"Get out!"
Mira Whitmore had just rushed to the old house when her eyes landed on the huge, jarring funerary character hanging on the gate.
The next second—
A handful of random junk, mixed with a few old clothes, was flung out and splashed into the muddy puddles by her feet.
"The old master adored you the most, and you couldn’t even bother to show up at his funeral!"
A woman stood on the steps, wrapped in sleek black mourning clothes, makeup flawless and aristocratic. Chin lifted, she pointed at Mira like she was announcing a crime. "The Whitmore family raised you till you were eighteen. We've done more than enough!"
"From today on, you are no longer our daughter!"
The moment her voice rang out, the guests who had come to pay respects all turned toward Mrs. Whitmore.
There, in the pouring rain, stood a girl in a white T‑shirt and black pants, her body covered in mud and scrapes. She looked like she'd been dragged through a storm—because she basically had.
A light breeze tugged at her messy bangs, revealing a face so delicate it made people blink.
Elegant brows, bright eyes that carried a quiet intensity, features soft yet striking—pure, untouched by the mundane. A kind of beauty that stole the air from your lungs.
That face alone—
Even in the capital, where gorgeous people were practically standard issue, she would still be the one who stood out like fireworks against a night sky.
A sharp hiss rippled through the crowd.
So this was the infamous fake heiress of the Whitmore family?
Rumor had it—
Years ago, when the real Whitmore daughter, Rosalie Whitmore, was on the brink of death and no hospital could save her, the family, desperate and terrified, listened to some master’s advice and adopted an orphan girl of the same age—Mira Whitmore—to “borrow fortune” for their child.
As expected.
A few years later, Rosalie Whitmore made a miraculous recovery.
The Whitmore family, all kind and noble on the surface, not only didn’t send Mira Whitmore away, but even raised her as their own daughter for fifteen whole years.
Who could’ve guessed?
Mira Whitmore turned out to be the kind of kid people called hopeless, someone who could never live up to the real heiress. Her reputation was a mess—terrible grades, lousy temper, always fighting, basically a walking disaster.
There were even rumors that she’d tried to seduce her sister’s boyfriend.
And now, when her so‑called biological relatives came looking for her, everyone swore she was only clinging to the Whitmores for money and status.
Pretty face? So what.
To them, she was just a useless vase—nice on the outside, rotten on the inside.
…
People whispered all around her, judging, poking, tearing her apart with their eyes.
But the girl stood there like she heard nothing at all.
Her fingers tightened around the blood‑reviving herb she’d trekked across mountains to find. Her eyes were bloodshot, staring quietly at the old man’s portrait, and her pale lips trembled faintly.
Old man… you broke your promise.
You told me…
you’d hold on.
You told me to hurry back with the medicine so I could save you.
“Don’t pretend anymore. Isn’t it all about money?” Mrs. Whitmore curled her red lips, her voice sharp and cold. “Rosalie!”
“Sis, here’s thirty thousand. Just take it first.”
Rosalie Whitmore stepped forward, pulling out a bank card and offering it to Mira. Her gentle tone carried that unmistakable touch of charity. “It’s not much, but for people from Mengjiao, it’s probably worth several years of hard saving.”
Mengjiao.
The most notorious slum in the entire Imperial Capital—and all of North Continent.
"…"
Mira Whitmore didn’t even bother looking at her. She just crouched down and started digging through the messy pile of clothes, searching for her grandfather’s things.
"There’s more, you know."
Rosalie Whitmore stepped closer, purposely lifting her hand so the diamond ring worth a fortune caught the light. She smiled, all fake sweetness with a hint of showing off. "Pretty, right? Jasper gave it to me."
"He even said he’ll come propose after my college entrance exams. By then—"
"Rosalie Whitmore, do you live in Dunhuang or what?"
Mira carefully wiped each of her grandfather’s photos clean, her fingers trembling slightly, then placed them neatly into her backpack.
"What?" Rosalie froze, completely clueless.
"So many murals," Mira said, finally lifting her gaze. Her eyes were dark and razor‑cold. She spoke slowly, every word sharp enough to draw blood. "Don’t make me slap you today."
Her grandfather had just been laid to rest. She didn’t want to disturb his peace.
"You—"
Rosalie’s pretentious smile cracked. Her face went red, then white, twisting into something ugly.
"Enough!"
Harold Whitmore couldn’t stand the sight of Mira, but with all the influential people from Didu watching, he had to keep up appearances. He forced a kind, fatherly tone. "Mira, we really don’t want you to leave. We just think you should stay with your real family."
"Don’t worry, if you ever run into trouble, we’ll help however we can."
The trio’s fake "kindness" drew praise from the crowd, who immediately turned around and scolded Mira even harder.
