the Whitmore residence in a frenzy. My legs barely carried me, but I ran until I couldn’t breathe.

I arrived just in time to see them carry her lifeless body on a cracked, bloodstained stretcher.

Her once soft, fair hands were bruised and pale.

The tips of her fingers were torn and bleeding, her nails pried open and oozing with gore.

I pushed through the crowd and yanked off the white cloth they had used to cover her.

What I saw shattered me.

Her throat had a jagged wound. Her limbs were contorted grotesquely. Her bulging eyes were filled with fear.

Her crimson wedding dress had soaked through with blood, dripping off the stretcher like a leaking faucet.

I collapsed, unable to breathe. The world spun.

And then—then I heard my father’s voice.

He was speaking to Julian, his tone groveling, almost cheerful.

“It must be Claire’s fault. She must not have been blessed by the ancestors.”

“Mr. Whitmore is a fine young man. He will surely find someone better next time. Don’t let a disgrace like her trouble you.”

My heart froze.

This was the man who once stormed our relatives' homes with a kitchen knife when they mocked him for having two daughters.

This was the father who had once said we were his greatest treasures.

And now he called his daughter a disgrace.

“I didn’t know she was mentally unstable,” he added casually. “What bad luck! Dying in the ancestral hall like that—ugh.”

“Take her away. It’s a bother just looking at her.”

My ears rang. My body got cold.

At that moment, something inside me shattered.

And something far colder was born in its place.