CHAPTER 21: MY WIFE ISN’T FEELING WELL

"My wife isn’t feeling well and shouldn’t drink," Sinclair turned his head slightly, his cool gaze resting on the butler.

His deep voice was devoid of inflection, yet it carried an inexplicable chill.

"Is there a problem?"

The butler met Sinclair’s eyes, his pupils contracting slightly.

"None at all, of course not.

The Count is waiting inside—allow me to escort you in, Mr. Luther."

Sinclair said nothing, striding forward with long, measured steps, his dark, narrow eyes unfathomable.

Luke cast a casual glance at the surrounding woods of the estate before following.

"Mr. Luther, the Count is right inside."

The butler stopped outside the grand hall, standing to the side as he gave a slight nod and gestured politely.

"Please—"

The corner of Sinclair’s lips curved in a faint, almost imperceptible smirk as he stepped inside.

Luke moved to follow, but the butler intercepted him with a polite smile.

"Sir, only the Count and his distinguished guests are permitted inside.

You’ll have to wait here."

Luke’s expression darkened as he fixed the man with a cold stare, but he remained rooted in place.

Sinclair halted in his tracks, his inky black eyes locking onto the man before him.

"Guests follow the host’s arrangements."

"Understood," Luke nodded, glanced at his wristwatch, and stepped aside without further follow.

The butler strode away, his back turned to Luke as an inscrutable shadow flickered across his otherwise composed expression.

Meanwhile, inside the opulent grand hall— Eston and several E men were engaged in lively conversation.

Before them stood several unopened bottles of vintage red wine.

"Ah, Mr. Luther has arrived," Eston cut off his own words mid-sentence the moment Sinclair entered, flashing a practiced smile at the group.

"This is the gentleman I mentioned earlier—Sinclair, head of the Luther conglomerate in San Francisco, and the primary sponsor of the royal charity gala."

His gaze darted swiftly behind Sinclair, noting the absence of any entourage, and something unreadable flickered in the depths of his eyes.

The E men promptly greeted Sinclair with polite smiles.

Sinclair gave a slight nod in acknowledgment and took the conspicuously reserved seat beside Eston with effortless poise.

His commanding presence was so overwhelming that, for a moment, it was impossible to tell who truly held the reins of the gathering.

"Our family estate sent over a few bottles of wine.

Since you’re all here, let’s enjoy them together," Aiston glanced at the sommelier standing nearby.

"Begin."

The sommelier nodded and stepped forward, carefully uncorking a bottle of red wine with white-gloved hands.

As he poured for Sinclair and the others, he explained, "This is a Romanée-Conti from Burgundy, France—a rich and aromatic red with complex flavors..."

Sinclair swirled the wine unhurriedly in his glass, his dark, narrow eyes seeming deeper and more intense than the crimson liquid.

"Mr. Luther, please give it a try."

Sinclair met Aiston’s smiling gaze briefly before raising his glass and draining it in one smooth motion.

Aiston watched the now-empty glass in Sinclair’s hand, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes.

"The next bottle is a premium Australian red," the sommelier continued.

"Compared to the Romanée-Conti, it has a bolder profile with distinctive notes of coffee..."

The group sipped and murmured in quiet discussion, but Sinclair remained silent, idly toying with his glass.

"What do you think, Mr. Luther?"

Aiston’s gaze settled on him once more.

Sinclair lifted his gaze to Aston, a faint smile playing in his eyes.

"Not bad."

Aiston’s grin widened slightly.

"Glad you like it."

After all, this was meant as an apology.

"How are things going with Camilla?"

Sinclair lowered his gaze to the ruby-red liquid swirling in his glass, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he remained silent.

The tasting of several bottles of wine on the table stretched leisurely over an hour before finally concluding.

After expressing their gratitude to Easton, the guests gradually prepared to take their leave.

Easton instructed the butler to see them out before turning to Sinclair with a genial smile.

"Mr. Luther, if you wouldn’t mind staying a little longer," he said, his deep-set eyes brimming with warm amusement.

"I have a rare vintage I’d love to share with you."

The curve of Sinclair’s lips deepened. "The honor is mine."

Soon, the vast hall was empty save for the two men.

The sommelier promptly returned with a prized bottle of Lafite, offering a brief introduction as he poured the wine for Easton and Sinclair.

"Give it a try," Easton said, lifting his glass in a toast while his gaze flickered almost imperceptibly toward the space behind Sinclair.

"You’re going to love this."

Sinclair smirked, raising his glass to his lips with effortless grace.

Then, in a heartbeat, everything changed.

The sommelier standing behind him suddenly shifted, his eyes turning cold as steel.

In one fluid motion, he drew a dagger from his coat and slashed toward the exposed curve of Sinclair’s throat—blindingly fast.

Aiston watched, leisurely lifting his own wineglass, his lips curling into a satisfied smile as he took in the scene.

He’d spared no expense to kill this bastard.

Every drop of this wine was top-shelf.

But things didn’t go as planned.

Sinclair tilted his head back, downing the wine in one smooth motion—while his other hand shot out like a viper, seizing the sommelier’s wrist mid-strike.

With a brutal twist, bone cracked.

Shit!

The sommelier gasped, fingers reflexively loosening from the pain.

His free hand darted beneath, desperate to catch the falling blade.

But Sinclair was faster.

He snatched the dagger midair.

Setting down his wineglass with eerie calm, he drove the blade backward—straight into the sommelier’s throat.

Blood sprayed in an instant, painting the air crimson.

Two drops splattered onto Sinclair’s pale, strikingly handsome face, yet he didn’t even blink.

Everything happened in mere seconds.

The sommelier had no time to react—his expression frozen in shock—before life drained from his body.

Sinclair released his grip, and the man collapsed backward with a dull thud.

Easton stood rooted in place, his temple twitching uncontrollably.

Sinclair took out a handkerchief, meticulously wiping the blood from his face and fingertips.

His refined, beautiful features still wore that faint smile, though the curve of his lips now carried a razor-sharp edge.

"Indeed, the flavor is quite exquisite."

His tone was calm, almost indifferent, yet it sent a wave of oppressive danger through Easton.

"Mr. Luther’s skills are truly impressive," Easton said, setting down his wineglass, his voice tight.

"Pity this is my territory."

As he spoke, he raised his hand and clapped twice—the sharp sound of his palms striking together echoed unnervingly in the silent room.

Sinclair’s lips curled slowly into a smirk. ——

In the grand hall of the royal palace.

"Fetch me a silver basin of water," Camilla withdrew her hand, her dark eyes gleaming with unconcealed frostiness.

Lucky frowned.

"A silver basin?

What for?"

Harvey remained silent, his face equally puzzled.

Camilla swept a cold glance over the medical staff standing nearby, her expression unreadable.

"Some things are best not discussed in front of so many people."

Lucky’s displeasure flickered across his face.

"These are all my students—completely trustworthy."

She trusted no one here.

Camilla turned to Harvey.

"What does the lord say?"