Rebirth Swapped Bride; Married to the Ruthless Cursed Billionaire Chapter 336: Tiffany called Camilla to check up on her

Luther Family Manor.

Camilla, bored after waking up, idly flipped through a dical textbook. Suddenly, the tablet beside her buzzed to life.

The mont she saw the caller’s na, she set the book aside, her eyes lighting up with a smile as she answered.

"Fanny."

But Tiffany, her mind in turmoil and eager to confide in her best friend, instantly detected sothing off in Camilla’s voice.

"Camilla, what’s wrong?

Are you feeling unwell?

You sound so weak."

"Don’t worry, Fanny," Camilla knew her best friend was easily spooked, so she deliberately kept her tone light, flashing a reassuring smile.

"What could possibly happen to ?"

"Camilla!!"

Tiffany wasn’t fooled by her friend’s forced nonchalance.

Annoyed, she hung up the voice call without another word.

Staring at her now-silent phone, Camilla let out a soft, knowing chuckle, her delicate but pale face softening with affectionate exasperation.

"Three."

"Two."

"One."

Right on cue, her tablet buzzed to life again. The screen lit up with Tiffany’s na—this ti, a video call.

A smirk tugged at Camilla’s lips as she tapped "Accept."

Tiffany’s delicate, fair features imdiately filled the screen, her expressive eyes brimming with concern.

"Camilla,"

Her face was etched with palpable concern as she took in Camilla’s pale and weary appearance.

"You look absolutely drained," she said, her lips trembling as if she might burst into tears at any mont.

"What on earth happened?!"

After all, they were as close as family.

Tiffany’s genuine worry ward Camilla’s heart.

Camilla was about to downplay the situation to spare Tiffany any alarm, but before she could speak, Tiffany’s voice cut in.

"Camilla, you’re the only family I have in this world. Don’t you dare lie to ."

At that, Camilla had no choice but to briefly explain the ordeal of breaking the curse.

"A life-bound curse?!"

Tiffany’s delicate eyes widened in shock, her whole body tensing as if she could leap through the screen.

"Why didn’t you tell ?

I almost lost you without even knowing.

If anything had happened to you, what would I have done?"

Guilt washed over her—her dearest friend had faced life and death, and she’d been completely in the dark.

Her eyes welled up the mont she spoke.

"Stay right there. I’m coming to take care of you."

At this mont, Tiffany had no room in her mind for sentintal thoughts—her entire focus was on Camilla’s condition.

"No need," Camilla said softly, reluctant to trouble her dear friend.

"I’m fine now, Fanny."

"Camilla," Tiffany feigned a stern expression.

"Put yourself in my shoes—if it were in this situation, what would you do?"

That single remark left Camilla speechless.

She had to admit, if it were Fanny who was hurt, she’d do the exact sa thing.

Fine, she thought.

Let her co check on —otherwise, she’ll never rest easy.

"Alright, I’ll arrange for soone to pick you up."

"No, no need," Tiffany sniffled, already grabbing her jacket.

"I’ll drive myself."

"Then be careful on the road—take it slow."

"Don’t worry."

Camilla didn’t say anything more, leaning back against the pillow as she watched her busy friend on the screen, her gaze soft and tender.

Being cared for and rembered by soone was always a heartwarming feeling.

Sinclair reached the doorway just in ti to see Camilla speaking gently to soone, her expression warm.

His dark, narrow eyes flickered slightly, and his footsteps paused.

Sinclair didn’t make a sound, but his presence was too commanding to ignore.

Camilla’s eyes imdiately shifted toward him.

"Sweetheart—"

"Hmm."

Sinclair t his wife’s gaze, the coldness in his pitch-black eyes lting away entirely, his strikingly handso face softening with warmth.

"Tiffany?"

On the other end, Tiffany was rummaging through her things when Sinclair’s voice suddenly reached her ears, startling her.

"Camilla, I need to find my car keys—I’ll be there soon.

Gotta go!"

Before Camilla could respond, the call ended abruptly.

So people were born leaders, their re presence exuding an air of authority.

Sinclair was undoubtedly one of them.

If not for her best friend, Tiffany would never willingly face those piercing dark eyes that made her instantly question if she’d done sothing wrong.

The call ended abruptly, as expected.

Camilla stared at her phone screen, lips curling into a resigned smile.

She turned her luminous eyes toward her husband, her voice soft and teasing.

"What exactly did you do to Fanny and lissa?

Why are they so terrified of you?"

And why did their reactions mirror each other so perfectly?

"You’ll have to ask them that," Sinclair replied as he strode into the room.

The tailored black suit accentuated his tall, commanding fra, his every movent exuding an air of aristocratic elegance.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, settling behind her and pulling her into his arms, letting her lean against him instead of the pillow.

