Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

He glanced up, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks," he said softly.

She'd only picked up the flowers on her way over-never imagined they'd actually be the comfort he needed right now.

Clara stood up, eager to shift the mood. "I'll go find a vase."

Dylan stayed put, watching her as she wandered into the foyer, stopping a housekeeper to ask for help.

He kept his eyes on the bouquet, brushing his fingers over the petals, lost in thought.

Clara quickly found a vase, trimmed the stems, added water, and set the flowers inside.

She barely had a chance to step back before someone from the old estate showed up at Palm Bay, insisting Dylan head to the temple to handle the funeral arrangements.

Dylan's face fell, his eyes turning stormy.

Clara felt a knot twist in her stomach. The old man was only doing this to make things harder for Dylan, wasn't he?

People in their circle were already whispering that Dylan's bad luck started when he met Clara-the so-called jinx who brought nothing but misfortune to the Ferguson family.

If Dylan hadn't been so cold to the old lady, the whole drive to the temple would be even more unbearable.noveldrama

Clara reached for his hand, her gaze steady. “Let's just go, Dylan. Mrs. Ferguson told me all she wanted was for you to be happy. If your grandfather's so sure he's done nothing wrong, why are you the one feeling guilty? Come on."

She pulled him forward a few steps before remembering his legs and quickly asked, "Do you need your wheelchair?"

He paused, then shook his head.

Clara slid into the driver's seat and leaned over to buckle his seatbelt. "We'll be back early. You can't skip your health routine every time something happens. No late nights."

He leaned back and murmured, "Okay."

It took Clara more than two hours to drive to the temple.

The fire had gutted nearly half the grounds, but somehow the main altar and the statues had made it through untouched.

A monk greeted them with a quiet "Amitabha," then handed over a small urn.

The blaze had been so fierce that, aside from a few identifiable

remains, almost everything had net

turned to ash. What was left was

مار)

now sealed in the urn.

Clara nudged Dylan to take it, but he didn't move.

The monk watched him for a moment, then began to chant, his voice slow and heavy. "This was the old lady's fate. Maybe the jinx has returned-cursing family, friends,

even brothers. She was destined for this."

Dylan's lashes trembled. He almost reached out, then let his hand drop, staring off into the distance.

Clara stepped forward, taking the

urn herself with a respectful bow. "With all que respect, Master, I just don't buy that. People shape their own fate. If everything's decided at birth, what's the point of trying? Wouldn't everyone just give up? My grandmother always said people can change their own destiny. I don't believe in this 'jinx' stuff. And if curses were really that strong, why not send them to our enemies and end all wars?"

She glanced at the urn. “Besides, the old lady was murdered. If you blame some curse, what about the real killer?"

The monk's face turned red, clearly not expecting to be called out. "You..."

Clara hugged the urn to her chest and grabbed Dylan's hand. "Let's go. I don't think this master knows what he's talking about."

"You!" the monk called after them, trying to argue, but Clara was already heading for the car.

She set the urn beside her and looked over at Dylan in the passenger seat. "So, where to next?"

Before he could answer, she heard the faintest sound-Dylan was actually laughing.

"What's so funny?" she asked, glancing over as she started the car, genuinely baffled.