She’s Back, and Hell’s Coming with Her novel Chapter 291

Hester let out a soft, mocking laugh, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. Her voice was cold as ice.

“Old witch, before I send you straight to hell, don’t you want to know who told me to wait for you at Verdant Peak?”

Octavia’s face grew even paler, her strength fading fast. She no longer had the energy to care about Hester’s affairs.

This had all been planned from the start. It could only have been Sommer’s doing—and she must have had help from the inside. There was no way Sommer could have orchestrated such a flawless plan alone.

Her own son still had no idea who Sommer truly was.

The Sutton family was going to be destroyed by this mother-daughter pair.

If only she’d seen through their act sooner—maybe then the Suttons wouldn’t be on the brink of ruin.

Octavia’s lips trembled. A storm of emotions crashed inside her.

But it was all too late.

Hester pressed on mercilessly, her face set in a mask of indifference.

“I’m not telling you. I want you to die never knowing the truth.”

“Oh, and there’s one more thing I almost forgot.” Hester’s gaze drifted to the sachet resting among the offerings on the mantel.

She’d given that sachet to Octavia herself.

With a flick of her wrist, Hester swept the offerings to the floor, then picked up the little pouch with her delicate fingers.

“You’re quite fond of this, aren’t you? Did you know there are ashes inside—Ariel’s ashes, to be exact.”

Octavia’s eyes went wide with shock.

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“W-what did you say?”

“You mean… Ariel…”

It was like being struck by lightning—Octavia’s composure shattered. Sobs burst from her chest.

Maybe it was from standing too long, but Hester’s legs had started to ache. She finally let go of Octavia’s foot and sat down in a nearby chair.

“Ariel did nothing to you. She treated you like a sister, and you still hurt her!”

“She never took anything from you. She was never a threat. Why? Why did you do it?”

Sobbing uncontrollably, Octavia dropped to her knees, pounding the floor in despair, unable to comprehend such cruelty.

Hester scoffed, unimpressed by Octavia’s anguish.

“She was perfect—so perfect that every man I liked was drawn to her instead. And for what? She was just a penniless orphan. What made her so special?”

“I hated her—her talent, her poetry, the way she outshone me in everything.”

“Oh, but I suppose I should thank her, shouldn’t I? If it weren’t for her paintings, I’d never have won those awards. Ha!”

“Guess how she died, Grandma?”

Hester’s tone was light, almost offhand, as if she were recounting some trivial anecdote.