Rebirth Swapped Bride; Married to the Ruthless Cursed Billionaire-Chapter 217: I will Kill you for lying to me

"No blood relation?!"

"Oh my god, Tyler isn’t actually a Luther by blood?!"

"Jonathan was tricked into raising another man’s son all these years?"

"Margaret has had some nerve, cuckolding the Luther Family for decades."

"But looking at Tyler and the current head of the Luther Family, there’s still some resemblance.

Could there be a mistake?"

Those standing close enough to read the paternity report erupted into shocked murmurs.

Soon, the entire room buzzed with hushed but fervent discussions.

Not even the presence of grandpa Porter could quell the uproar.

Tyler stared at the document in his hands, his entire body frozen as if struck by lightning.

His mind raced, piecing together fragments of the past.

"Tyler, only by mimicking that bastard Sinclair can you win grandpa’s favor."

"Tyler, the resemblance around your eyes isn’t close enough.

You’ll need more adjustments."

"Tyler, practice imitating Sinclair’s mannerisms.

That’s the only way the Luther Family will ever take notice of you."

During all those years abroad, his mother had insisted he undergo plastic surgery to mimic Sinclair’s features and practice imitating his mannerisms.

Not to win his grandfather’s favor, but to keep the lie from unraveling? But if he wasn’t Jonathan’s son, then whose child was he?!

Sandra’s face darkened with fury.

Her gaze toward Tyler was filled with utter disdain and revulsion.

A knockoff had been bad enough—now it turned out he was a complete fake.

Her reputation, her dignity, had been dragged through the mud.

And she wasn’t the only one humiliated.

Grandpa Porter’s expression shifted from pale to livid.

First, Sandra’s scandalous video, and now this farce.

Today’s engagement banquet was utterly ruined. As for who was behind it all...

His gaze slowly turned toward Camilla.

The cold, piercing intensity in his eyes sent chills down the spine.

I’d been so focused on the Luther Family’s grandfather and grandson pair that I’d underestimated this woman.

Camilla met grandpa Porter’s gaze with a cool detachment, the faint curve of her lips tinged with icy mockery.

When it came to vengeance, she always settled her scores.

As for the Porter family’s reputation?

That was hardly her concern.

"Jonathan, listen to me—

Ah!!"

Another sharp cry tore from Margaret’s lips as Jonathan’s palm struck her face again.

The wounds on her arms had long since reopened, fresh blood seeping through the bandages.

Her once meticulously maintained face was now swollen and disfigured.

Jonathan’s eyes burned crimson as he yanked her arm, delivering another brutal slap.

"I’ll beat you to death, you vile woman!"

Margaret’s hair and clothes were in complete disarray, a trail of bright red blood trickling from the corner of her mouth—utterly humiliated.

The onlookers watched in shock, yet none could blame him.

After all, no one could endure such a betrayal.

The scene descended into chaos. Good.

The messier, the better.

Camilla swirled the wine glass in her hand, her crimson lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile.

Meanwhile.

"What?!"

"Sinclair is here?!"

Yoland jolted upright from the couch as if electrocuted.

The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness through him, and he stumbled forward uncontrollably.

With a loud thud, he found himself kneeling at Sinclair’s feet.

Gerald’s lips twitched in silent amusement. That was impressively quick.

Sinclair looked down at the groveling man, his gaze as frigid as a winter storm.

"What’s this performance for?"

That voice—the one that haunted Yoland’s nightmares—sent a violent shudder down his spine, chilling him to the core.

Trembling, he looked up.

There stood Sinclair, though his normally flawless face looked noticeably paler than usual.

"Boss... you’re... you’re alright?"

"What is it?"

Sinclair’s lips curved slightly, his dark eyes unfathomable.

"Should there be something wrong with me?"

His voice was cool and composed, betraying no hint of his true emotions.

"N-No, of course not!"

Yoland’s heart pounded in terror, his back drenched in cold sweat.

"I just thought... since I rested until now, I was worried you might find anything... inconvenient."

"Weren’t you waiting for me to dine?"

Sinclair’s narrow, ink-black eyes were bottomless, the ferocity in their depths growing more pronounced, though his expression remained as indifferent as ever.

"Let’s go."

With that, he strode out of the room.

"Y-Yes, of course!"

Yoland nodded repeatedly, forcing his trembling legs to support him as he scrambled to his feet and trailed behind Sinclair.

He noticed that although Sinclair’s steps were as steady as ever, his pace was noticeably slower than usual.

His lowered eyes narrowed slightly, deep in thought.

"Is he really injured?"

A glint of curiosity flickered deep in Yoland’s eyes.

Then, suddenly, his foot twisted, and his entire body lurched toward Sinclair.

Caught off guard, Sinclair took the full impact, staggering backward several steps.

He clutched his abdomen, letting out a tightly suppressed groan.

"President Luther!!"

Gerald, visibly alarmed, rushed to Sinclair’s side.

"Are you all right? Should I call a doctor—"

"I’m fine." Sinclair cut him off, his sharp, dark eyes fixed on Yoland with unmistakable accusations.

The weight of his gaze was suffocating.

"I’m so sorry, President Luther, I—I didn’t mean to,"

Yoland stammered under that piercing stare, bowing repeatedly under the crushing pressure.

"I lost too much blood earlier—I’m still weak.

That’s why I stumbled into you.

Please forgive me."

"If you can’t stand steady—" Sinclair’s thin lips parted slightly.

"Those legs of yours aren’t worth keeping."

"Yes, yes!" Yoland bowed repeatedly, his head bobbing like a chicken pecking at rice.

Sinclair didn’t respond, turning instead to continue his exit.

Only now, his footsteps dragged noticeably slower than before.

Gerald shadowed him closely, every tense line of his body betraying his nervousness despite his professional demeanor.

Watching their retreating figures, Yoland’s eyes became unreadable pools of calculation while a slow, satisfied smile curled his lips.

So it’s all just a front. This... simplifies matters considerably.

"Contact the capital," he murmured to the assistant who’d materialized at his elbow, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I accept their proposal.

The operation may commence."

Meanwhile, in a hotel lobby somewhere in San Francisco...

"Jonathan!"

Grandpa Porter’s voice boomed through the room, sharp with authority.

"Stop this at once!"

But Jonathan was beyond reason, deaf to any command.

His fists and feet rained down mercilessly on Margaret, who lay curled on the floor, her body trembling as she clutched her head in agony.

"You filthy wretch—I’ll kill you!"

Her cries of pain filled the air, raw and desperate.

"What are you all standing around for?!"

Grandpa Porter’s chest heaved with fury as he turned his blazing glare on Bryan and Mr. Porter beside him.

"Pull them apart now! How much longer do you intend to let this disgrace go on?!"

"Yes, sir!"

Snapping into action, Bryan and Mr. Porter rushed forward with their men.

Nearby, Samson stood frozen, his face drained of color.

*It’s over.

Everything’s ruined.*

Had he known things would spiral this far out of control, he wouldn’t have dared take on this task even if offered eight lifetimes of courage.

His gaze flickered toward Camilla, suspicion gnawing at him.

*She agreed so easily back then... Did she know this would happen?*

If so, the thought chilled him to the bone.

As Jonathan was forcibly dragged away by Mr. Porter and Bryan, Margaret—bruised and battered—was helped to her feet and led out of sight, leaving behind only the echoes of chaos.