Rebirth Swapped Bride; Married to the Ruthless Cursed Billionaire
Chapter 79: Micheal is back

Chapter 79: Micheal is back

"You flatter me, Mr. Micheal," Uncle Carlos had already regained his composure, bowing slightly as he stepped aside.

"Mr. Micheal, grandpa is waiting in the drawing room.

Please, this way."

"Mm," A faint smirk tugged at Calvin’s lips as he gave a slight nod.

"Uncle Carlos, lead the way."

Since he was the one who brought Micheal in, he had every intention of seeing this through.

It would be best if Micheal was genuinely here to apologize.

If not—he’d be the first to make sure the man regretted it.

*Mr. Micheal,*

*Mr. Calvin,*

The Luther Family still clung to their rigid hierarchy, drawing clear lines between insiders and outsiders.

Micheal’s smile remained unchanged, but a shadow flickered deep in his eyes.

With Uncle Carlos guiding them, the group made their way toward the drawing room.

Several servants watched the retreating figures and began whispering among themselves.

"Who’s that man in the wheelchair?"

"No idea. I’ve worked here for years, and this is the first time I’ve seen him." "Handsome, though. What a shame—disabled at such a young age."

Those who knew Micheal’s true identity kept their heads down, too afraid to utter a word.

Meanwhile, in the dining room of the Luther Estate... Sinclair cradled Camilla in his arms as they ate in comfortable silence, the air between them thick with sweetness.

The staff had long grown accustomed to such saccharine scenes.

"Sir, Madam," Aunt Naomi announced cheerfully as she entered.

"Mr. Taylor is here."

At this hour?

What could he possibly want?

Sinclair’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, though his hands never paused in their steady rhythm.

"Let him in." She pushed away the spoon Sinclair had held to her lips, squirming to get free. "Sweetheart, let me down."

"Not a chance."

Sinclair’s arm around her waist didn’t loosen—if anything, it tightened.

"Be good and eat."

He saw no issue with feeding his own wife in his own home.

"Sweetheart!!"

Camilla couldn’t match his composure, her cheeks flushing pink.

"If you don’t eat..." Sinclair brought the spoon back to her lips, his dark eyes lowering meaningfully to linger on her soft, rosy mouth.

"...I won’t mind finding another way to feed you."

Camilla knew exactly what "another way" meant.

"How could you do this?!!"

Her beautiful eyes flashed with indignation as she shot Sinclair a glare, but in the end, she had no choice but to obediently open her mouth.

"Ahem... ahem..."

Taylor walked in just in time to witness the scene.

He raised a fist to his lips, coughing lightly to mask his amusement.

"Seems like I came at the wrong moment."

Who would have thought that Sinclair—the man who could make the entire capital tremble with just a stomp of his foot—would ever be seen like this?

At Taylor’s teasing, Camilla’s face flushed even redder.

Her fingers secretly pinched the man’s waist—though, of course, she couldn’t bring herself to do it too hard.

Sinclair’s expression remained unreadable as he curved his lips slightly.

"Wrong moment or not, you’re already here," he said, turning his gaze toward his friend, his voice calm and warm.

"Go on, what’s the matter?"

Taylor didn’t rush to answer. Instead, his dark eyes flickered gently toward Camilla.

Though she didn’t catch his glance, Camilla sensed that some matters required her absence.

"Sweetheart, I..."

Before she could finish, she was interrupted.

Sinclair pushed the bowl of warm milk with peach gum toward Camilla.

"Drink it all, sweetheart."

Taylor, ever perceptive, immediately understood Sinclair’s unspoken message.

"Micheal is back."

Micheal.

Sinclair’s expression remained eerily composed.

Yet in the depths of his dark, narrowed eyes, a storm of suffocating menace and icy ruthlessness swirled.

Daring to return?

Clearly, the lesson from five years ago hadn’t been harsh enough.

Micheal?

Noticing Sinclair’s displeasure, Camilla’s fair brows knitted together.

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place the face that belonged to it.

Clearly, in her past life, their paths had barely crossed.

Camilla sighed inwardly for what felt like the ten-thousandth time.

She had no one to blame but herself—back then, she’d been too wrapped up in her own world.

She’d paid far too little attention to the events unfolding around Sinclair! "

Micheal sought out Calvin yesterday,"

Taylor relayed the details concisely, his tone calm and composed.

"By now, they’ve probably already arrived at your grandpa’s mansion."

He glanced at his watch before continuing gently, "Calvin was worried you’d be upset, so he asked me to come in person."

The old mansion?

Grandpa Luther?

Camilla narrowed her beautiful eyes as a sudden realization flashed through her mind.

That’s right—she remembered now!!

In her past life, while accompanying Grandpa Luther at the old family estate, she had overheard him mention that name casually in conversation with Uncle Carlos.

But when she pressed for details, Grandpa Luther had deftly changed the subject without revealing anything.

However, that happened two years later.

Before this moment, she had no recollection of this man named Micheal ever appearing. Camilla lowered her gaze.

It seemed her rebirth had already set off a butterfly effect.

Many things were changing without her even realizing it.

"We’ll settle accounts with Calvin later," Sinclair pulled out his phone, his strikingly handsome face dark with cold fury.

"Ramsey, prepare the car."

Above Camilla’s line of sight, his deep, obsidian eyes hardened into a bloodthirsty abyss.

"I’ll go with you," Taylor said calmly.

"Count me in too," Camilla raised her head, her eyes meeting Sinclair’s.

"Sweetheart, I’m coming with you."

She could sense the intense loathing Sinclair harbored for this man named Micheal.

People who could evoke any strong emotion from Sinclair were rare—even if it was hatred.

That was precisely why she needed to understand the situation.

