The Mocked Miss’s Hidden Crowns novel Chapter 1823

The shrill, unwavering drone of the flatline echoed through the massive bedroom, making the silence of the people standing around it feel all the more deafening.

Charlotte stood frozen for two excruciating seconds. Then, her hand shot out, grabbing a pre-loaded syringe of epinephrine from the tray.

Just as she was about to uncap it, Anthony stepped forward. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her flush against his chest as his hand smoothly covered hers, gently prying the syringe from her grip. His brows were pulled into a tight knot. "Lottie, he's gone."

Charlotte stiffened in his embrace, her eyes locked onto the lifeless body of the old man. A suffocating wave of despair and rage clamped down on her chest, stealing the air from her lungs.

Gone?

Dead.

Now that he was dead, he would get to see her grandmother, wouldn't he? What right did an unforgivable sinner like Allanson have to see Mrs. W before her own grandfather did? He deserved to suffer the way her grandmother had—tortured by illness, begging for an end, dying in unimaginable agony.

Suddenly, there was a soft thud.

A worn, faded photo album slipped from the edge of the bed and hit the floor by Charlotte's feet, spilling its contents across the rug.

"These are the items you gave to him, Ms. Charlotte," the butler said quietly, kneeling to gather the scattered pictures. "The photos document the progression of the genetic mutation project."

Because the project's original founders were Mrs. W and Allanson, a few rare photographs of the two of them together had survived in the collection. Even Allanson probably hadn't realized that Mrs. W had kept them all these years.

Staring at the items on the floor, Charlotte's thick eyelashes fluttered, a complex storm of emotions warring on her face.

Her grandmother had left all her belongings in a locked trunk for her mother. There hadn't been a single trace of Allanson in any of it. Which meant... her grandfather must have secretly saved these photos instead of destroying them.

The complicated history, the love, the betrayal between her grandmother and Allanson—it wasn't something their descendants could fully untangle or judge. But the fact that her grandfather had kept these memories, and ultimately allowed them to end up in Allanson's hands, meant he had his own reasons.

"Ms. Charlotte..."

"His ashes are to be buried beneath the rose garden on the west side of the estate, without a headstone."

"And... he requested that there be no memorial visits."

Listening to the butler's words, Charlotte slowly lifted her gaze, letting it settle on Allanson's surprisingly peaceful face. She parted her lips, her voice coming out as a strained whisper. "Be a good person in your next life."

She paused, her eyes hardening slightly as she added, "And don't ever cross paths with my grandmother again."

Death wouldn't simply erase the sins he had committed in life. If there was a next life... she hoped her grandmother and grandfather could find each other again, make up for their lost time, and grow old together.

A grand antique clock suspended near the ceiling suddenly chimed, its clear, rhythmic ringing breaking the heavy atmosphere. Outside the window, the cheerful chirping of birds filtered into the room.

The tragedies and heartbreaks that had plagued this castle for decades were finally dissolving, washing away into the endless river of time with the ringing of the bell.