Julian’s expression was cold and unreadable—no sorrow, no remorse. Without a word, he turned to leave.
But my sister cherished life more than anyone else. She once swore to protect me for the rest of her days. How could she possibly have taken her own life?
Red-eyed and trembling, I stepped forward, desperate for answers—but before I could speak, my father slapped me hard across the face.
“I already told you—your sister had no luck,” he shouted. “She wasn’t worthy of marrying into such a noble family!”
“Stop embarrassing yourself! Come home with me—now!”
The blow made my vision spin. I staggered from the pain as my father dragged me away in front of dozens of watching eyes, whispers, and stares trailing behind us through the streets.
The incident sent shockwaves through Ravenbrook. It caused such an uproar that the provincial authorities dispatched a special task force to investigate.
But the result was even more unexpected than the incident itself: the conclusion aligned perfectly with what Julian had said—my sister had taken her own life.
The Whitmore estate’s security was airtight. Surveillance footage from that night was preserved meticulously. It clearly showed that no one entered or exited the ancestral temple after my sister went in. The audio even picked up the faint buzz of mosquitoes—but not a single scream or cry for help.
Outside the ancestral temple that night, nothing stirred. Not a creak, not a whisper. When Julian and Mrs. Whitmore opened the doors at sunrise, only then did they discover my sister’s lifeless body.
The forensic experts combed over every detail, ruling out foul play. They were confident in their conclusion.
Everyone accepted it—everyone except me.
I cried, raged, and begged for justice the entire summer break. But when it ended, I boarded the train to London.
Not because I cared about my future—but because this had been my sister’s final dream for me.
I gave up the popular and lucrative path of finance and chose the most avoided field at university: criminal investigation.
After completing my undergraduate degree, I stayed on for both my master’s and PhD. I buried myself in studies with a hunger fiercer than anyone’s—desperate not to miss a single piece of knowledge that might explain what truly happened to her.
Eight years later, I returned to Ravenbrook.
Much had changed in the Whitemore family since. After my sister, Julian had taken seven more wives—each from entirely different walks of life. Different appearances, temperaments, and backgrounds. Some were elegant, some fiery, some quiet.
But all of them shared the same fate: death in the ancestral temple on their wedding night.
The most shocking case was his eighth wife—Bridget Hayes. Married just six months ago, she was no ordinary bride. She was once a butcher in Gravelton, weighed nearly 200 pounds, and was known to knock out grown men with a single punch. Her temperament was legendary.
Bridget’s father owed 50 million in gambling debt. In desperation, he agreed to the Whitemore family’s strange proposal: if Bridget could survive one night kneeling in the ancestral temple, she would receive 200 million in cash and ten shops in Silverport as a reward.
She accepted. But she never came out alive.
Julian begged his family to end the ritual. But Mrs. Whitmore was adamant—it was a sacred tradition passed down through generations. Breaking it would mean dishonoring their ancestors.
And so, rumors began spreading once more across Ravenbrook.
Some said the Whitemore family was cursed—tainted by the spirits of the women they wronged. Others whispered that vengeful ghosts haunted the ancestral temple, determined to wipe out the entire Whitmore bloodline.
The darkest whispers claimed the Whitemore family had offered the flesh and blood of eight brides to feed unholy beings in exchange for endless wealth and fortune.
Regardless of the truth, one thing was certain: no family in the UK dared offer their daughter to the Whitmore household anymore.
Yet on the second day after I returned to Ravenbrook, I rose at dawn.
I slipped into a crimson silk cheongsam—traditional and elegant—and applied my makeup with care. My lips painted red, my gaze calm and resolute. I stood tall outside the gates of the Whitmore estate.
“Tell Mrs. Whitmore,” I said, my voice unwavering, “that I am willing to become Julian’s ninth wife.”
The news spread through Ravenbrook like wildfire.
The city might be vast, but gossip here moved faster than a virus.
“I heard Claire Morgan just came back yesterday—and now she wants to marry Julian today?” someone said in disbelief.
“Looks like both sisters are nothing but gold-diggers,” another added. “Desperate for fortune—even if it means death.”
