In the luxurious private hospital suite, the air hung heavy with antiseptic and unspoken tension.
"What did you just say?"
Sandra, barely conscious after waking from her coma, stared in disbelief at the elegant middle-aged woman before her.
"My engagement to Tyler.. is already finalized?!"
The woman—her mother—nodded grimly, her carefully maintained composure cracking at the edges.
"Your grandfather sent representatives to the Luther Family yesterday.
The ceremony is scheduled for early next month."
"No! Absolutely not!!"
The words hit Sandra like a physical blow. She lurched upright, IV lines tangling around her as she fought against the sheets.
"I’m going to see Grandfather—I won’t marry that bastard! I’m the Porter family’s sole heir! How could they—"
Her mother seized her shoulders, desperation tightening her grip.
"The doctors said your injuries are severe! You mustn’t move recklessly!"
"Let go of me, Mother!"
Sandra thrashed like a trapped animal, her mother’s pleas falling on deaf ears.
"I’m going to find Grandfather!
I absolutely refuse to marry that despicable Tyler!!"
Just then, a stern and ominous male voice cut through from outside the door.
"The truly despicable one here is you!"
The life-link poison was an exceptionally cruel form of sorcery.
It required implanting two specially bred Twin Fate worms into a host’s body, where they would feed on the host’s flesh and blood for an entire year.
During that year, the host endured excruciating pain daily as the worms gnawed at their insides—until the parasites finally recognized their master.
The worms themselves were highly venomous.
By extracting some of their poison and injecting it into another person, one of the worms would silently infiltrate the new host’s body through the wound.
Normally, the transferred worm remained dormant, causing little harm to its new host.
But if the original host died, their life-link worm would perish as well.
This would trigger the worm in the new host to awaken completely, devouring their flesh and blood in a suicidal frenzy.
Within three days, the new host’s internal organs would be utterly ravaged, leading to an agonizing death as their very bones seemed to burn from within.
The situation was even worse than what Micheal had described!!
At that moment, Luke clearly sensed Camilla’s body stiffen abruptly, her fingertips clutching the documents turning ghostly pale.
Camilla lifted her gaze from the files, her voice soft but firm.
Those beautiful eyes, usually brimming with warmth, now held a suffocating chill.
Beneath that icy glare simmered a tempest of fury, as if she could reduce everything in sight to ashes.
Luke’s heart lurched, his breath instinctively hitching in his throat.
Time crawled in the silence of the room, punctuated only by the rustle of papers as Camilla flipped through the documents.
It felt like an eternity had passed.
"Take all of these and have them destroyed," she said, her tone detached yet laced with tension.
"And tell the mercenaries heading to that region—they must gather every scrap of information about that poison.
Her next words came sharper, her piercing gaze locking onto Luke like a blade. "Also, draw a vial of Micheal’s blood for me immediately."
She emphasized each syllable, her frosty eyes unrelenting.
Make sure no one sees you."
Luke understood the gravity of the situation and gave a solemn nod.
"Rest assured, Madam." After Luke left,
Camilla’s rigid posture finally slackened.
She leaned back in her chair, motionless for a long while.
Everything in this world exists in a delicate balance—mutual creation and mutual destruction.
Though she knew little about sorcery, the word "poison" was right there in its name.
If she could identify the toxins involved, she would surely find a way to counteract them.
No matter what, she was determined to find a solution—to alter the fate that bound both Michael and Sinclair.
Camilla clenched her teeth so hard that she only realized she’d drawn blood when the metallic tang reached her tongue.
Ramsey handed over the item in his hands with both palms upturned, his voice strained with tension.
"Here’s a complete record of Madam’s activities yesterday."
Of course, excluding the basement.
The mall? Sinclair skimmed through the documents in his hands, his strikingly handsome face betraying no emotion, as cold and detached as ever.
"Setting aside the irrelevant details," he lifted his gaze to Ramsey, his piercing eyes as sharp as ice.
"Camilla only met Tiffany and this man named Arlo?"
"Yes," Ramsey nodded, not daring to add another word.
"I want to know exactly what happened in that hospital room," Sinclair tossed the documents onto the table carelessly before fixing Ramsey with a deep, unreadable stare.
"And dig up everything you can on this Arlo."
He needed to find out where things had gone wrong.
"I’ll get right on it, sir."
Ramsey gave a slight nod and turned to leave.
Just then, the man’s deep, icy voice cut through the silence behind him.
A single word, casually spoken, yet it made Ramsey’s pulse spike.