"Feeling any better?" Camilla nodded calmly.

Sinclair pressed his lips into a thin line, silent.

Ever since the life-binding curse had transferred to Camilla, he could faintly sense her suffering.

Her pain beca his agony, leaving him incapable of focusing on anything—or anyone—else.

It wasn’t heartache in the taphorical sense, but actual physical pain.

Of course, whether it was caused by the Twin Fate poison remained to be seen.

"It really does feel much better.

A few more applications of the ointnt should do the trick."

Not wanting to worry Sinclair, Camilla glanced at the ti.

"Sweetheart, could you pass the white porcelain bottle on the bedside table?"

The ointnt inside was one she had prepared earlier—highly effective for pain relief and scab formation.

Both she and Sinclair could use it now. "Alright."

Sinclair reached out with his long arm and picked up the white porcelain bottle, but instead of handing it to Camilla, he held onto it.

"Baby, let apply it for you, okay?"

A shadow flickered swiftly in the depths of his dark, ink-like eyes.

His slender, well-defined fingers toyed with the bottle in front of Camilla, the veins on the back of his hand standing out prominently.

Just looking at those hands made it impossible for her to refuse.

The veins on his hands were still refined—nothing like the terrifying sight elsewhere.

Realizing where her thoughts had wandered, a flash of panic crossed Camilla’s beautiful eyes, and she quickly reined in her mind.

"...Alright."

Sinclair gently laid Camilla on the bed, lifting her clothes to reveal the wound.

Due to its delicate location, the curve of her breast was partially exposed—an unintentionally alluring sight that sent his pulse racing.

His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly, his dark eyes deepening with restrained intensity.

But with his gaze lowered, Camilla failed to notice.

His long, pale fingers dipped into the porcelain jar, scooping out a asured amount of ointnt.

Sinclair ward it between his palms before applying it with painstaking care to the wound that had nearly shattered his heart.

His touch was deliberate, achingly slow, his fingertips tracing featherlight circles over the injured skin.

The soothing warmth of the salve, mingled with the heat of his touch, eased the lingering sting.

"Sweetheart,"

Camilla murmured, her lips curving into a soft smile.

"That’s enough."

"Alright," Sinclair replied, pausing his ministrations.

A flicker of reluctant amusent crossed his eyes—so fleeting it might have been imagined.

Whenever it ca to Camilla, his self-control crumbled like a boy’s.

"The wound on your chest is no less severe than mine,"

Camilla set aside her garnt and picked up the porcelain ointnt jar, her beautiful eyes lifting to et the man before her.

"Lie down.

Let tend to it for you."

"It’s fine," Sinclair didn’t want Camilla to see his injury.

Gently ruffling her hair, he softened his voice.

"I can manage on my own."

"No,"

Camilla stared at him, her delicate face etched with determination.

"Sweetheart, I insist."

Her wound had been treated by a skilled surgeon, but Sweetheart had haphazardly stitched his own.

Unless she examined it herself, she couldn’t rest easy.

If only she’d ask for sothing else instead—anything else.

Seeing her resolve, Sinclair exhaled in resignation.

It seed whenever Camilla set her mind to sothing, he simply couldn’t refuse.

"Alright."

"That’s more like it,"

Camilla’s smile returned as she pressed her hands against his chest, playfully trying to push him down.

Sinclair didn’t dare resist her effort, letting himself sink back under her touch.

Sensing he might change his mind and sit up, she swiftly straddled his waist, pinning him in place.

"Be careful, sweetheart,"

Sinclair murmured, his deep voice laced with both adoration and tension as his hands steadied her hips.

"Don’t worry,"

Camilla teased, gazing down at his strikingly handso face—restrained yet intense.

She blinked mischievously.

"My injury’s near my heart. Sitting like this won’t strain it."

Sinclair relented, his dark eyes fixed on his beloved wife with unwavering focus.

"Alright."

Her slender, pale fingers began working at the buttons of his charcoal-black shirt, the contrast stark against the fabric.

As each button slipped free, the playful curve of her lips faded, replaced by a quiet, icy stillness.

Sinclair’s brow furrowed.

Sinclair exhaled inwardly.

Just as he’d feared.

Camilla’s glistening eyes trembled slightly before narrowing with intensity.

Three wounds marred sweetheart’s chest—each deeper and more grueso than the last.

The sheer force behind them was unmistakable.

Yet apart from the first, she had no idea when the other two had been inflicted.

No wonder he’d made excuses whenever she’d asked to see the injuries.

Her eyes burned, tears spilling unchecked down her cheeks.

"When... when did these happen?"

Her voice was barely a whisper, raw with emotion.