Rebirth Swapped Bride; Married to the Ruthless Cursed Billionaire-Chapter 260: Mr. Jonathan Luther’s Regret and an apologized to his son Sinclair Luther.

Chapter 260: Mr. Jonathan Luther’s Regret and an apologized to his son Sinclair Luther.

The Luther Family ancestral home.

Though the living room had been cleaned, the thick metallic scent of blood still lingered in the air.

Sinclair seemed oblivious to it.

His dark eyes were lowered, his sharp, chiseled profile exuding an air of detached indifference as he idly twirled a fruit knife between his long, elegant fingers.

The servants cleaning the room held their breaths, careful not to make a sound that might draw his attention.

Then— *Thud.

* *Thud.*

The staggering footsteps on the staircase grew louder.

Jonathan appeared before Sinclair, his gait unsteady.

Uncle Carlos, watching from the side, flashed a complicated look of understanding.

"Put everything down and follow me out," he instructed quietly, ushering all the staff out of the room.

Sinclair didn’t so much as glance up.

His handsome face remained impassive, as though no one had entered at all.

But upon closer inspection, one could discern a cold, mocking curve at the corners of his lips.

"Sinclair," Jonathan gazed at his son who had always filled him with both hatred and fear, his dim eyes brimming with unspoken complexity.

"Let’s talk."

"Talk?"

Sinclair lifted his eyes to meet Jonathan’s gaze, his strikingly handsome yet indifferent features laced with derision.

"What could we possibly have to talk about?"

His words, though casually spoken, dripped with icy detachment.

"Sinclair," Jonathan’s face grew even paler, his voice heavy with emotion.

"I came to apologize."

Apologize?

Sinclair leaned back against the sofa, his tall frame relaxed as he studied Jonathan, his thin lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile.

"This doesn’t seem like the posture of someone who’s truly sorry."

Though his tone was languid and casual, it carried an air of unshakable dominance.

Jonathan caught the underlying meaning in Sinclair’s words.

His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, as if struggling to contain some overwhelming emotion.

After a long pause, his knees suddenly buckled, and he dropped to the ground before Sinclair.

"Sinclair, all these years...

I was blind.

I failed you as a father..."

*I’m sorry.*

How easily those words slipped out.

Sinclair’s icy gaze swept over the kneeling man, his dark eyes brimming with bone-deep mockery and disdain.

He didn’t speak.

Those three words—*I’m sorry*—were the ones he despised most in this world.

Worthless.

Meaningless.

Nothing but empty comfort for the one who spoke them.

"That bitch Margaret and her bastard son—I killed them with my own hands," Jonathan sobbed, his face twisted with regret.

"I know I was wrong.

Please... forgive me."

"I don’t accept apologies in words," Sinclair said coldly, rising slowly from his seat.

He stepped around Jonathan, avoiding the direction of his kneeling figure, then looked down at him with frost in his eyes.

"If you want my forgiveness, it’s simple."

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the fruit knife onto the floor in front of Jonathan. His dark, narrowed eyes held nothing but merciless cold.

"End your life with this knife."

End his life?

Jonathan froze, his head jerking up as he stared at Sinclair in shock.

When his gaze met those icy, obsidian-like eyes devoid of all warmth, he felt as though he’d been plunged into an abyss of ice.

His pupils contracted in terror.

"Sinclair..."

Death had never crossed his mind before.

"Too scared to die?"

Sinclair’s voice dripped with cold mockery, unsurprised.

"So much for your so-called sincerity in apologizing."

With that, he turned on his heel, his long legs carrying him away.

"Wait, Sinclair" Jonathan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his voice hoarse and strained with desperation.

"I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight, but..."

A pleading note crept into his ragged tone.

"Could you at least let me visit your mother’s grave?"

"I want to apologize to your mother in person."

Jonathan’s hoarse voice carried a pleading tone.

Ever since Sinclair took over the Luther Family, he had moved his mother’s grave out of the Luther’s ancestral cemetery.

A separate memorial park was built by the seaside on the outskirts of the capital—accessible only to grandpa Luther and Sinclair himself.

As for Jonathan?

He wasn’t even allowed to approach it.

On top of that, Margaret had always stopped him from going, throwing fits each time he tried.

Over time, he had no choice but to give up, pushing the matter to the back of his mind.

But now, after everything that had happened, he found himself questioning everything around him.

And in his mind, that gentle, elegant face from his memories grew clearer and clearer.

Mother.

Just two simple words, yet they felt like thousands of needles piercing the deepest wounds in Sinclair’s heart.

The image of blood-soaked sheets flashed through his mind.

How dare Jonathan even make such a request?!

Sinclair halted in his tracks, his thin lips curling into a sinister smirk as his dark eyes brimmed with renewed menace.

"Fine."

He agreed just like that?

A flicker of surprised delight flashed in Jonathan’s eyes.

"Then I’ll go now—"

But before he could finish, a hand with distinct, knuckled fingers clamped around his throat like a vise.

"Ghk—!"

Jonathan felt the crushing force of Sinclair’s grip—strong enough to snap his neck in an instant.

"Sinclair... let go... have you lost your mind?!"

He clawed desperately at the hand, his entire body stiff with shock and disbelief, his blood running cold.

"You wanted to see her, didn’t you?"

Sinclair stared down at him, his handsome face twisted in a chilling smile, his eyes alight with murderous intent.

"Let me send you there myself."

His grip tightened further, the veins on the back of his hand bulging like ropes beneath his skin.

"You can say whatever you need to say to her face to face."

"Sin... Sinclair..."

Jonathan struggled violently, knocking over a teapot beside him.

The sharp shattering sound cuts through the vast living room like a blade.

"Help... help me..."

His face turned crimson as he gasped desperately for air, his mouth gaping like a fish out of water.

The smile on Sinclair’s lips grew even more chilling, his entire aura spiraling into something feral and uncontrollable.

"Oh no—!!"

Uncle Carlos rushed in at the commotion and froze at the sight before him, his breath hitching in horror.

He had seen the young master lose control before—had even witnessed him kill—but this was different.

If Mr. Jonathan died at his own son’s hands, not only would the old patriarch be devastated, but the entire capital would erupt in scandal.

"Mr. Sinclair!"

Uncle Carlos grabbed Sinclair’s arm, his voice low and urgent.

"Let go—now!!"

But Sinclair’s grip was like iron, unyielding, only tightening further.

"Get out of my way—"

The voice was icy and detached, exuding a deep-seated ferocity and gloom.

Uncle Carlos had watched Sinclair grow up, yet even he couldn’t help but shudder at the murderous aura radiating from Sinclair now.

Jonathan’s face had turned a sickly shade of purple, his eyes rolling back—clearly, he wouldn’t last much longer.

Panic surged through Uncle Carlos, and he was just about to rush out to call for help when Camilla’s voice suddenly rang out from the staircase.

"What’s going on here?"

Mrs. Luther!

At the sound of her voice, Uncle Carlos felt as though he’d glimpsed salvation.

"Mrs. Luther, Mr. Sinclair—he’s going to kill his father! Please, you have to stop him!"

Camilla took in the scene in the living room, her beautiful eyes flickering with alarm.

Without waiting for Uncle Carlos to finish, she dashed down the stairs.

She had no sympathy for Jonathan.

But Grandfather Luther’s health was still fragile—he couldn’t handle any shocks.

No matter what, Jonathan was still his’s only son.

"sweetheart"