In the master bedroom of the Luther Manor, a strikingly handsome man lay on the bed, his brows tightly furrowed.
His long, thick lashes cast delicate shadows beneath his eyes.
Upon closer inspection, one could see his breathing growing heavier, his hands at his sides clenching slightly.
Sinclair seemed trapped in the throes of a nightmare.
In the dream, Sinclair walked through an endless stretch of darkness, surrounded by a suffocating stench of decay.
With no other choice, he pressed forward until, at last, he reached a familiar door—the very one to the room he now slept in.
Without hesitation, he pushed it open.
Inside, everything was just as he remembered.
Camilla lay peacefully on the bed, dressed in a flowing white gown.
"Camilla?"
The silence sent a sharp pang through his chest.
Sinclair strode toward her immediately.
Her chestnut curls cascaded like a waterfall over the pillow, her face as lovely as ever.
