Chapter 772

Clara let out a sharp laugh, her eyes locked on the scene inside. The Ferguson men had downed the whiskey brewed just for today and were now lighting incense sticks. When that was done, they'd have to face everyone else who'd come to pay their respects.

But something was off with Dylan. He was moving slower than usual, a faint crease forming between his brows.

On instinct, Clara started toward the door, ready to go in, but someone stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

"What do you think you're doing? People like you aren't allowed in the Ferguson family shrine!"

The women would have their turn later. Right now, this was men's business.

Clara shoved the person aside and marched straight for Dylan.

He was clutching his chest, sweat pouring down his forehead in big drops. Sitting in his wheelchair, his hand was balled into a fist so tight his knuckles looked bloodless.

Clara looked up at the old man at the front of the room, her voice trembling with disbelief. “You poisoned the wine meant for the memorial? How could you put both her memory and Dylan's life in danger? I actually used to respect you. Turns out you're truly heartless."

The old man stood firm, his tone cold and dismissive. "If you want someone to blame, blame yourself. You never should've come."

Clara's heart pounded as she realized a dozen men in black had surrounded her, closing in on every side.

So this was the plan all along. As long as she showed up today, even if she stayed silent, she'd never be allowed to leave. The old man had made sure of that.

She looked to Dylan. He was watching her, too. He coughed twice, then forced out a hoarse question. "Father, what are you doing?"

you into our family—a bad omen. What would people say? What would our ancestors think? Dylan, right now,

would get ugly. With such a heavy accusation hanging over him,

She tried to

Dylan, worry etched

you

his eyes dropped, lashes hiding

mind spun. For

her

she thought about fighting

yout-taking down everet

man

and

man was

workererguson heir first.

her

life for

st walk away?

deep breath, unable to look

rows of ancestor nameplates. His lips twisted into a bitter

don't want to be the heir

were soft, almost casual, but they hit the room like

in shock, as if they couldn't

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