In the dim light, Sinclair turned and pulled Camilla back into his embrace.
"What did Grandpa say to you?"
After a moment of silence, Camilla spoke in a muffled voice.
"I asked him about what happened twenty years ago."
Back then, sweetheart—barely recovered from the brutal kidnapping that had left him disfigured and suffering from blood disorders—was abandoned by both his parents. Sinclair had even witnessed his own mother die horribly before his eyes.
After that, it was as if he had completely lost the ability to process emotions.
Apart from Grandpa, he kept everyone at arm’s length, refusing to let anyone get close.
Later, to treat his condition and stabilize the Luther Family, Grandpa sent Sinclair to stay with her grandfather for a while, which helped somewhat.
But he remained ruthless toward people and situations, leaving no room for mercy.
Twenty years ago... Sinclair gently stroked Camilla’s hair, his dark eyes devoid of warmth as they stared into the void, chilling the air around them.
After several seconds of silence, he finally spoke.
"It’s alright, Camilla.
It’s all in the past now."
A deep, gentle voice, noticeably softened, resonated above Camilla’s head.
Was it really in the past?
A happy childhood can heal a lifetime, while an unhappy one takes a lifetime to heal.
Camilla tightened her arms around Sinclair, holding him closer.
And besides, the hidden truth hadn’t even surfaced yet. Who Ms. Tina meant by "the Luther Family" was glaringly obvious.
But if it really was what she suspected, it would only bring unavoidable pain to Sinclair.
All she could do was stand by his side and face it together.
Sinclair’s arm around Camilla instinctively tightened, as if comforting her—or perhaps drawing strength from her warmth.
"No wonder you felt so familiar to me," Camilla said, blinking back the tears in her eyes as she lifted her head from Sinclair’s embrace.
She forced a soft smile, deliberately steering the conversation elsewhere.
"So it was you—that quiet, aloof little boy from back then."
At the time, she had just lost both her parents, drowning in a loneliness that made her feel abandoned by the world.
Grandpa had to go to great lengths every day to keep her happy.
During that time, an older boy, a few years her senior, suddenly appeared in their small courtyard.
Sinclair seemed even gloomier than she was, which made her feel like she had found a kindred spirit.
She clung to him all day, begging him to play with her.
But he never paid her any attention. When her pestering became too much, he would scare her into tears with some trick, then dump her back on Grandpa to console.
Yet children have short memories when it comes to pain.
Once the tears dried, she’d be right back at his side, undeterred.
Still, not everything about him was bad.
At the very least, he stood up for her against the kids who mocked her for not having parents.
The turning point in their relationship came on a stormy night.
Grandpa was away on an emergency call, and the deafening thunder jolted her awake, leaving her sobbing in fear.
With no other choice, she clutched her doll and tiptoed into the older boy’s room, slipping under his covers before he could even protest.
To her relief, he didn’t kick her out.
For the next few nights, she sneaked into his room after dark, seeking refuge.
When his family finally came to take him away, she cried for what felt like forever.
I was simply too young back then, and many memories have faded with time.
Even the face of that little boy has long since blurred in my mind.
As she grew older, she gradually forgot about it altogether. Who would have thought that boy from her memories turned out to be Sinclair.
"Finally remembered, huh?"
Sinclair lifted Camilla and perched her on the edge of his desk, caging her between his arms as his dark, intense eyes locked onto hers.
His voice, low and tender, lingered in the quiet study like a slow-burning ember.
Camilla murmured, her cheeks tinged pink as she wrapped her arms around the man’s neck in playful protest..
"And I don’t cry easily either."
Sinclair gazed at her, his lips parting slightly.
"Then what does Camilla love?"
His dark eyes were like an invisible net, drawing her in, pulling her closer.
Bathed in the faint glow from the window, Camilla studied his striking features—half illuminated, half shadowed.
Her voice was feather-soft, yet it struck Sinclair’s heart with undeniable force.
Her slender fingers traced the contours of his face, her beautiful eyes brimming with tenderness.
Before the words had fully left her lips, she turned her head and captured his mouth in a kiss.
Her crimson lips traced the shape of his before tentatively deepening the embrace.
Every movement, every breath spoke volumes of tender affection.
Sinclair’s gaze deepened, his dark eyes like fathomless whirlpools.
His hand cradled the back of his delicate wife’s head, pulling her closer as he crushed his lips against hers in a searing kiss.
Their tongues tangled, passion igniting between them.
Gradually, his large hand slid beneath her waist—so slender it could barely fill his grasp—trailing fire wherever he touched.
Feeling the telltale signs of her arousal, Sinclair deepened the kiss while pressing a button beside him.
The curtains around them slowly rose, shielding them from prying eyes.
Then, with effortless strength, he lifted her slender legs over his shoulders, his other hand already working at the buckle of his belt.
Lost in primal rhythm, their senses surrendered completely to each other—drowning together, sinking deeper into the intoxicating abyss of desire.
Calvin led Tiffany toward the secret chamber where Jayden was imprisoned.
Though not dimly lit, the room exuded a bone-chilling coldness.
Pausing before a heavy door, Calvin turned to Tiffany, his voice gentle yet cautious.
"Dealing with him won’t be pretty. Are you sure you want to go in?"
Truth be told, he didn’t want her to see this darker side of him.
Tiffany pressed her lips together, her delicate yet resolute face unwavering.
She needed to witness the fate of this scum with her own eyes—for herself, and for all his victims.
Calvin respected her decision and nodded at the two bodyguards stationed outside.
The guards stepped forward, inputting the code.
The moment their hands withdrew, the heavy iron doors slid apart with a low groan.
Inside, the room was brightly lit—almost deceptively ordinary, if not for the bloodstains dried on the floor and the battered man lying motionless at their feet.
Hearing footsteps, Jayden struggled to lift his head with great effort.
Just that simple movement sent waves of agony through him, twisting his scarred face into something even more grotesque.
"I didn’t do anything," he spat through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with venomous malice.
"What the hell do you and this man want from me?"
Though she had braced herself, Tiffany couldn’t help the slight tremble in her eyes as she took in Jayden’s disfigured face and the snake-like malevolence in his gaze.
Her hands, hanging at her sides, slowly clenched into fists.
Calvin, who had been watching Tiffany closely, stepped forward without a word, shielding her with his body.
His almond-shaped eyes, usually languid and indifferent, now bore down on Jayden with icy disdain.
"Didn’t do anything?"
Calvin’s tone was as lazily casual as ever, yet the chill in his voice could freeze a man’s soul.
"Then what about the women in the basement?
With each accusation, the color drained further from Jayden’s face.