A Wedding Night Gone Terribly Wrong novel Chapter 172

The Ancestral Wing was situated in the sprawling backyard of the Lockwood Mansion. Surrounded by dense, towering ancient trees, the area was perpetually cast in cool shadows, with sunlight only occasionally piercing through the canopy.

Madeleine and Iris stepped out and boarded a sleek golf buggy. The ride from the main house to the Ancestral Wing was a long one. Madeleine hadn't set foot in the area for three years—not since she learned Holden had built a shrine for Winifred there. Even during the massive family memorial service last year, she had feigned illness to avoid attending.

In her memory, the path to the Ancestral Wing was damp, eerie, and suffocated by the twisted branches of old trees. It had always made her skin crawl. She gently placed Iris's hand on her lap and patted it, a silent reassurance in case the younger woman felt spooked. After all, the place housed the Lockwood ancestors' memorial tablets, and more unsettlingly, the lingering presence of Winifred's supposed ghost.

Iris merely smirked, clearly unfazed. "You really need to get out more. Staring at the same four walls all day is making your mind play tricks on you."

Madeleine turned her head, opting not to argue.

They drove for over ten minutes before Madeleine sensed something was wrong. "Did we take a wrong turn?" she asked the driver.

"No, ma'am," the driver replied respectfully.

But as the backyard walls came into view, the oppressive ancient trees were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the area was bathed in bright, crisp autumn sunlight. Madeleine looked around, her eyes widening in shock.

"Stop the buggy!" she ordered.

Her two attendants rushed forward to help her step down. From the backseat, Iris scoffed. "You're so dramatic. It's exhausting being around you."

"Iris, stop it. Come look at this," Madeleine urged, bending down to inspect the greenery lining the path.

Her logic was sound. It made perfect sense. Yet, a deep, gnawing unease settled in Madeleine's gut.

As Holden's mother, she had watched him grow from a quiet boy into a ruthless titan. She knew him better than anyone. This was the same boy who had driven his father's Maybach at eleven years old, the boy who had systematically crushed her husband's mistresses to protect her. He was a force of nature, entirely unpredictable when crossed.

Losing her patience completely, Iris barked at a gardener pulling weeds nearby. The man, covered in dirt and wearing a straw hat, hurried over.

"Tell her what you're doing," Iris demanded.

The gardener wiped his brow. "Mr. Lockwood gave the order last night. We're ripping out all the herbs."