"You—you two—"
Grandpa Porter's eyes bulged wide, his chest heaving violently.
"How are you still alive?!"
He had seen it with his own eyes—that wretched brat's car smashed to pieces, a scene of utter devastation with no chance of survival.
How could he still be breathing?!
Grandpa Luther's gaze swept over the two of them, noting the absence of any injuries.
The faint crease between his brows smoothed out as he reined in his imposing aura and lowered his head to sip his tea, yielding the stage.
Uncle Carlos finally exhaled in relief.
Though he had received word from the Mr. Sinclair and Mrs. Camilla beforehand, hearing about their safety was nothing compared to seeing them unharmed with his own eyes.
"I suppose," Sinclair drawled, guiding Camilla to sit beside him on the sofa before lazily crossing his long legs, "it's because your tactics, much like your chess skills, haven't improved in the slightest."
