Chapter 81: Sweetheart, I will protect you

Chapter 81: Sweetheart, I will protect you "Would that be okay?" Camilla gazed at Sinclair. She didn’t say she wanted to, or didn’t want to. Instead, she asked, "Would that be okay?" "Of course it would," Sinclair sensed Camilla’s cautiousness and pulled her into his embrace, gently stroking her hair. "Camilla, you’re my wife," His voice remained low and husky, but noticeably softer now. "I’ll tell you everything in my heart, one thing at a time. It’s just that some things still need a little more time, alright?" Camilla’s eyes stung with unshed tears. The "some things" Sinclair mentioned were the very knots that had repeatedly driven him to lose control. Deep down, she had a vague suspicion—it was likely tied to his birth mother, the subject he never spoke of. "Alright." Camilla wrapped her arms around Sinclair’s waist and nestled obediently against his chest. "Now tell me about Michael. I can’t shake the feeling there’s something off about him." Truth be told, it wasn’t just Michael who seemed unusual—it was also Sinclair’s attitude toward him. Sinclair had always been a master at concealing his emotions, every feeling hidden deep within those inky black eyes of his. But when it came to Michael, the dark aura and hostility radiating from him were enough to send chills down her spine. "Mmm," Sinclair lowered his head, pressing a gentle kiss to Camilla’s forehead before lifting his gaze into the distance. As he began to speak, time rewound seventeen years into the past. Back then, the ten-year-old Sinclair had accompanied the grandpa Luther on a charity visit to an orphanage in S City. Disgusted by the sycophantic faces around him, he had wandered off with his bodyguards toward a quieted area. That was when he saw Michael—cornered by a group of older boys, their taunts sharp as knives. Though Michael was already thirteen at the time, his frail, stunted frame made him look no older than eight or nine. "Your dad ran off with some mistress and had another son, and your mom dumped you here! Face it—nobody wants you!" "Yeah, you’re just another orphan like the rest of us. Who do you think you are, acting all high and mighty?" "Hand over that watch right now." ... "Don’t touch my watch!" Micheal, who had been cowering in the corner enduring their taunts and blows, suddenly snapped when they tried to yank the watch off his wrist. His eyes burned red as he shot to his feet. "This was bought for me by my mom," he said, voice trembling with fierce conviction. "She didn’t abandon me—she’s just sick and can’t take care of me right now." His jaw tightened, defiance flashing in his gaze. "When she gets better, she’ll come back for me! She will!" *She didn’t abandon me. She’s just sick.* Those words made Sinclair, who had already turned to leave, freeze mid-step. And because of those words, Sinclair took Micheal home with him. * Misery loves company.* The phrase surfaced in Camilla’s mind. Back then, Sinclair must have seen himself in the boy. No wonder Micheal said it was Sinclair who reached out and pulled him from the abyss. "And after that..." Camilla lowered her voice, carefully choosing her words. " What happened?" How had things between them come to this? In the shadows where Camilla couldn’t see, Sinclair’s gaze turned icy, sharp enough to pierce bone. After a long pause of several seconds, he finally spoke. He recounted the events of that rainy night five years ago, his tone eerily detached, as though narrating someone else’s story. Yet inside, Camilla’s heart was a storm of shock and disbelief. Micheal... had developed a twisted obsession with Sinclair? And to get what he wanted, he had even drugged his drink? Her eyes darkened instantly, a chill settling in their depths. Love itself isn’t wrong. But twisted, pathological love most certainly is. A glacial chill shimmered in Camilla’s eyes. Having spent over a decade by Sinclair’s side, Micheal should have understood him better than anyone. Yet he’d still schemed against him to satisfy his own selfish desires. Camilla pressed her lips into a thin line, her heart contracting with visceral pain. She couldn’t bear to imagine— What state of mind Sinclair must be in, discovering such betrayal from his most trusted confidante. Even more unthinkable— What might have happened without Sinclair’s terrifying self-control. Micheal’s actions were nothing short of an attempt to destroy Sinclair, but to destroy, the entire Luther Family. "Sweetheart—" Camilla channeled every ounce of her strength into tightening her embrace around Sinclair, swallowing back the burning moisture in her eyes as her voice thickened with emotion. "I’ll protect you from now on." Anyone who dared to hurt my sweetheart would pay a devastating price—she would make sure of it, no matter the cost. "Don’t worry, Camilla, it’s alright." Sinclair noticed the tension in Camilla’s expression and gently ruffled her hair, his voice soft and reassuring. "It’s all over now, and it won’t happen again." How could he still comfort her after everything that had happened? Camilla bit her lip hard and nodded, her emotions coiled tight, threatening to unravel. This delicate little