"Yes, President Luther."
"The matter in the basement," Sinclair’s inscrutable gaze pinned Ramsey in place, his voice dangerously calm.
"Has it been taken care of?"
The basement—clearly, he was referring to Micheal.
At that moment, Ramsey’s heart nearly leaped into his throat.
"Yes," he replied, keeping his head lowered, forcing his voice to remain steady.
"Everything has been handled thoroughly, just as you instructed."
Sinclair’s dark eyes gleamed with a chilling intensity, his long fingers tapping the desk in an unsettling rhythm—slow, deliberate, like the countdown to an unseen threat.
That simple movement alone made Ramsey feel as though an invisible weight was pressing down on his spine, making even breathing a struggle.
Cold sweat trickled down his temples, yet he dared not move a muscle.
Each passing minute stretched into an eternity for him now.
He’d completely lost track of how much time had elapsed.
"Ramsey." Sinclair leaned back in his chair, his casual tone laced with an undercurrent of chilling indifference.
"How long have you been by my side?"
Ramsey froze, his face paling visibly.
Beneath those piercing dark eyes that commanded absolute authority, his mind went blank—he couldn’t even form a coherent thought.
The corners of Sinclair’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile.
"N-no, of course not," Ramsey stammered, his throat so dry the words came out raspy.
"I’ve been with you since I was fifteen... that makes eleven years now."
Due to his father’s connections, he’d been born and raised within the Luther Family’s sphere.
Since high school, he had been by Mr. Luther’s side, learning the ropes to eventually join the Luther Corporation.
"Eleven years," Sinclair repeated coolly.
"That’s quite a long time."
His gaze fixed on Ramsey, his deceptively casual tone laced with an unmistakable chill.
"Do you remember the one and only requirement I ever had for you?"
"Loyalty," Ramsey kept his head bowed, fists clenched tightly at his sides.
He was two years younger than Mr. Sinclair, and neither his talent nor his abilities were particularly outstanding.
Many things had been a struggle for him to grasp.
Yet Mr. Sinclair had never once looked down on him or scolded him—there had only ever been one demand.
All these years, he had never dared to forget. "If you remember," Sinclair’s fingers, which had been tapping rhythmically on the desk, suddenly stilled.
His dark, almond-shaped eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded Ramsey with an icy detachment.
"Let me ask you one more time," his voice was low and dangerously calm, "has the matter with Micheal been resolved?"
Ramsey clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white, but no words escaped his lips.
He couldn’t bring himself to lie to Mr. Sinclair again, yet he dared not disobey Madam’s orders and reveal the truth.
After all, Micheal was still tied to something that could threaten Mr. Sinclair’s life.
This was, without a doubt, the most agonizing dilemma Ramsey had faced in over a decade.
The office plunged into suffocating silence, the air thickening with tension.
Then, abruptly, a sharp ringtone shattered the stillness.
Ramsey didn’t move, only lifting his gaze cautiously toward Sinclair.
His eyes were filled with wariness—and a trace of helpless frustration.
Sinclair exhaled slowly, the smoke from his freshly lit cigarette curling around his sharp features before he finally spoke.
"Yes, sir." Ramsey picked up the call and switched it to speakerphone.
"Mr. Ramsey, the person you asked for has been brought."
After replying, Ramsey hung up the phone and turned to Sinclair.
"Mr. Luther, the person you requested is here."
Sinclair: ..... He slowly lifted his gaze, his cold eyes fixed on Ramsey’s tense face, which was stiff with nervousness.
Only then did it dawn on him that he had left the call on speakerphone.
Flustered, he immediately lowered his head, not daring to meet Sinclair’s piercing stare. "...Understood."
To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault.
The current Mr. Luther was downright terrifying—his mind had gone completely blank.
"Bring them in," Sinclair said, removing the cigarette from his lips and crushing it into the ashtray before speaking again, his voice deliberate.
And think carefully about how you’re going to answer my questions."
His dark eyes narrowed slightly, his voice devoid of any inflection.
"Remember, this is your last chance."
"...Yes, sir." Ramsey didn’t dare linger.
He turned on his heel and hurried out. Watching the door close once more, Sinclair leaned back in his chair.
Whether it was Uncle Carlos or Ramsey, they were among the most trusted figures in the Luther Family.
He had never—and would never—doubt their loyalty.
What concerned him was the reason behind Ramsey’s unusual defiance of orders.
Was it to get information about the Maid? Or... because of Camilla?