When the Dead Still Call novel Chapter 379

**TITLE: Broken by Destiny by George Orwell**
**Chapter 379: Line of Fire**

Jeremy’s sharp tongue was still slicing through the tension in the air like a hot knife through butter.

“Mr. Curran,” he spat, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “don’t you possess any semblance of gentlemanly manners? You’ve barely graced us with your presence, and already you’ve roasted my sister!” His tone was both accusatory and mocking, a clear challenge to the man before him.

Miguel, tasked with the unenviable role of escorting and monitoring Gianna that evening, felt the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He hadn’t volunteered for this duty; it had been thrust upon him. Marcelo had flatly refused, citing other pressing matters, while Maxwell, with his awkwardness in social settings, had been no help at all. Thus, the responsibility landed squarely on Miguel’s shoulders once more, a role he had not sought but felt obligated to fulfill.

Jeremy raised an eyebrow, a mix of disbelief and contempt etched across his features. “Being a gentleman is subjective, you know. It all depends on who you’re dealing with. So, tell me, is she worth it? And which one of them is your sister, anyway? Are you blind?” His words dripped with disdain, each syllable a calculated jab.

“And just to clarify,” he continued, his voice rising with indignation, “she’s your sister, not mine! Only a handful of you blind folks treat her like she’s some kind of treasure.” The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of Jeremy’s scorn.

For a long time, Jeremy had yearned to put the Nygards in their rightful place, all in defense of Amelia. Yet, he had never found the opportune moment; Amelia was fiercely independent, always insisting on fighting her own battles. “My problems, I’ll handle myself,” she would assert, her voice firm and unwavering.

But tonight, fate had intervened, and someone had walked directly into his line of fire. He felt no compulsion to restrain himself now.

Miguel’s expression darkened, a storm brewing within him as anger surged in his chest. He clenched his fists, teeth grinding together as he struggled to maintain his composure. “Mr. Curran,” he said, forcing his voice to remain steady, “no matter what, she grew up in my house. Criticizing her so harshly is simply too much.”

Jeremy let out a chilling laugh, devoid of warmth. “I’m merely speaking the truth. Perhaps you and your family should take a good, hard look at what she’s been doing.” He gestured dismissively toward Amelia, his contempt palpable.

“Does she really believe she’s some kind of heiress?” he scoffed, his tone dripping with mockery. “The real heiress is standing right here. What does that woman amount to? How long did she actually stay with your family? Ten years?”

The disdain in his voice was unmistakable. Amelia had not been raised among the elite, nor had she been steeped in the etiquette of high society. Everything about her seemed to scream mediocrity. Compared to a true high-born heiress, she was a mere shadow, lacking the polish and grace that came with privilege.

Yet, despite her shortcomings, they had spoiled her as if she were something extraordinary. It was clear to Jeremy that their judgment was fundamentally flawed.

Miguel had never anticipated this confrontation. Jeremy seemed utterly unconcerned with the unwritten rules of decorum. When it came to Amelia, he would stand his ground, word for word, refusing to yield an inch.

Miguel’s gaze shifted to Amelia. To his surprise, she didn’t appear hurt or guilty in the slightest. Instead, she seemed to be an amused spectator, as if watching an elaborate performance unfold before her.

A dark cloud settled over Miguel’s heart. A dull ache began to form in his chest, a reminder of the closeness he once shared with Amelia. They had been inseparable, sharing everything without reservation. How had they drifted so far apart?

The emotions swirling within him were a confusing mix of sadness and stress, tightening like a vice around his heart. Suddenly, he felt a wave of panic wash over him, as if he were suffocating. His face flushed bright red, the air seemingly vanishing from his lungs.

The moment stretched on, lasting less than a minute, yet to Miguel, it felt as though he were teetering on the brink of death itself. The onlookers around him merely assumed he was furious, interpreting his reddened face as a sign of anger, oblivious to the turmoil brewing within.

Then, Gianna’s soft voice broke through the chaos, “Miguel, I’m so sorry. I caused this. I dragged you and the whole family into this mess, and now they insult us because of my actions.” Her words were laced with regret, the guilt evident in her tone.