thing—maybe he shouldn’t have told her in the first place. Sinclair sighed inwardly, then leaned down to whisper soothing words into her ear. The two figures nestled close, they embraced radiating warmth and tenderness even from a distance. Meanwhile, outside the door... Grandpa Luther, who had been watching the scene unfold, felt the worry in his eyes melt into amusement. All that fretting over this stubborn boy—what a waste of effort. "Grandpa," Uncle Carlos hurried over from behind. "Why aren’t you going in?" "You go if you want," Grandpa Luther turned and strode away. "I’ve no interest in dealing with that brat’s attitude." He shook his head, his face twisted in disrespect. "As the saying goes, ’A wife brings a husband’s forgetfulness’—turns out it’s true." Despite his words, a faint smile of satisfaction tugged at his lips. A wife brings a husband’s forgetfulness? Well, when it came to the boss that certainly seemed to be the case. Uncle Carlos glanced inside, then let out a relieved chuckle as he followed. "The boss condition has stabilized a lot compared to before." "And whose doing is that, if not Camilla’s?" Grandpa Luther snorted. "If I’d known it would turn out like this, I should’ve brought Camilla home years earlier to teach that brat a lesson." "Weren’t you worried the Boss would bully Miss Camilla before?" Uncle Carlos chuckled beside him. "Can you blame me?" Grandpa Luther sighed with a wry smile, recalling events from over a decade ago. "Back when Sinclair was secretly receiving treatment at the Rodriguez family, he made Camilla—just six or seven years old at the time—cry every single day. Then, just because he couldn’t stand her sobbing, he’d bribe her with snacks to shut her up." His eyes crinkled with amusement at the memory. "Even though he was the one causing all the trouble, he still had the nerve to nickname her ’Crybaby. ’Grandpa Rodriguez, mild-tempered as he was, nearly threw Sinclair out of the house." Uncle Carlos had heard these stories before. Still, he could never quite understand—why would the boss, always so composed and disciplined since childhood, take such delight in bullying his future wife? "Luckily, Camilla was too young to remember much," Grandpa Luther said, shaking his head with a laugh. "Otherwise, that brat would’ve gotten what was coming to him." Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, his eyes brightened, and he turned to Uncle Carlos. "Uncle Carlos, what do you think about me telling Camila all this?" Uncle Carlos remained silent for a long moment before finally responding, "Honestly... I don’t think that’s a good idea." Just then, a servant rushed into the room, slightly out of breath. "Sir, regarding the guest list for your birthday banquet—I still need to verify some details." "grandpa," the servant hurried over, slightly out of breath. "Sir, Madam, and Sir Jonathan have returned." "What are they doing back at this hour?" The smile vanished from Grandpa Luther’s face, replaced by his usual stern expression. "Have them wait in the side hall for now." Sinclair’s emotions had just stabilized—he couldn’t afford to let them stir up trouble for him. Understanding flashed in Uncle Chen’s eyes. "The side hall?" The servant hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yes, right away." Meanwhile, outside the main gate... "Jonathan," Margaret stood at the entrance of the ancestral home, her meticulously made-up face clouded with disappointment. "It’s all my fault. I’ve wronged you." "Margaret," Jonathan frowned, his gaze filled with confusion as he looked at Margaret. "Why are you saying this all of a sudden?" "If it weren’t for the fact that your father dislikes me,"Margaret forced a bitter smile, the corners of her lips lifting slightly. "You wouldn’t even need permission just to return to your own home." She glanced toward the old mansion, then quickly lowered her head. "If I’d known it would be like this, I never should have—" "Don’t talk nonsense," Jonathan cut her off sharply, already knowing what she was about to say. "The old house is Father’s residence. Everyone follows the same rules when entering." Though his words sounded reasonable, the furrow in his brow betrayed his irritation. Clearly, her earlier words had struck a nerve. Noticing this, a glint of triumph flashed in Margaret’s eyes. Jonathan was the only son of the Grandpa Luther and should rightfully have been the current head of the household. Yet, who would have thought that stubborn grandpa would bypass him entirely and pass the title directly to Sinclair? As a result, she had lost her rightful place as the lady of the house, becoming the subject of endless ridicule, both overt and covert. Now, even entering the Luther Family estate requires explicit permission. She couldn’t swallow this humiliation—and she wouldn’t let Jonathan swallow it either. Tyler lowered his gaze, remaining silent as he contemplated the evening’s birthday banquet. "Sir, Madam, boss Tyler" a servant hurried over. "Please follow me." Jonathan wrapped an arm around Margaret and strode forward. Tyler trailed behind. "Wait." Realizing where the servant was leading them, Jonathan halted abruptly, displeasure