Cold Husband Burning Regret: The Divorce He Couldn't Handle novel Chapter 627

Charlotte Sterling was with Loretta when she heard the news that Mr. Rayburn had been taken away by the police on suspicion of murder. The two of them immediately rushed back to the Rayburn estate. As they entered the courtyard, she saw her father and his assistant walking out, with Susy following close behind.

“Dad!”

Charlotte hurried toward them, but before she could get a word in, Susy turned to the assistant. “We should get going.”

The assistant nodded, and they left quickly. The urgency of the situation was palpable.

Watching them hurry away, a wave of unease washed over Charlotte. She turned to her father, whose grave expression was etched with a rare exhaustion.

“Dad, what on earth happened?” she asked, her voice tight with tension.

Sean Rayburn hesitated for a moment before speaking slowly. “Shane is dead. The Rayburn patriarch killed him. Shane… he threatened your brother’s life to force his hand.”

The news of Shane's death only stunned Charlotte for a moment. She had never known him well, and the shock was simply because he was an acquaintance, now gone.

Behind her, however, the color drained from Loretta’s delicate face, and her eyes grew dim. “He’s… dead?”

Growing up, Uncle Shane had been her favorite. Before she learned the truth about her own mother's death, she had considered him the closest person to her in the Rayburn family, aside from her mother.

After discovering he was connected to her mother’s death, she had been filled with resentment and bitterness, but also confusion.

She couldn’t understand why her ‘Uncle Shane’ had changed so drastically.

And now, the next news she heard of him was of his death. The complex emotions lingered, refusing to dissipate.

Charlotte glanced at Loretta but couldn't afford to worry about her right now.

“What about Wesley? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.” Sean seemed to want to say more but held back. “It would be good for you to go be with him.”

“I understand.” She lowered her gaze. “What’s likely to happen to the patriarch?”

Charlotte fell silent for a moment before walking toward the villa. Julian followed, looking like he wanted to say something but ultimately just sighed.

The living room was dim. The curtains were half-drawn, slicing the afternoon sun into slanted shafts of light.

He had changed into clean clothes—a dark gray cashmere sweater, its cuffs buttoned meticulously, as if the bloody ordeal had never happened.

But she still noticed the white of his knuckles and the untouched, long-cold cup of coffee on the coffee table.

“Wesley.”