Inside the hospital room.
Camilla prepared her silver needles and reached out to unbutton Sinclair's shirt.
With each undone button, his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and sculpted abs gradually came into view—perfectly defined, every muscle etched with precision.
Yet Camilla had no mind to admire her husband's flawless physique.
Her gaze locked onto the vicious knife wound just below the left side of his abdomen.
How could he have been hurt this badly in just one day?
Her delicate face, usually so gentle, was now shadowed with heartache and an icy, barely restrained fury.
Whoever had done this—she would make sure they paid.
Retrieving antiseptic powder and gauze from the medical kit, she carefully dressed Sinclair's wound before turning her full attention to the acupuncture.
Her expression was solemn, her movements deliberate. What she hadn't told Gerald was this: His pulse was erratic, his nerves strained to the breaking point.