Taylor averted his gaze, taking a slow sip from his teacup.

He was certain Sinclair wouldn’t agree with Camilla’s request.

After all, the matter involving Micheal carried certain... unsavory implications.

But when Sinclair looked down at Camilla, the storm in his eyes softened slightly.

"Alright."

So, he had underestimated just how much Sinclair doted on her.

Taylor’s hand paused mid-air, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

Love and marriage—those were two things he’d likely never experience in this lifetime.

Still, watching others navigate them was rather entertaining.

At that moment, Ramsey strode in briskly. "President Luther, the car is ready."

"Hmm."

Sinclair, holding Camilla in his arms, was about to stand up.

"Wait—" With Taylor present, Camilla absolutely refused to let Sinclair carry her to the car.

"I can walk on my own."

As she spoke, she swiftly wriggled free from the man’s embrace.

The sudden emptiness in his arms made Sinclair’s already icy eyes turn even colder.

The surrounding air seemed to grow heavy with tension.

Camilla slipped her hand into Sinclair’s long, powerful fingers, intertwining them with hers, and said softly,

"Sweetheart, let’s go."

The warmth from her palm seeped into his. Sinclair said nothing, but the furrow between his brows eased slightly as he led Camilla out.

"Ramsey," Taylor set his teacup down on the table with a clink, his lips curling into a teasing smile as he regarded Ramsey.

"Your Luther Family really needs to change this tea—it’s cloyingly sweet."

"Too sweet?"

Ramsey feigned ignorance, his expression the picture of earnestness.

"I’ve gotten used to it. Doesn’t taste that way to me."

The ancestral home of the Luther Family.

"Grandpa..." Micheal’s voice trailed off as soon as the words left his lips.

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Grandpa Luther," he corrected, his dark eyes brimming with quiet concern.

"It’s been five years.

How have you been?"

Grandpa Luther studied him, his aged yet piercing gaze layered with unreadable emotions.

"Why did you come back?"

Micheal had spent over a decade under the Luther Family’s roof, raised under the old man’s very eyes.

To say there was no affection between them would be a lie.

Yet even in matters of the heart, there are degrees of closeness and distance.

He absolutely could not tolerate Micheal doing anything to harm Sinclair.

"Today is your seventieth birthday.

I made it back just in time to present the gift I prepared long ago for you."

A faint smile never left Micheal’s lips.

"After all, without you, I wouldn’t be where I am today."

He tilted his head slightly. "Uncle Joe."

"Yes."

Uncle Joe stepped forward, carefully holding an intricately carved long box in both hands as he presented it to Grandpa Luther.

The old man studied Micheal for a long moment before speaking slowly.

"Uncle Carlos, accept it."

Uncle Carlos immediately understood, taking the box from Uncle Joe’s hands.

He then opened it to reveal the contents—an authentic calligraphy piece by Marsha.

Grandpa Luther had always adored calligraphy, especially the running script style.

He was particularly well-versed in the works of Marsha.

Naturally, he recognized the value of this gift at a glance.

Witnessing this, Calvin, who had remained silent and observant until now, arched an eyebrow.

His narrow, peach-blossom eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at Micheal with an inscrutable, half-smiling expression.

"Taylor was right," he remarked.

"Micheal truly has a knack for reading people."

Had it not been for the incident five years ago, Micheal might very well have become the second most influential figure in the Luther Family, right after Sinclair.

But alas, a mistake was a mistake.

In this world, there was never an option for "what if."

Calvin averted his gaze.

"I appreciate the sentiment,"

Grandpa Luther said gravely, his eyes fixed on Micheal.

"Now leave.

And don’t ever set foot in the Luther household again."

It was a final warning to Micheal. And, of course, his only chance.

"Grandpa," Micheal began— Michael strained his arms, struggling to lift his frail body from the wheelchair with visible effort.

"I didn’t come back this time just to leave again."

"Sir—" Uncle Joe stepped forward to assist.

"Don’t touch me," Michael snapped in a low, warning tone.

Uncle Joe immediately halted, hesitating.

"Grandpa..."

With a thud, Michael collapsed from the wheelchair, landing on his knees before grandpa Luther Beads of sweat glistened on his pale yet strikingly handsome face.

"What happened five years ago... was my fault."

His voice was hoarse, but his posture remained rigidly upright despite the pain.

"I failed the Luther Family’s kindness in raising me.

I failed your guidance.

And most of all, I betrayed Sinclair’s trust."

A bitter smile twisted his lips as he paused, the weight of his regret thickening the air.

"Every single day these past five years, I’ve drowned in remorse.

If I don’t apologize to you and Sinclair in person...

I’ll never find peace, even in death."

Grandpa Luther’s expression darkened, his piercing gaze scrutinizing Michael like a blade cutting through pretense.

The silence between them was heavy, charged with unspoken judgment.

Just as he was about to speak, a cold, low voice cut through the air from outside the door. "Apologies won’t cut it."

Sinclair’s flawlessly handsome face remained impassive, his narrow, dark eyes glinting with an icy intensity that could freeze the soul.

"Only death will suffice." *

So, he’s finally here.*

Micheal gazed at Sinclair, the corners of his lips curling into an inscrutable smile.

Camilla narrowed her beautiful eyes, studying the sickly young man kneeling on the floor.

A strange unease flickered in her chest.

She stood right beside Sinclair, yet this man named Micheal acted as though she were invisible.

His attention was fixed solely on Sinclair.

"Sinclair," Micheal spoke slowly, the faintest trace of madness flashing behind the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses.

"At last... we meet again."

"Didn’t you say you wanted to apologize?"

Sinclair lifted his foot and kicked Micheal onto his back, then pressed his polished shoe against the man’s chest, looking down at him with cold disdain.

"Then die."

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