"President Mega, your endurance is impressive," Camilla remarked, her hands never pausing in their meticulous work.
"The most critical part is next—please keep it up."
Judging by Madam Luther's tone, the previous pain had merely been an appetizer?
The butler's brow twitched, his expression laced with concern as he watched Stephen.
Beads of sweat dotted Stephen's pallid face, his lips pressed into a tight line as he gave a stiff nod, brows furrowed deeply.
Stephen was no stranger to pain.
In fact, quite the opposite. From childhood, his tolerance for pain had far surpassed that of ordinary people—a testament to his inherently restrained disposition.
But the sharp, searing agony radiating through his leg now was nothing like the superficial wounds he had endured before.
Meanwhile, Sinclair lounged in his chair, long legs crossed at the ankles.
His slender fingers idly toyed with the obsidian ring on his hand, his strikingly handsome face an impassive mask.
