The Luther Family Ancestral Residence.
Jonathan rushed in hurriedly.
At the sight of Grandpa Luther’s condition, his steps faltered, and his face paled instantly.
"H-how could this happen?!"
Tyler followed behind at a slower pace, his worried gaze fixed on the old man, though a flicker of something else lurked beneath the surface.
Camilla stood to the side, quietly observing the expressions of this father and son.
No—perhaps it would be more accurate to call them this "so-called" father and son.
Jonathan paid no attention to Camilla.
Tyler, however, after taking in grandpa’s sickly appearance, shifted his focus to her.
Though his intention was to read something—anything—from this woman’s face out of sheer wariness, what caught his attention first was her striking beauty.
She wore a long white qipao, her dark, voluminous curls casually swept back.
Her delicate face bore no trace of makeup.
Her entire demeanor exuded an ethereal, untouchable coldness, as if she were a celestial being beyond mortal reach.
A woman with such striking beauty and formidable capabilities—why couldn’t she be his?
Tyler withdrew his gaze, a shadow of something dark flickering in the depths of his eyes.
Jonathan suddenly turned around, his face twisted with fury as he stormed up to Uncle Carlos.
"Just how the hell have you been taking care of Father?
How could you let someone poison him right under your nose in the old mansion?"
"All these years of trust he placed in you—hanging over the entire estate for you to manage—what a waste!"
Camilla’s brows knitted tightly together.
"It was indeed my negligence," Uncle Carlos admitted, his face heavy with guilt.
"Once grandpa wakes up, I’ll accept whatever punishment he sees fit."
The fact that grandpa had been poisoned right under his watch weighed on him more than anyone could imagine.
His words came from the deepest remorse in his heart.
"No need to wait for him to wake up," Jonathan sneered.
"I’ll teach you a lesson right now—" Jonathan was seething with rage, his hand raised to strike Uncle Carlos across the face. Uncle Carlos stood his ground, unmoving, his expression calm.
Just then, a cool, composed female voice cut through the tension.
Camilla stepped between them, shielding Uncle Carlos.
Tyler’s brow furrowed.
Jonathan’s raised hand froze midair.
"Camilla, what do you think you’re doing?"
Uncle Carlos’s voice was hoarse with emotion, his eyes brimming with gratitude and surprise.
"It’s my fault for not taking better care of grandpa. I deserve this.
"Even if someone deserves to be struck, only Grandfather has that right," Camilla said, her feet planted firmly, her piercing gaze locked onto Jonathan.
Her crimson lips curled into a mocking smile as she spoke, her voice icy and deliberate, each word striking deep.
"If you think Uncle Carlos isn’t doing his job well, then you’re welcome to take over the duty yourself."
."Instead of being nowhere to be found before the crisis, only to show up afterward and start bossing people around."
Jonathan pointed a trembling finger at Camilla, his temples throbbing with rage as words failed him.
"I haven’t even called you out yet," he spat, voice rising as if he’d found his venting target.
"Weren’t you always bragging about your medical skills?
That’s how you managed to marry into the Luther Family, isn’t it?"
His tone turned venomous.
"And now that Father’s in trouble, you’re completely useless? Just a pretty face with no substance!" Uncle Carlos’s expression darkened.
Tyler watched Camilla intently, his probing gaze waiting for her response.
"If you’re not the useless one here,"
Camilla lifted her eyes, her calm yet piercing stare locking onto Jonathan for a few seconds before her crimson lips parted.
"President Luther," Ramsey’s voice came through the phone.
"Mr. Jonathan and Tyler have arrived."
"Keep a close eye on them.
Don’t let Camilla suffer any losses," Sinclair said coolly, his expression indifferent.
"How are things progressing with the Porter family?"
Ramsey understood immediately—his boss had no interest in hearing about the other two.
Not that he needed to worry.
The only person who ever made others suffer losses was Madam.
"The person has already been delivered to Mr. Porter, as per your instructions," Ramsey replied, pausing briefly before adding,
"However, they happened to run into Sandra at the mall."
Given Sandra’s temperament, the two parties were probably causing a scene right then and there.
"Since they’ve been discovered," the man exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his dark, narrow eyes narrowing slightly, "arrange for the media to blow this up."
Ramsey immediately caught the implication.
"President Luther, there’s one more thing," he said in a low voice, continuing cautiously.
"Someone else has been secretly acquiring large amounts of Porter’s Group’s shares, just like us.
We’ve already identified the person."
Sinclair flicked the ash from his cigarette, his dark eyes glinting with an icy ruthlessness that sent chills down the spine.
"Use whatever means necessary to take those shares from them," he commanded, his voice low and gravelly, leaving no room for argument.
"But—" Ramsey hesitated, his expression conflicted and uneasy. "It’s Madam."
The line fell dead silent before he even finished speaking.
Sinclair paused mid-drag, the coldness in his eyes instantly melted away.
A moment later, the corner of his lips curved faintly.
"Sell our shares to her at a low price," he instructed, his tone now lighter.
"Make sure she doesn’t find out."
The man’s voice remained deep, but his tone had softened considerably as he murmured close to her ear,
"Bought at a premium."
Ramsey wore an "I knew it" expression and promptly acknowledged the order.
Only Madam could make President Luther take a loss on a deal.
After hanging up, Sinclair strode back into the room.
A dozen men, battered beyond recognition, lay unconscious in disarray, their blood soaking the carpet beneath them.
Kneeling before them was another man, his fingers severed and bound, forced into submission.
The scene was gruesome—a living nightmare.
The low, indifferent voice cut through the air, accompanied by a wisp of pale gray smoke.
Sinclair emerged from the interplay of light and shadow, his aristocratic features icy and detached, exuding an overwhelming aura of dominance.
The scarred mercenary shook his head.
This one’s lips were sealed tight—likely a killer bound by a blood oath.
"Waste your breath all you want, kid.
I’m not telling you anything,"
The man lifted his head, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Sinclair with a venomous glare, like a serpent coiled to strike.
"You’d be better off picking yourself a nice burial plot while you still can," he spat, blood trickling from his nose and mouth, painting a grotesque sight.
"There are plenty more who want you dead.
You’ll never make it out of Mileage alive."
"Still running your mouth?
You asking for death?"
The scarred mercenary scowled, stepping forward with a snarl, but Sinclair raised a hand to stop him.
Instead, he strode toward the man, his long legs closing the distance effortlessly.
The moment their eyes met—those bottomless, icy depths locking onto the man’s—an involuntary shudder tore through him, a primal terror seizing his very soul.
Clenching his jaw, the man forced himself to hold Sinclair’s gaze.
"Since you’re so sure I won’t leave Mileage," Sinclair murmured, looking down at him as if he were nothing more than an insect, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
"Then why don’t you guess—will your wife and daughter board that flight to Russia safely? Or..."
His voice was deceptively light, almost casual, yet laced with a cruelty that froze the blood.
"...will they die screaming in their own home?"