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Chapter_5
The silence in the room was suffocating. It hung in the air like a thick fog, stifling every breath, every movement.
Preston’s gaze slowly lifted, his eyes scanning the casket draped with flowers that stood beside him. Everything appeared to be in its place, a scene of mourning and finality. But then—something changed.
Suddenly, from beneath the flowers, a bloody hand shot out.
“What’s that? It’s a hand!” someone whispered in horror.
“But wasn’t Whitney’s body never found?” another person asked, their voice quivering.
A wave of chilling terror swept through the room as everyone began to realize what was happening.
A bloodied, mangled figure slowly emerged from the casket, dragging itself out with ghostly, pained wails. “Daddy, it hurts so much! Am I dead?”
Preston’s blood ran cold. His body froze, as if his soul had fled from his body. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground in horror.
The gruesome figure, with its disfigured body, crawled toward Yvonne. “Yvonne, it hurts. My sister crushed my palm. Sis, you let the kidnapper beat me so badly!”
A blood-curdling scream tore from Yvonne’s lips as she collapsed, trembling. Monica followed suit, her face ashen, and she too crumbled to the floor.
“Mom! Wasn’t she supposed to be trapped in hell, never to return?” Monica cried out, clutching her head in terror. “Why has the ghost come for us? Please, don’t come for me! Not me!”
The horror in her voice revealed a damning truth—a secret that no one had expected.
Whitney, her body bruised and bloodied but very much alive, stood slowly, a cold sneer curving her lips. Her movements were deliberate, like a predator savoring the fear of its prey.
The crowd, some of whom had been too terrified to speak, began to murmur nervously. They watched, wide-eyed, as Whitney stepped forward, each movement deliberate, her face pale but resolute.
“Ms. Valentine, you’re not dead, are you?” one of the onlookers dared to ask, his voice trembling.
Whitney’s smirk deepened as she walked over, her gaze locking onto Monica’s trembling form. She stepped firmly onto Monica’s hand, pressing down with chilling calmness. “Strange,” she said, her voice icy, “My family acted as if I were dead, pressing me into hell. Funny, I thought they had buried me to make things easier for themselves.”
Gasps echoed around the room. Whitney’s words hung in the air, heavy with accusation.
Her eyes burned a piercing red as she sneered, the depth of her anger clear in every syllable. “Was it that by burying me, my company would be easier to swallow whole? My will easier to forge? My fortune willingly left to Monica? Dad, have you forgotten how just ten days ago, Monica and Simon paid off kidnappers to abduct me, to kill me for good?”
The room fell into stunned silence as the enormity of Whitney’s revelation hit everyone at once. Whispers began to swirl, and the atmosphere turned from disbelief to horror.
“Oh my God,” someone whispered. “The story’s different. She wasn’t killed by a lover?”
“Wait,” another person gasped. “She’s implying that the Valentine family conspired to kill her?”
Preston stood frozen, his eyes locked on Whitney. His mind was struggling to process what was unfolding in front of him. Could it be true? Was she really alive?
He reacted quickly, scrambling to his feet. Rushing toward Whitney, he reached out to embrace her, his voice trembling with relief. “Whitney, you’re alive! Thank goodness!”
Whitney’s gaze shifted, her eyes filled with pain and betrayal. Her voice, though soft, cut through the tension like a blade. “Daddy, how could I bear to die?” Her eyes turned to Simon, her former fiancé. “Before the wedding, my fiancé and my stepsister had an affair. She got pregnant, and for their child, they left me for dead. Such a debt of gratitude, how could I ever forget?”
Monica and Simon went pale, their faces drained of color.
The room erupted into murmurs and whispers, the journalists present snapping photos and recording every second of the shocking scene. Preston’s eyes darted around the room, panic creeping into his expression as the weight of the situation began to hit him.
Frantically, he gestured to his security team. “Clear the room! Clear everyone out now!”
Yvonne, her composure quickly slipping, moved toward Whitney with feigned concern. “What’s gotten into you, child? Speaking such nonsense?” she exclaimed, her voice filled with false sweetness. She rushed forward, her hands gripping Whitney’s shoulders as if trying to soothe her. “Are you angry with me and Daddy? Sorry! We thought you were dead!”
But Whitney didn’t flinch. Her gaze was icy and unyielding. She had come back, and now, nothing would stop her from getting the justice she deserved.
1/A
14:54
