The Luther Family ancestral home.
Though the living room had been cleaned, the thick metallic scent of blood still lingered in the air.
Sinclair seemed oblivious to it.
His dark eyes were lowered, his sharp, chiseled profile exuding an air of detached indifference as he idly twirled a fruit knife between his long, elegant fingers.
The servants cleaning the room held their breaths, careful not to make a sound that might draw his attention.
Then— *Thud.
* *Thud.*
The staggering footsteps on the staircase grew louder.
Jonathan appeared before Sinclair, his gait unsteady.
Uncle Carlos, watching from the side, flashed a complicated look of understanding.
"Put everything down and follow me out," he instructed quietly, ushering all the staff out of the room.
Sinclair didn't so much as glance up.
His handsome face remained impassive, as though no one had entered at all.
But upon closer inspection, one could discern a cold, mocking curve at the corners of his lips.
