"Will it be dangerous?"
Camilla understood Sinclair's implication.
She nodded, her luminous eyes locking onto his.
"Don't lie to me."
"I won't," Sinclair replied, his expression tender though the sharp edges of his features remained undiminished.
"With you here, I wouldn't dare throw myself into harm's way."
"And the baby," Camilla pressed, placing Sinclair's slender, pale hand against her abdomen, her tone solemn.
"Don't you dare lie to us."
"Never," Sinclair murmured, his touch gentle as he caressed the warmth beneath his palm, his striking features softening further.
"Not ever."
"That's more like it," Camilla finally relented, leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips.
Sinclair held Camilla in his embrace a while longer before finally leaving with Ramsey.
Camilla waited until Sinclair's car had disappeared into the distance before heading to the backyard, where she found Grandpa chatting with Uncle Carlos.
She joined their casual conversation for a bit before her phone rang.
After taking the call, she announced that she needed to visit the Mega residence—specifically, where Stephen was staying.
His legs still required ongoing acupuncture treatment.
Grandpa, intrigued by the case and Camilla's current techniques, decided to accompany her.
Camilla was more than happy to have him along—not only would it keep him entertained, but she might also benefit from his wisdom.
Perhaps he could suggest a more effective or faster treatment method.
Luke discreetly arranged for a team to escort Grandpa and Camilla to the Mega residence.
At the edge of the City,
Inside a presidential suite of a luxurious seaside hotel, floor-to-ceiling windows framed an endless expanse of deep blue ocean.
Sunlight glinted off the water, casting a shimmering halo that enhanced the breathtaking grandeur of the view.
Anyone who witnessed this scene would instantly understand why this hotel was considered the epitome of luxury.
By the floor-to-ceiling window stood a man in a tailored dark suit, exuding an air of aristocratic elegance.
Between his slender fingers, a cigar burned steadily, its pale smoke curling from his lips before dissipating into the air like delicate silk threads.
The haze veiled his striking features—sharp, almost sculpted—casting a faint, ethereal glow over his face.
His deep, fathomless eyes gazed down at the world beyond the glass, though whether he was truly admiring the view or lost in thought was impossible to tell.
An icy aura radiated from him, so suffocating it seemed to freeze the very air around him.
"Ah—!"
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the room, mingling with the rhythmic crash of waves outside, forming a grotesque yet strangely harmonious symphony.
Sinclair's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile—so subtle it might have been imagined—as if the sound pleased him.
"Last chance," Ramsey growled in fluent English, his voice tight with controlled fury. Calvin drove his fist into the man's abdomen with brutal force.
"Where is Harrison?"
This man was one of the tails they'd caught shadowing Sinclair—snared in a carefully laid trap.
As for the bulk of the forces sent by the Harrison and Alger families, they were still lurking around the estate Sinclair had originally prepared for his wife, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
The captive coughed violently, blood frothing at his lips, his face twisted in agony.
"I told you, I don't understand what you're saying.
I know nothing..."
Ramsey caught the fleeting flicker of evasion in the man's eyes and knew he was deliberately hiding something.
A cold smirk curled his lips.
"In that case, you're of no use to me."
With a sharp kick, he sent the man sprawling to the ground, then planted his foot heavily on the man's throat.
His handsome face remained expressionless, but the pressure beneath his boot steadily increased.
"Ghk... ghk..."
The man instantly felt the crushing grip of suffocation.
His hands clawed desperately at Ramsey's leg, trying to wrench it away, but it was futile.
Soon, his grip slackened, and his body went limp, all resistance gone.
"Drag him away," Ramsey said coldly, withdrawing his foot.
"Bring me another."
Sinclair refused to believe he couldn't pry the truth from these men.
Two mercenaries stepped forward immediately, each moving with purpose.
One hauled the lifeless body away like discarded trash, while the other dragged in a young man with deep brown hair and a fresh scar across the bridge of his nose.
Just as Ramsey was about to begin the interrogation, the man's icy, detached voice cut through the air.
"Too slow."
Sinclair didn't turn around. His narrow, profound eyes remained fixed on the boundless sea outside the window as he spoke in an indifferent tone.
"Throw them all into the ocean as bait.
Fish them out only when they talk."
His strikingly handsome face, bathed in sunlight, looked almost divine—yet his words sent chills down the spine, as if plunging listeners straight into hell.
Bait?
What did that mean?
The remaining men exchanged terrified glances, confusion mixing with their fear.
"Understood, Mr. Luther," Ramsey glanced at the fathomless sea outside and immediately grasped Sinclair's meaning.
He turned to the mercenaries behind him.
"Bring them all. Follow me."
"Yes, sir!"
The mercenaries hauled the bound men away.
Soon, two eight-meter-long speedboats raced from the hotel's shoreline toward the open sea.
The bound men aboard assumed they were being drowned—terrified of death, yet feeling a twisted sense of relief.
But what happened next defied all expectations.
Ramsey didn't take that approach.
Instead, he ordered the mercenaries to carve multiple wounds into their arms and legs before throwing them into the sea.
The moment saltwater hit their wounds, the men howled in agony.
Their only lifeline was the ropes binding their wrists to the speedboat.
To keep their heads above water and breathe, they had to thrash their legs relentlessly.
Blood seeped from their injuries into the ocean, quickly attracting schools of fish.
One of the captives suddenly realized what was happening.
His face twisted with fury as he glared at Ramsey and spat,
"Shit!
Fuck you—"
Before he could finish, one of the mercenaries fired a silenced shot, blasting through his shoulder. His scream turned into a shriller, more harrowing wail.
Blood gushed from the bullet wound, flowing faster into the water.
The man beside him widened his eyes in terror, lips trembling as if to speak.
Another shot shattered his shoulder blade, and his screams intensified.
Soon, a vast, indistinct shadow loomed beneath them, drifting into view.
"It's here," Ramsey said coldly.
"Your chances are running out. If you won't talk, then stay here and be fish bait."
Death itself might not be terrifying—but knowing it's coming and waiting for it?
That's pure horror.
As the shadow beneath the water drew closer, the last shreds of composure among the soaked E-country men dissolved.
Some had already begun to plead for mercy. Ramsey remained unmoved.
"Agh—!"
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air as the man at the edge was suddenly seized by the shadowy figure below.
Razor-sharp teeth clamped onto his leg, dragging him into the abyss.
A crimson bloom of blood surged to the surface before dispersing into the dark waters.
Finally, one of them snapped.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!
I know where Harrison is—just pull me up, please—!"
"Should've spoken sooner," Ramsey sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.
"Help him up."
From the room above, Sinclair observed the scene through a telescope, the faintest smirk curling at the corner of his lips.