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.

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.”

“It’s such a pity about Thomas Morgan. He used to brag about his daughters all the time—how brilliant they were. And now? Even she’s bowed to money in the end.”

“I don’t think it’s just about money. The scary part is all those rumors about the Whitemore family in the past years. What if both of the Morgan daughters end up destroyed by them?”

In the eyes of Ravenbrook, I’ve become nothing more than a shameless gold-digger.

And because I hold a doctorate and graduated from both Tsinghua University and Lexford University, the contrast makes people all the more furious—disgusted, even. The more accomplished I am, the more outrageous my decision seems to them.

At the Whitemore family manor, Mrs. Whitmore had someone bring me inside.

“Claire,” she asked, studying me with sharp interest, “are you really willing to marry my son?”

I met her gaze calmly and answered without hesitation, “More real than gold.”

“I’ve heard Mr. Whitmore is gentle and refined, gracious to everyone, and above all, recently, his net worth surpassed ten billion. Why wouldn’t I like such a man?”

I smiled at her, calm and unbothered.

Mrs. Whitmore let out two cold laughs, unconvinced.

“I knew it. There’s no way you genuinely care for Julian,” she said, her eyes filled with disdain.

But I knew she had no choice but to accept me.

“Enough. Let’s drop the pretense,” she snapped. “Have you forgotten that your sister died in our ancestral temple eight years ago?”

“In all the years you were gone, bride after bride has died in that same temple—each one gruesome and inexplicable. What makes you think you’ll survive the night?”

Her gaze was sharp, her voice challenging.

But I smiled slightly and replied, “Don’t worry, Madam. I’m not like the others. The ancestors didn’t accept them, but they will definitely accept me.”

I looked at her square in the eyes, not flinching, letting my confidence radiate.

She studied me for a long moment before finally nodding. “Fine. Go home and prepare. If you can survive the night, then you’ll have proven you’re different.”

She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

I turned and left, the corners of my lips lifting. Tonight, everything will be revealed.

When I returned home, my parents were waiting—anxious, furious.

“What nonsense is this?! Who told you to agree to marry Julian?!” My father shouted, his face flushed with rage.

My mother stood beside him, dabbing tears from her eyes. Her expression was full of sorrow and disbelief.

But I looked at my father and felt nothing.

“Why do you care who I marry?” I asked, my tone cold.

“What do you mean, why do I care?!” he shouted. “Don’t you know the rumors about the Whitemore family? Do you have a death wish?! Are you trying to kill your mother and me with worry?!”

His voice cracked with emotion, but I didn’t waver.

“If you really cared,” I said slowly, “you wouldn’t have let my sister die so unjustly back then.”

His entire body shook. His lips trembled, but no words came out.

“Claire, don’t speak to your father like that, your dad—” my mother began gently.

“Shut up!” My father barked, cutting her off sharply.

Then he looked back at me, cold and firm.

“Fine. Since you’ve made your choice, I won’t stop you. From now on, I have no daughter like you.”

And just like that, he disowned me.

Despite my mother’s pleading, he remained unmoved. He kicked me out of the house without hesitation.

Standing outside, I turned back and knelt in the direction of my parents’ home. I bowed three times, then six, then nine.

“Mother, Father, I’m an unfilial daughter,” I whispered.

“If I succeed in uncovering the truth, I’ll come back and honor you both.”

Then I rose and left, my heart calm and resolute, stepping toward the alley where my fate awaited.

The wedding convoy was already waiting. Compared to eight years ago, it was even grander—every car a gleaming Rolls-Royce.

Everyone who saw it couldn’t help but look on with awe and envy.

“The Morgan family is finished,” someone muttered from the crowd. “That girl’s going to die just like her sister.”

“She studied all those years for this?” another voice sneered. “So much education, and in the end, her doctorate meant nothing at all.”