Chapter 55: Is Miss Lawrence Pretty?

Later, her grandfather taught her many skills. Initially, she suspected it was a scam, but it proved genuine. Although Cheyenne started late, her talent and incredible memory allowed her to reach a level in a few years that others might not achieve in a lifetime. Layne regretted not finding her sooner.

Lost in thought, they arrived at the Todd mansion. Grandfather and granddaughter exchanged a glance, planning to collaborate later.

Iker's Estate: The exterior was European-style, with Gothic spires and clock towers, but the interior featured minimalist décor. Few servants were present, aside from the security guard at the door. Despite its size, the house felt cold and empty. To facilitate Iker's free movement, the doors lacked thresholds.

One of Iker's former subordinates, a young-looking butler named Tanner Mercado (around twenty-five or twenty-six, with a baby face and long eyelashes), served him. He spoke with the cheerful demeanor of an eighteen-year-old. He smiled sweetly at Cheyenne, revealing adorable dimples, and extended his hand. "Hello, Mr. Edwards and Miss Lawrence. I'm Tanner Mercado, the young master's steward. Please call me Tanner."

Intrigued, Cheyenne shook his hand. "Hi, Tanner! How old are you? You seem around my age."

Tanner's eyes widened in surprise. Blushing profusely, he quickly withdrew his hand. "Miss Lawrence, I'm twenty-five and have served in the army for ten years."

Cheyenne was astonished. Twenty-five, and ten years in the army?

A cold, clear voice, like melting snow, cut through the air. "He grew up in a temple and joined me at fifteen," Iker said.

Cheyenne turned, admiration shining in her eyes. Iker, she thought, was even more handsome than Kelvin; his life-threatening experiences had given him a tough, resilient aura. He was currently in a white bathrobe, his short, wet hair clinging to his ears, revealing a finely chiseled face. His slightly open collar displayed smooth bronze skin and well-defined muscles. How had he maintained such physique for three years, despite his disability? Cheyenne stared, openly admiring his chest.

Layne's face darkened. He discreetly stepped on Cheyenne's foot. She glared back, pouting. "Grandpa, why did you step on me?"

"Don't stare like that! You'll pop your eyeballs out!" Layne muttered, recalling his own youthful handsomeness, which he considered even greater than Iker's. (Of course, age and wrinkles had taken their toll.)

Iker noticed their exchange. He had already been displeased by Cheyenne's earlier stare. He disliked women, particularly those easily infatuated. Cheyenne's behavior disappointed him.

"Miss Lawrence, do you find me attractive?" he asked, his calm voice betraying a hint of anger.

Cheyenne, still admiring his physique, nodded. "Not bad, Master Iker. A standard model figure."

"How do you maintain your physique?" she inquired.

Exasperated, Iker regretted agreeing to her treatment. "Shut up! If you keep making noise, I'll throw you out!" His cold voice echoed, radiating an aura that silenced the room.

Cheyenne playfully mimicked zipping her mouth shut, then smiled. Her curved eyebrows made her look rather cute, Iker surprisingly thought, quickly dismissing the thought.

"I need to assess Master Iker's leg injury. Tanner, prepare a room," Layne ordered.

Tanner quickly returned. "Mr. Edwards, the room is ready."

The room was sparsely furnished: a double bed and a lamp. The black and white décor reflected Iker's personality. Iker expected Layne to treat him, but Layne instructed Cheyenne, "Cheyenne, examine Master Iker."

Iker frowned, unimpressed by Cheyenne's delicate appearance. She seemed incapable of saving lives.

Undeterred, Cheyenne donned white rubber gloves. Her slender fingers, strikingly elegant, rested on his bathrobe, the white of the robe contrasting subtly yet pleasingly with the off-white gloves.

A beautiful voice whispered, "Don't be nervous, Master Iker. If you knew I'm improvising, you'd be even more nervous! Hahaha."

Iker, gritting his teeth, stared at her stunning face. "What do you mean?"

"Just joking. Let's begin," she said, smiling as she started to unfasten his bathrobe.

A cool breeze swept by. Iker blushed, clenching his hands on his wheelchair armrests. He hadn't worn underwear, expecting Layne to treat him.

(The final sentence is unnecessary and repetitive given the context. I have omitted it.)