“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.”

All the neighbors lining the alley stood up as I passed, sneering openly.

But I didn’t pause. Without hesitation, I climbed into the car.

The convoy drove slowly, the atmosphere heavy, and it took nearly half an hour to reach the ancestral temple of the Whitemore family.

But when we were still about 500 meters away, the driver abruptly brought the car to a halt.

“Miss Morgan, this is as far as we go,” he said, turning to face me. “You’re on your own from here. We will never enter that place.”

I gave him a slight nod, then stepped out of the car and looked ahead.

Maybe it was the stormy sky, or maybe the place really was brimming with yin energy, but for a summer night, the air felt bone-chilling and sinister.

The narrow path ahead resembled the road to hell—silent, foreboding. But I stepped forward without hesitation.

A few minutes later, the ancestral temple came into view. It stood solemn and bleak at the end of the lane.

The wooden door creaked open slowly, and Mrs. Whitmore appeared at the threshold, lifting her hand to wave me in.

Perhaps it was the harsh white makeup she wore, or perhaps it was just the effect of the night, but in that moment, she looked less like a person and more like a paper effigy.

Without a word, she shoved a worn scripture scroll into my hands.

“Go. Chant the sutras,” she said coldly. “Recite them again and again. Don’t fall asleep—no matter what. If you do… well, no one can predict what might happen.”

There was a glimmer of pity in her eyes, as though she already considered me lost.

On the side, Julian emerged from the hall, followed by several attendants. He squinted at me, lips curled in a smirk.

“Your sister was much prettier than you,” he sneered, “but it doesn’t matter. Even if a pig survives the night, I’ll marry it.”

His arrogance burned in my chest. I clenched my fists tightly.

I was certain—absolutely certain—that Julian had something to do with my sister’s death.

And now, my enemy stood just steps away from me, untouchable. The rage in my heart swelled, but I could do nothing yet. That helplessness nearly choked me.

“Can I go in now?” I asked the old lady calmly.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she gestured to one of the servants, who pushed open the interior doors of the ancestral hall.

I stepped inside, my heart heavy with every footfall. Each step felt like descending deeper into an abyss.

Behind me, the doors creaked shut.

With the final sliver of light fading, darkness swallowed me whole.

Swish!

Suddenly, a row of wall-mounted candles lit themselves, one after another, casting trembling shadows across the room.

The flickering light made everything around me feel distorted and surreal.

My heartbeat quickened.

On the walls hung solemn portraits of generations of Whitmore ancestors, their painted eyes seeming to follow my every move. Fear climbed steadily up my spine.

Dozens of spirit tablets stood on the altar in eerie, perfect alignment.

In front of them, a single futon awaited.

Taking a deep breath, I walked forward with determination, knelt, and opened the scripture scroll. I tried to steady my thoughts, tried to silence the fear clawing at my mind.

But just as I was about to begin chanting, something surfaced in my memory—something sharp and vivid.

Suddenly, I jumped to my feet, voice trembling but loud.

“Let me out! Open the door!”

“I know what happened!”

“I know why those brides died!”