Where Petals of Vengeance Bloom novel Chapter 408

If only she could have stopped chasing after her family’s affection, stopped trying so desperately to please them—if she’d fought back, fiercely, whenever they hurt her—maybe, just maybe, her story would have turned out completely different.

In nearly thirty years of life, she was the most remarkable woman I’d ever met.

Who wouldn’t like someone so wonderfully, heartbreakingly normal?

And that was exactly why the Linwood family seemed so twisted by comparison. She was like a sane person trapped in an asylum, slowly driven mad by the constant torment—every day she spent among them was pure agony.

She spent fifteen long years in an orphanage. Then, after returning to the Linwoods, suffered three more years of humiliation, and later, five years in prison.

In her short twenty-three years, she never knew a single day of real happiness. Not one day free from pain or the shadow of suffering.

Whenever I think of what she endured, it feels as though someone is twisting a knife in my heart.

After she was gone, I wandered through my days like a ghost—I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep.

I’d never fallen apart over anyone like this, not even when my own mother passed away. Back then, I hadn’t lost myself the way I did now.

I used to believe that someone as cold-blooded as me would forget her quickly.

But a month passed, and her memory only became more vivid, more deeply etched into my soul. The ache of missing her grew with every passing day.

Standing in the living room, my eyes always drifted—helplessly—to the sofa by the tall windows.

When Claire was alive, she loved to lie there in the sun.

She was so frail that she’d often drift off to sleep, bathed in sunlight.

Her small frame curled up on the cushions made her look even tinier.

The sunlight would pour over her, almost as if it could shine right through her pale skin, gilding her in gold.

Whenever I saw her like that, I’d just stand there quietly, watching her for a long time.

Simply looking at her brought me a deep, unshakable peace, as though all the chaos of the world fell away.

But I’ll never see that gentle, sunlit scene again.

Since Claire left, every moment has been pure torment—like living through hell itself.

Some days, I wondered if I’d ever climb out of this pit of misery.

If only there were another lifetime.

If only I could meet Claire sooner, protect her, love her, and never let harm come her way.

I know, in a happy home, with her talent and her grit, she would have shone even brighter.

Fifty years slipped by in a heartbeat.

Now, at nearly eighty, my body is frail, worn down by time.

I lie quietly in my garden rocker, clutching the embroidery she made—she called it “Radiant Beauty.”

I turn my face to the warm sun and slowly open my clouded eyes.

Through my fading vision, I see her—Claire, twenty-three again, smiling as sweetly as ever, reaching out her hand.

“Mr. Foster, I’ve come to take you home,” she whispers.

I smile back, reach out without hesitation, and with all the strength left in me, hold her hand tightly in mine.