Called Off the Wedding, Left Him Bankrupt novel Chapter 297

Garry had no intention of blaming Jocelyn. On the contrary, his gaze softened as he glanced fondly at his little sister, then looked up and addressed Miranda.

“Sorry about that, Miranda. My sister—she’s always been straightforward, never any good at lying. If she’s said anything out of line, I hope you’ll forgive her.”

Hearing Garry refer to Jocelyn as a “child” left Miranda utterly speechless.

A child? They were both well into their twenties—who was he kidding?

And “never any good at lying”? Wasn’t that just his roundabout way of saying Jocelyn always told the truth?

Garry was usually so fair-minded, but when it came to his sister, he was hopelessly biased. What could Miranda even say at this point?

She managed a faint, tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s fine. I’d never stoop to bickering with a younger sister,” she replied, her tone light. “Jocelyn’s honesty is refreshing. I actually quite admire it.”

Even as she said it, the words tasted sour.

Fortunately, one of the Raynes’ staff appeared at the doorway, announcing that dinner was ready and inviting them all downstairs.

The dining room table was already set, dishes steaming and waiting for their arrival.

Miranda seized the chance to head down first, hiding her irritation behind a composed façade.

Jocelyn, meanwhile, clung cheerfully to Cynthia’s arm, grinning without a care in the world.

Cynthia drew a slow, resigned breath. “Jocelyn, you really didn’t have to go that far for me.”

Miranda’s digs hadn’t bothered her much—just a few harmless jabs, nothing that could truly sting.

Besides, Jocelyn was planning to stay in the city, and there was no need to make enemies of the Kingsleys. The Kingsleys and Fairchilds weren’t exactly at war, after all. Sooner or later, they’d cross paths again.

“Mom, Seymour, everyone’s coming down now.”

Mrs. Raynes shot Seymour a sharp look before rising gracefully from the sofa. She smoothed her dress and donned her practiced hostess smile.

“He’s had a little too much to drink at lunch,” she explained lightly. “Still feeling it, I’m afraid, and a bit short-tempered. Please, excuse us.”

Naturally, the guests played along, offering polite reassurances before letting the matter drop.

But Seymour made no move to get up and greet anyone. He sat on the sofa, face like stone, ignoring everyone.

Vicky stood quietly beside him, her expression resigned.

“Seymour, if you have complaints, take it up with Grandpa in private. There are too many guests here for you to make a scene.”