Qianshan Twilight Snow Only Shadows Towards

The flat line on the cardiac monitor pronounced Gabriel’s death.

The staff explained he had seen the viral photo of the fall online; an old condition flared up, and he was gone before they could even begin resuscitation.

Before he went, one last comment remained unsent on his phone:

*My daughter is not that kind of person. Please, show some mercy.*

She had lost her mother at six, then been abandoned by her birth father. It was Gabriel who adopted her, who spoiled her like a little princess.

Even after Heather was found and brought home, his fatherly love never wavered.

A father that good… one more day, and he could have been saved.

Shirley’s heart-rending screams echoed down the hospital corridor.

She threw herself against Christopher, pounding his chest with her fists, begging again and again, “Give me back my dad! Save him… please, save him…”

Those weak, futile blows landed against Christopher’s own heart—and he felt it fissure.

He moved instinctively to hold her, but Heather’s detached voice cut the air:

“Now my sister and I have no father, and my brother-in-law has no mother. How’s that for fair?”

Like an ice pick to the heart, Christopher jolted back to reality. He shoved Shirley away with force, his eyes burning crimson.

His own mother… hadn’t her death been just as brutal?

Witnessing her favorite daughter-in-law half-naked in another man’s arms.

Used condoms littering the floor, the act so violent it caused a miscarriage…

How could he possibly forgive this wretched woman, Shirley, just because Gabriel was dead?

This all-too-familiar scene—it was what she deserved.

When the doctor brought the death certificate, Heather refused to sign. “A father who dies of rage over someone else’s scandal? He’s no father of mine!”

Shirley lunged at her in fury. “He was your biological father! He made himself sick exhausting himself over you! Heather, do you even have a heart?!”

She hadn’t pushed hard, but Heather stumbled back, crashing into the wall with a pained groan.

“Sister, with Father’s body not yet cold, is this how you treat me?”

Christopher’s heart ached. He pulled Heather tightly against him, his gaze sweeping over Shirley with a fire ready to reduce her to ashes.

“Apologize to Heather!”

“On what grounds? I didn’t even push her! She threw herself against that wall!”

He hadn’t expected her not only to lie but to talk back so defiantly in front of everyone. Looking down at Heather’s pale, fragile face in his arms, the last shred of pity he held for Shirley evaporated.

“Still defiant? String her up in the courtyard. No one lets her down without my order.”

Panic seized her. “Christopher, you can’t do this to me! Father’s funeral arrangements—I need to—”

Her words were cut off as Christopher, cradling Heather, turned and walked away.

For the next three days, Shirley hung in the courtyard.

The first day, the house hosted a wine-tasting. Everyone was invited to splash her with 1982 Lafite.

The second day, Heather wanted to learn ballroom dance. Christopher canceled tens of millions in business and spent three hours holding her, teaching her steps right there in the yard.

The third day, the sky unleashed a hailstorm not seen in decades. Walnut-sized ice pelted her until the pain knocked her unconscious.

From start to finish, Christopher never once looked at her. Not once. Not a single glance.

By evening, when Christopher and Heather—dressed in black mourning attire—left the house, Shirley learned her foster father’s farewell ceremony was that very night.

The housekeeper, heart softened by the weeping, finally cut her down.

She had no mourning clothes. She could only snatch a plain white dress from the wardrobe, one embroidered with birds and flowers, and had the driver race to the funeral home.

The security guard at the entrance stopped her. After a long wait, someone finally relayed the message:

Unless she crawled in on her knees and apologized to Heather, she wouldn’t be setting foot inside tonight.

Shirley gritted her teeth, knelt, and crawled all the way to Heather’s feet. Choking back sobs, she forced out the words, “I’m sorry.”

Heather suddenly erupted into a shrill,uncontrolled scream.

“Sister! What is that on your dress?”

Christopher glanced over. When his eyes registered the embroidered birds and flowers on Shirley’s dress, his face darkened instantly.

“You know Heather is terrified of birds. Did you wear that on purpose—to trigger an episode and humiliate her?”

Only then did Shirley realize, with a jolt of horror, she had broken another taboo.

“No, I came in such a rush, I didn’t look closely—”

Heather covered her ears, squeezed her eyes shut. Her screams grew louder, teetering on the edge of completeuncontrolled.

Christopher ground the words through clenched teeth. “Take it off. Now.”

“Or I’ll make sure you never get to see your foster father off for the last time.”

A deafening buzz filled Shirley’s ears.

This was her father’s funeral. With all those eyes watching, he was demanding she strip in public, just to calm Heather down?

She clutched her collar in panic, frozen in place.

Yet in the end, her fingers moved to the knotted buttons, and she began to undo them.

Countless eyes swept over her.

Some held leering hunger, some mockery, some pity—each one a needle of fire, piercing her skin.

Christopher suddenly froze.

The sight of her body, covered in old and fresh wounds, was shocking.

It dawned on him then. During the hailstorm, she’d had nowhere to shelter.

And over these past two years, whenever Heather had an episode, she’d always scratched and hit her.

A flicker of remorse passed through his eyes. His hands trembled slightly as he took off his own suit jacket and draped it over her, covering the map of scars.

And so, Shirley saw her foster father off on his final journey—disheveled, humiliated.

The next day, drowning in grief, Heather proposed a trip abroad with Christopher. She insisted on taking all the household staff.

It was just then that Shirley came down with a raging fever.