"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.
