The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1891

Driscoll had never imagined that such dire consequences would befall his most innocent daughter, Jules. He would rather have been the one to atone for his family's sins.

Even the tabloids in Havenia knew that Driscoll was famously a doting father. It was easy to imagine how he felt hearing such words from Jules, but as a key figure in the city, he acted decisively.

"Push her away," he said to Celestine.

Celestine's face was already streaked with tears, but she understood the urgency and moved to pry Jules away.

Yet, in that moment, Jules' strength was anything but childlike. In fact, it surpassed even that of an adult.

"Mommy, you're so cruel! How could you treat me this way, despite saying that you love me? Do you wish you'd had a son instead of me?"

Every word Jules spat was laced with venom, dripping with resentment. Her grip was unyielding, leaving the three cultivators no room to perform their rites.

As the standoff continued, Wynter, who had been standing to the side, spoke up. "You're overdoing it."

She stepped toward Jules, her tone cool. "Your accent isn't Cascadian. Even in Havenia, certain pronunciations trace back to their roots. I'll give you three seconds to reconsider..."

As she spoke, Wynter unwound the Spirit Token from her fingers. The Demon Slaying Sword hidden within the Soul Commanding Badge pulsed eagerly, awaiting Wynter's command to strike.

"Will you leave her body on your own, or will I scatter your soul to oblivion?"

Hearing this, the three cultivators exchanged glances once more. They wondered what Wynter was thinking. Hadn't her mentor taught her that provoking malevolent spirits was forbidden?

The more one threatened them, the deeper their resentment grew, and the more likely they were to harm their host. They didn't understand why Wynter taunted the spirit.

The three cultivators quickly tried to defuse the situation. "Let's all stay calm. We can negotiate."

One of them addressed Jules cautiously, "Whatever you desire, name it. Do you want offerings, gold ingots, or food? We can provide them for you."

The gloom in Jules' eyes lessened slightly, though her gaze remained unsettling. She looked up at Driscoll and said, "I want a century's worth of the Maynerd family's merit. If you agree to give it to me, I'll not only leave, but this girl will never suffer from evil hauntings again."

This time, her voice carried an eerie resonance, as though someone was speaking through the malevolent spirit.

"A century of the Maynerd family's merit?" the cultivators repeated the demand, their eyes flicking toward Driscoll.

This was no ordinary request. Agreeing to it would mean severing the family's fortune, possibly for generations.

Driscoll's fists clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Mr. Maynerd, why hesitate?" Jules' voice turned icy. "Is your daughter's life not worth your family's merit? Or does Mrs. Maynerd feel the same? You already drove one child to death. Will you abandon this one, too?"

Jules was their miracle child, the one they'd fought to have.

Few knew the full story, but Celestine had been infertile for years. By the time she finally conceived with twins, she was already considered to be at an advanced maternal age.

But something had gone wrong in the womb. One fetus had absorbed the other's vitality, leaving only Jules alive at birth. Celestine had nearly bled out that day, her body left too damaged to bear another child.

The guilt over the lost twin had haunted them both. Now, with the spirit throwing it in their faces, Celestine felt as though her heart were being ripped open. Who would ever want their child to die?

They had done everything right. Yet, no one could explain why it had happened.

The stillborn had never taken a breath. Celestine spent her entire postpartum period weeping. But with one child gone, she had to focus on the one that lived. Jules couldn't grow up drowning in her parents' grief. So, the Maynerds buried the past.

Yet every year, without fail, Celestine visited the tiny grave, providing offerings and whispering to the son she'd never held.

She had already lost one child—she would not lose another.

"Agree to her demands!" Celestine gripped Driscoll's hand, her voice steelier than ever. "Driscoll, you have to!"

Driscoll's eyes darkened with anguish. "I can't."

"You—" Celestine's hands trembled. "Even if you lose your position, we'll still live comfortably! Why? Why won't you?"

His voice began to tremble. "The Maynerd family's merit isn't mine to give. Our ancestors earned it. You know what my father told me before he died. The Maynerds can't falter. I can't step down, not for the family's sake, but because the political landscape is unstable.