darkening his expression. "Why are we being taken to the side hall?" The Luther Family residence had always maintained both a main hall and a side parlor. The main hall was typically reserved for important discussions or receiving distinguished guests. In contrast, the side parlor was often used for visitors with more distant relations or those deemed less significant. Previously, whenever Jonathan, Margaret, and others visited the ancestral home, they had always been received in the main hall. "Are you implying," Margaret frowned, her voice sharp with displeasure, "that we’re no longer worthy of the main hall?" Tyler turned to glare at the servant, his expression darkening. The word "side" had always been a sore point for them. "Madam, you misunderstand," the servant quickly explained, bowing slightly. "This was the old master’s instruction." "What exactly is Father trying to say?" Jonathan’s brows furrowed deeper, his normally refined face darkening with displeasure. Before he could speak, Margaret’s hand slipped gently around his arm. "Jonathan, let it go," she murmured, her voice soft but laced with heartache and resignation. "After all these years, your father has never truly accepted me or Tyler. We’re used to it by now. The side hall is fine." "Dad, Mom’s right," Tyler chimed in, lowering his head with practiced dejection. "It doesn’t matter where we sit. It’s not like we get many chances to visit Grandfather anyway." Seeing his wife and son so visibly wronged, Jonathan’s anger flared hotter. "Go inform my father," he commanded sharply. "We’ll be waiting for him in the main hall." Without another word, he strode toward the main hall with Margaret and Tyler in tow, his stance unyielding. The servant knew better than to try stopping them and immediately hurried off to alert Grandpa Luther. Meanwhile, before Jonathan’s trio could even step into the main hall, they spotted Sinclair and Camilla. Their footsteps halted, expressions shifting like a kaleidoscope of emotions. "So this is why Grandpa didn’t want us in the main hall," Tyler murmured with a sigh, his voice barely above a whisper. "Because big brother and sister-in-law were here." His gaze remained fixed on the figure nestled in Sinclair’s arms. "Had we known, we should’ve gone to the side parlor instead." Camilla’s luminous eyes still glistened with unshed tears, her delicate features carrying that hauntingly beautiful fragility of someone recently wept. The sight made Tyler lower his lashes, shadows of concealed bitterness darkening his gaze. Fate truly played favorites. Every precious thing in this world—it seemed Sinclair had claimed them all for himself. "Sinclair." Jonathan stepped forward first, his features softening as he addressed his son. "What brings you back at this hour?" Watching this display from beneath demure lashes, Margaret’s lips curled in a silent, scornful smirk. What good would groveling do? Sinclair would never accept it anyway. "Who gave you permission to enter?" Sinclair lifted his gaze, his dark eyes heavy as they settled on the three intruders. "Get out." His voice was calm, almost indifferent, yet it carried an undeniable weight that pressed down like an invisible force. Camilla shifted slightly, attempting to extricate herself from his embrace, but his arm tightened around her waist, holding her firmly in place. Seeing his silent insistence, she relaxed against him, her lips curving into a faint, unapologetic smile as she regarded Jonathan and the others. *Get out?!* "Sinclair," Jonathan’s expression stiffened, the momentary composure he had managed to regain now shattered. "This is the Luther Family estate. I am your father—how dare you speak to me like this?!" "My father died twenty years ago," Sinclair replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a cold smirk. His obsidian eyes gleamed with undisguised mockery. "If your memory’s still failing you, Mr. Jonathan, I suggest a visit to the neurologist." His tone was icy, each word laced with a frost so biting it seemed to freeze the very air around them. Camilla’s smile deepened, her stunning features alight with open amusement. "You—" Jonathan was so enraged by Sinclair’s words that his temples throbbed violently. "You ungrateful son! Are you trying to kill me with anger?!" His breathing turned ragged as he clutched his chest. Yes, what happened back then was his fault. And because of that, he had always carried guilt toward Sinclair. All these years, he had humbled himself, hoping to mend their fractured relationship. Yet this rebellious son remained utterly unmoved, no matter the approach. "Dad—" Tyler, immediately rushed over, his face etched with concern, and steadied Jonathan with a hand on his back, gently patting to ease his breathing. "Don’t get worked up—your health comes first." Frowning, he shot Sinclair a reproachful glare. "Brother, you know Dad has high blood pressure. How could you provoke him like this?" "And who the hell are you?" Sinclair arched a brow, his voice icy and low. "Since when do you have the right to speak to me like that?" Though seated, his unshakable aura of dominance made Tyler shrink back, as if physically diminished.