Called Off the Wedding, Left Him Bankrupt novel Chapter 52

"Why?"

Did she really not want to marry him anymore, just as the neighbors had gossiped?

Cynthia's face was calm, betraying nothing of what she truly felt.

"I just need some time alone to collect myself," she said quietly. "Otherwise, I might bring all these emotions with me to the wedding."

Her explanation was perfectly reasonable; Benedict's suspicions eased, if only a little.

"But I can't help but worry about you, being here by yourself," he replied. "I want to stay and keep you company."

He was terrified that, left alone, Cynthia might find out more than she already knew. For now, he needed to be by her side, to keep anyone from telling her too much.

He reached out to take her hand, but she pulled away sharply.

The public slight stung his pride. Benedict's expression darkened, but he forced himself to keep his annoyance in check.

"Cynthia…"

She cut him off. "I'm just afraid you wouldn't dare stay here by yourself."

With that, she stepped into the yard. He hurried after her.

Inside the living room, the first thing Benedict saw was the framed portrait of Cynthia's grandmother, hanging in the center of the wall. In life, the old woman had been a strict schoolteacher—stern and uncompromising, except for the rare moments when she let her guard down around Cynthia.

Benedict glanced at the portrait and quickly looked away, uneasy. The old woman's gaze seemed to bore straight through him, as if she could see every secret he'd ever kept.

He sat down stiffly on the sofa, but the feeling of being watched didn't leave him. He could almost sense those sharp eyes tracking his every move, a chill crawling up his spine.

Cynthia watched him squirm, a cold, bitter amusement flickering in her eyes.

She was certain: Benedict wouldn't last two nights in this house.

"I happened to be home when my grandmother passed away," she said, her voice steady. "One moment, she was talking and telling me she wanted to see you. Then, while I stepped away to call you, she was gone."

But Cynthia just smiled faintly. "It doesn't matter anymore," she replied softly.

She glanced up at her grandmother's portrait, her voice dropping to a murmur. "They say when someone passes, their spirit lingers in the house for a while. If you truly feel sorry, then stay here in the living room and ask her forgiveness. Who knows—maybe late at night, her spirit will visit you in your dreams and let you know how she feels?"

Benedict blanched, his composure faltering. "Cynthia…"

She fixed him with a piercing gaze. "What's wrong? Are you scared?"

He shook his head quickly. "Of course not."

"Good."

Without another word, Cynthia turned and went into her bedroom, locking the door behind her.

Benedict sat frozen in the living room. He was the only one there, but it felt as though he was surrounded on all sides, the weight of unseen eyes pressing in from the darkness.