"My grandfather spent his life serving the people, and so did my father. If I squander our merit now, the Maynerds could fall. And if someone with ill intent takes power, I fear what'll happen to Havenia."

"So, are you saying you're willing to sacrifice our daughter?" Celestine's voice cracked, her eyes burning with tears. She had married Driscoll because of his ideals and unwavering dedication. She never imagined that the same dedication would one day hurt them both!

Wynter had stayed silent as she wanted the full story, but this was enough. Anymore, and the couple's bond might fracture beyond repair.

Duty to one's country often came at the cost of family. She'd seen it before in border agents and undercover operatives who stayed away to keep their loved ones safe.

Her hand settled on Celestine's shoulder. "Stay calm. You're playing right into their hands. Think about it—this is exactly what they want."

Celestine didn't understand why, but the moment Wynter stepped closer, the air itself seemed to shift, and the oppressive chill vanished.

Even Jules' grip on her loosened. Startled, Celestine turned and met Wynter's gaze. The tear mole at the corner of her eye glowed faintly.

Wynter's smile, though beautiful, carried a hint of sinister energy. She looked down at the trembling Jules on the bed.

"Do you recognize me?" Wynter asked.

They feared the black mist would escape. After all, this spirit had only appeared for a fleeting moment before dissolving back into the air. Though they knew he had fled downstairs, the stationed guards couldn't possibly stop something as intangible as air.

Seeing his companion escape, the malevolent spirit curled his lips into a sinister smirk. He didn't dare show his glee in front of Wynter, so he lowered his head to hide his grin.

But that didn't escape Wynter's notice. She raised an eyebrow. "You seem happy."

Of course he was! As long as Jules' soul didn't return, Wynter couldn't truly annihilate him. That was what the spirit thought, but outwardly, he feigned panic, shaking his head. "I wouldn't dare."

"If you're celebrating your accomplice's escape, I'm sorry to say that you're celebrating too soon." Wynter's voice carried amusement. Her stunning face lit up with mischief, and her eyes brimmed with pity for the spirits.

But the malevolent spirit couldn't see through her. Neither could the one that had fled downstairs, convinced he had outsmarted everyone and that no one could stop him.

He had seen the talismans and copper bells downstairs before. Since he had dared to ignore them and gone upstairs, those things were nothing more than minor annoyances.

Even if the three cultivators were all present, he would only take a bit more time to break free. The only thing he feared was the Soul Commanding Badge. As long as he didn't have to face that, even an underworld guard wouldn't be able to stop him.

But before the spirit could even finish his internal monologue, he was violently flung back, as if struck by an invisible force, crashing heavily onto the ground.

"What the hell is going on?"

There couldn't possibly be a formation here. He had checked and knew that those three cultivators were all upstairs. And even if there were a formation, some half-baked one wouldn't be enough to stop him!

Was it the Soul Commanding Badge? No, that couldn't be.

Looking around, the only person here was an idle, tea-sipping, pretty man…

Refusing to believe it, the malevolent spirit tried to rise. But the moment he moved, an indescribable agony tore through his organs. His entire body felt as if it had been scorched by the infernal fires of hell. The searing pain forced him into a fetal position, thick beads of sweat rolling down his face.

He didn't even realize he had already reverted to his true form. The hand he stretched out had melted into a pool of black ooze, dripping onto the marble floor. For the first time, the spirit felt death looming terrifyingly close. His already pallid face drained of all remaining color.

His gaze locked onto the so-called "pretty boy".

Dalton hadn't even stood up. He simply set down his empty teacup and checked the time, as if mildly inconvenienced by the delay.

Then, abruptly, he looked in the spirit's direction.

In that instant, countless black feathers cascaded around him. The refining flames of hell blazed behind him, and a legion of restless souls surged in his wake, only to be ruthlessly suppressed by his energy. Even the weight of sacred chants seemed to emanate from his very being.

The malevolent spirit froze, his features contorting in sheer terror as he recognized Dalton. He didn't dare utter the name already on the tip of his tongue. Now, there was only one thing left in his heart—endless regret.