Rebirth Swapped Bride; Married to the Ruthless Cursed Billionaire-Chapter 214: Boss Sinclair needs a blood transfusion

"Sir,"

The assistant cast a wary glance around before leaning in, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Our people just reported that several more doctors were escorted into the hotel through the back entrance."

His eyes narrowed slightly as he murmured,

"Do we keep waiting, or...?"

Yoland swirled the long-cold tea in his cup, his narrowed gaze sharpening with each passing second.

"Has everyone our guest upstairs requested arrived yet?"

The assistant nodded.

"They got here just an hour ago."

"This was President Luther’s explicit order," Yoland set down the teacup, his eyes darkening with unreadable intent.

"No matter what, we should inform President Luther of this first."

Rising from his seat, he strode toward the elevators.

Meanwhile, inside the room...

Sinclair’s dark, narrow eyes remained fixed on the surveillance screen, his gaze filled with an intensity of love that seemed almost tangible as he watched the slender figure moving across the display.

"President Luther," Gerald entered the room once more, his voice steady.

"Yoland has entered the elevator."

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk curled at the corner of Sinclair’s lips as he idly twisted the enigmatic ring on his index finger.

"Take him to the adjacent room."

Gerald took one look at the icy indifference etched across his boss’s strikingly handsome face and immediately understood.

"Understood!"

The moment Yoland stepped out of the elevator, he sensed something was off. The entire corridor was lined with stone-faced mercenaries, their expressions unreadable yet undeniably tense.

His eyes flickered briefly with something unreadable before he schooled his features.

Gerald approached, his gaze openly wary as he scrutinized Yoland.

"Mr. Luther what brings you here?

Why come up unannounced?"

"Urgent business,"

Yoland replied, masking the curiosity in his eyes with a convincingly troubled frown.

His voice carried just the right note of urgency.

"I must report to President Luther immediately."

With that, he made the stride toward Sinclair’s private quarters.

"President Luther is still resting," Gerald blocked Yoland’s path, his eyes darkening with gravity.

"If it’s urgent, you can tell me first. I’ll relay the message when he wakes."

Resting?

Everyone in the Luther Family knew Sinclair ran with machine-like precision.

There was no way he’d still be asleep at this hour.

A calculating gleam flickered in Yoland’s eyes, confirming his suspicions.

Noting Yoland’s silence, Gerald frowned.

"Mr. Luther?"

"You’ll relay my message?"

Yoland snapped out of his thoughts, his face twisting with displeasure as he glared at Gerald.

"This is internal Luther Family business. You have no right to know."

His voice turned icy as he stepped forward, determined to push past.

"I need to see President Luther right this instant!"

"Sorry," Gerald took another step forward, blocking Yoland’s path with unyielding resolve.

"No one goes in without President Luther’s permission."

"Get out of my way!"

Yoland’s temple throbbed visibly as he glared at Gerald, his eyes sharp as daggers.

"If this delays something critical, can you even shoulder the responsibility?"

He shoved Gerald, but the man didn’t budge an inch.

Yoland’s brows knitted tightly as he snapped,

"If President Luther has any complaints, I’ll take the blame."

"Sorry," Gerald stood firm, his towering frame immovable, his expression colder and more rigid than before.

"No one goes in without President Luther’s permission."

The words were identical, but his tone was steelier now.

"You—"

After all, Yoland was still a member of the Luther Family.

Everywhere he went, people would fawn over him with flattery.

Though he didn’t dare say a word in front of Sinclair, Gerald was a different story.

"Ungrateful bastard!"

With a furious glare, he raised his hand to strike Gerald.

But Gerald didn’t flinch.

In one swift motion, he caught Yoland’s wrist in an iron grip.

"Tsk—"

The searing pain in his wrist forced Yoland to suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

"Sir!"

His assistant paled and immediately rushed forward, grabbing Gerald’s arm in a desperate attempt to pull him away.

"Are you insane?

Let’s go now!"

But Gerald’s grip was like an iron vise—unyielding, immovable.

As the initial shock of pain subsided, Yoland’s eyes darkened with venom.

He glared at Gerald, teeth grinding.

"You reckless bastard.

How dare you lay hands on me?"

"My apologies, Mr. Luther," Gerald replied flatly, finally releasing his wrist.

"I was merely acting in self-defense."

Yoland massaged his swollen wrist, fury boiling up his throat— Just then, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall.

"Boss," A mercenary strode over with a grim expression.

"Something terrible has—"

The words died on his lips the moment he spotted Yoland.

Instead, he hurried to Gerald’s side and whispered something urgently.

"What?!"

Gerald’s face paled.

Without another word, he spun on his heel and rushed toward the room where Sinclair was staying—so abruptly that he didn’t even spare Yoland a second glance.

"Sir,"

The assistant glanced at the mercenaries lining the hallway and lowered his voice.

"What should we do now?"

Yoland’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight with barely contained fury as he stared in the direction Gerald had gone.

"Let’s see for ourselves."

He needed to witness Sinclair’s condition firsthand—only then could he decide his next move.

Fortunately, the mercenaries didn’t stop him this time.

The moment he reached the entrance of the presidential suite, the metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air.

"How could this happen?"

Gerald’s voice, laced with suppressed urgency, came through in broken fragments from inside.

"If you can’t cure him, none of you are leaving this hotel... by any means necessary!"

Yoland’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Yes, yes, we’ll do our best!"

Soon after, several men in scrubs hurried in and out, carrying blood-soaked gauze and various medical instruments.

It was true—Sinclair really was gravely injured!

Yoland’s pupils constricted briefly before returning to normal, his expression darkening with unreadable thoughts.

Just then, Gerald stepped out of the room.

"Mr. Luther, you’re blood type O, correct?"

"That’s right,"

Yoland answered reflexively, caught off guard.

"Why?"

"We need to borrow some of your blood."

With a slight tilt of his head, Gerald signaled to the two mercenaries beside him.

"Take Mr. Luther to the next room."

"Yes, sir!"

The two mercenaries immediately stepped forward, grabbing Yoland by both arms before he could react, and dragged him toward the adjacent room.

"Let me go! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!"

Yoland’s protests were cut short as he was shoved inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

"Y-you—what are you going to do to him?"

The assistant, left standing in place, had gone deathly pale, clearly shaken to the core.

"Don’t forget where you are.

If anything happens to him, you’ll be in deep trouble."

"Oh, really?"

Gerald smirked, his lips curling into a cold, knowing sneer.

"Who’ll be in trouble—that’s still up for debate."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode back into the room behind him.

The assistant remained frozen, anxiety twisting his features as he frantically tried to figure out what to do.

Meanwhile, in the next room...

Yoland was forced into a chair by the two mercenaries.

A man dressed as a doctor swiftly inserted a needle into the vein at his elbow and began drawing blood.

Watching the marked blood bag steadily fill, Yoland’s eyes widened in disbelief.

They were treating him like livestock!