The Luther residence.
An inexplicable chill hung in the air.
"Sweetheart," Camilla stood by the windowsill, the breeze tousling her hair as her beautiful eyes narrowed slightly.
"Grandfather has indeed been poisoned."
Sinclair exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his sharp gaze darkening with a bone-chilling intensity.
After a long pause, his voice finally emerged—hoarse and heavy.
"How bad is it?"
Hearing the guilt laced in his tone, Camilla's heart ached.
"We caught it in time. It's not serious," she reassured him softly, her voice a soothing balm.
"With me here, Grandfather will recover soon.
Don't worry too much."
Her gentle words seemed to melt the icy tension that had encased Sinclair, the suffocating cold gradually dissipating.
"Camilla," He took a deep drag from his cigarette, his voice growing even more hoarse.
"Thank you."
Two simple words, yet they seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken ones.
