The Extraordinary Bride Of The Wyndham Family (Isla and Gabriel) novel Chapter 150

**Extraordinary Bride**

The Wyndham family found themselves enveloped in a profound period of mourning, a heavy shroud of loss that seemed to settle over their entire empire. It was as if an oppressive cloud had descended, casting shadows over every building, every worker, and every cherished memory they held dear. In a gesture of respect for the esteemed Alfred Wyndham, the patriarch who had guided them through triumph and tribulation, all their businesses came to a standstill. Offices, factories, and branches scattered throughout Carminton and beyond paused their operations, honoring the legacy of a man who had meant so much to so many.

The city of Carminton mirrored the Wyndhams’ grief, as if the entire community had joined them in their sorrow. Shops lowered their music, and the usual hustle and bustle of life was replaced with a somber quietude. Everyone recognized the impact Alfred had had on their lives and the city itself; he had been a pillar of strength, a beacon of hope.

At the heart of their legacy, the Wyndham Estate became a gathering place for family and friends alike. Throughout the day, visitors flowed in and out, creating a river of humanity that brought with it condolences, shared memories, and respect for the man they had lost. Friends, business partners, government officials, and even members of the Royal family came to pay their respects, each leaving a piece of their sorrow behind.

Amidst this whirlwind of grief, Wyatt, the firstborn son, remained a focal point for the family. Despite the underlying tensions that sometimes surfaced among them, the Wyndhams managed to present a united front during this time of mourning. For now, their shared grief acted as a binding force, knitting them closer together in a way that nothing else had.

John, Wyatt’s father, had already communicated the details of the burial to his children. They all agreed that it was essential for Alfred’s body to be laid to rest without undue delay. It would be a disservice to a man of such dignity and honor to let him linger in the morgue. Thus, they settled on a date—one that was close enough to allow for a timely farewell, yet far enough to give the entire country the chance to mourn.

Three days had passed since Alfred Wyndham had departed from this world.

The atmosphere within the estate felt dense, heavy with an unshakeable sorrow. Each room echoed with an eerie silence, as if the very walls were mourning the loss of their beloved patriarch.

Today, John found himself alone in his father’s old bedroom, a space that spoke volumes of Alfred’s character. It was a modest room, devoid of opulence, just as Alfred had preferred. A simple, comfortable bed sat against the wall, a wooden table stood by the window, and a wardrobe housed neatly arranged clothes that would remain unworn forever. A bookshelf overflowed with volumes of literature that had once captivated his father.

As John scanned the room, he felt his father’s presence envelop him.

The pillow still bore the faint imprint of Alfred’s head, the slippers lay beside the bed as if they were waiting for his return, and the wardrobe door hung slightly ajar. Each detail served as a painful reminder of the man he had loved and lost.

John could almost hear his father’s deep, resonant voice filling the silence, could almost envision him sitting by the window, engrossed in the newspaper, a gentle smile playing on his lips.

The memories surged forth, fresh and raw, each one a stab of pain.

Closing his eyes, John inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scent of his father wash over him. It lingered in the air like a wisp of smoke, a ghostly reminder of the man who had shaped his life. He knew this scent would fade soon, but for now, it wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, a bittersweet reminder of what had been.

His thoughts drifted to the plans they had shared, the conversations filled with hopes and dreams. Regret washed over him, and tears threatened to spill, but he blinked them away, allowing the stillness of the room to envelop him once more.

A sudden knock on the door jolted him from his reverie.

He straightened, clearing his throat before saying, “Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing Stephen, the family butler, who stepped inside with an air of solemnity. He held an envelope, its seal adorned with a thick golden emblem, a stark contrast to the somber mood of the estate.

“Mr. Wyndham, sir,” Stephen greeted with a respectful bow.

John nodded, his heart racing slightly as he sensed the weight of the moment.

“You have a message from Mrs. Anna Wyndham,” Stephen announced, his voice steady.

At the mention of her name, irritation prickled at John’s spine. His brows furrowed tightly as a wave of memories rushed back—her accusations, her anger, the way she had pointed fingers at Alfred. Anna had been the one to hurl words like daggers, blaming Alfred for Isla’s condition, shattering the old man’s spirit and pushing him into a pit of despair that had ultimately worsened his health.

John believed, with every fiber of his being, that if Anna had not been so cruel, his father might still be alive today.

And now, she had the audacity to send him a message?

A scoff escaped his lips as he glanced at the envelope, noting its lavish seal. It was anything but a simple letter; it was as if she still wished to project an image of importance, even in this moment of tragedy.

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