Meanwhile, the person at the center of it all stayed calm, quietly wiping the dirt off her grandfather’s belongings. She didn’t speak, didn’t react—she didn’t even spare them a glance.
Everyone: "???"
Trying to pick a fight with her felt like punching a pile of cotton.
After organizing her grandfather’s belongings, Mira Whitmore dropped to both knees, bowing three times toward the mourning hall. Her tears mixed with the rain, disappearing before anyone could notice.
She stayed quiet for a few seconds, then stood up and faced the Whitmore family, her voice icy. "From today on, I have nothing to do with the Whitmores. As for that money…"
Her gaze slid over the bank card. She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Keep it and buy some laxatives. Maybe they’ll help clear out whatever’s stuck in the three of your heads."
"Mira Whitmore—"
Being humiliated like this almost cracked Harold Whitmore’s fake, gentlemanly mask.
"My last name is Pemberton."
Correcting him, Mira Pemberton hid the ache in her eyes and walked off with long, firm strides.
Huh?
Wasn’t she supposed to be clinging to the family for money? Refusing to leave?
What was going on?
The guests exchanged confused looks, utterly baffled.
"She left that fast?"
Even Mrs. Whitmore found it odd. She clenched her teeth and muttered under her breath, "Seems like she doesn’t know about the inheritance."
"Shut up!"
Harold barked, sweeping a sharp glance around the room before lowering his voice. "What does the Whitmore inheritance have to do with a stray like her?"
The Whitmore family had grown tremendously over the years.
In just a few short years, their no-name little company from a small county had blown up into a fairly well-known corporation, big enough to move the whole family straight to the capital, Didu.
And Rosalie Whitmore had even snagged the young master of the powerful Lancaster family—her future basically skyrocketing.
But the problem was—
The old man must’ve had his brain stuffed with pig fat. Instead of doting on his “real” family, he spoiled Mira Whitmore, that adopted girl, like she was some rare treasure, even planning to give her eighty percent of his assets.
If he hadn’t insisted on keeping her back then, claiming she was “poor and pitiful,” they would’ve kicked her out ages ago.
Money?
With the old man gone, crushing her would be easier than stepping on an ant.
…
Early spring.
The whole city was drowned in a hazy drizzle, the streets almost empty.
In the back seat of a sleek sports car sat a man with a straight posture and an unmistakably aristocratic air. His long legs crossed with casual elegance, he lazily flipped through some documents. The icy pressure in the car was strong enough to make people forget how to breathe.
"Well?"
His head tilted slightly downward. Under the dim, murky glow of the car’s interior lights, his sharp, refined features looked cold enough to cut.
"Master, the trail’s gone cold," Felix Windham bent forward, his voice full of respect. "Aside from Ghost, we couldn’t find any trace of the other Underground City members."
Underground City.
The rising military-industrial force of Nan Zhou, growing at insane speed under its leader “Ghost.”
In just a few years, it had become a major rival to the S League of North Continent.
For resources and market share, the two sides had clashed more times than he could count—and Sebastian Merchant’s S League had taken quite a few hits.
Once they caught wind that Ghost had shown up in Didu, they immediately chased after him.
Didn’t see that coming.
In just a blink, every clue they had went poof—clean cut, nothing left.
The man’s fingers paused mid‑air. His eyes darkened, a cold, razor‑sharp edge flashing through them as he ordered, “Keep looking.”
Barely a second later,
his phone blared way too loudly for the atmosphere.
“Shiyan, dear! Finished checking the photos yet?” The old woman’s cheerful voice practically stabbed through the speaker. “How is it, satisfied?”
“…”
Sebastian Merchant tugged at his black tie, jaw tightening. His expression was carved from ice as he forced himself to stay patient. “Grandma, please explain. Why is there a man in my blind‑date folder?”
“Uh—”
Her voice stuck for a beat before she cleared her throat and mumbled, “Well… I was worried you might not be into girls, so I thought…”
“Don’t worry, our family’s very open‑minded. Whoever you like is fine. Even cats and dogs are okay.”
“…”
Sebastian slowly opened his eyes, the deep darkness inside tinged with exhaustion. He let out a helpless sigh and muttered, “You really outdo yourself.”
He chuckled under his breath and turned his head—
and suddenly,
a slender silhouette drifted out through the faint haze of smoke, catching him completely off guard.
——
Lalala, babes, your Night‑Owl Author is back again!
New book, same vibe: sweet, fun, and totally addictive.
Super‑rich, super‑flirty CEO × cool, badass, soft‑inside true heiress.
Face‑slapping the trash, all‑around pampering, power‑couple sweetness.
No misunderstandings the whole way!
Babies, remember to like, comment, and check in!
