Chapter 483: Medical Miracle

Chapter 483: Medical Miracle

Charles lifted his hand slightly. Nathan brought the microphone to his lips.

"I'm grateful. Grateful for Dr. Diaz's life-saving work, grateful for Prince Miguel's unwavering support, and grateful to everyone who's shown concern." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the cameras before finally settling on Anouk. "Especially Ms. Montgomery, who's been caring for me around the clock these past few days. Without her, I wouldn't have made it this far."

Tears flooded Anouk's eyes instantly. She covered her mouth, shaking her head vigorously—a gesture the cameras faithfully captured, destined to become tomorrow's most moving front-page image.

Charles withdrew his gaze and turned toward Miguel, his voice strengthening slightly. "Your Highness, the Windsor family will never forget this debt. Should you ever need our support, the Windsor Group will stand behind you without hesitation."

A flash of satisfaction flickered in Miguel's eyes. The bond between Anouk and Charles seemed genuine—perhaps he could leverage this connection to his advantage. He leaned forward, patting Charles's shoulder. "Rest well. Your recovery is all the support I need. Going forward, let Ms. Montgomery oversee your continued treatment."

The press conference lasted only twenty minutes before Charles was wheeled back to the main building. But those twenty minutes were more than enough.

That evening, every news headline carried the same story:

Medical Miracle! Antibody Developed Under Prince Miguel's Support Successfully Cures First Critical Patient!

Charles Makes Public Appearance to Thank Prince Miguel—Windsor Group Poised to Become Miguel's Biggest Campaign Asset

Poll Reversal: Miguel's Approval Rating Surges 15 Points Overnight, Ace's Lead Evaporates

Across social media, hashtags like #MiguelSavesLives, #AntibodyMiracle, and #CharlesRecovery rapidly trended. Miguel's campaign team flooded every platform with promotional videos featuring alternating shots of Charles's weak but resolute face and Miguel's concerned presence, set to soaring music with captions proclaiming "True Leadership, True Hope."

Everything was moving in the direction Miguel had hoped for.

But the honeymoon didn't last.

The next day, during an international conference, the virus erupted.

Before a room full of witnesses, Charles began coughing violently. The sound tore through his chest as if trying to expel his very organs.

"Doctor! Someone call a doctor!"

Amid the chaos, Charles's body suddenly went limp, pitching forward. Nathan caught him just in time but felt the full weight of deadweight in his arms—Charles had lost consciousness.

"Mr. Windsor! Mr. Windsor, wake up!"

Anouk's scream drowned in the surrounding commotion.

Medical staff rushed forward, lifting Charles onto a stretcher as emergency alarms echoed through the corridor. Miguel watched the stretcher pass—Charles's face deathly pale, breathing shallow—and his expression turned thunderous.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded.

Anouk stammered incoherently. "I—I don't know... he was fine just moments ago, then suddenly..."

The stretcher disappeared toward the emergency room. Miguel stared down the empty hallway, his gaze dark as a storm cloud.

The red emergency light flicked on.

Anouk collapsed onto a bench in the corridor, hands covering her face, shoulders trembling uncontrollably. Charles's collapse replayed in her mind; his final pale smile burned behind her eyelids.

Why? The antibody worked, didn't it? He was getting better.

She stared at the closed doors, nails digging so deeply into her palms she nearly drew blood. Time became meaningless—ten minutes, half an hour—until finally, the door opened.

A doctor emerged, his expression grave.

"Well?" Miguel stepped forward.

"The virus was dormant in neural cells. The antibody only works in the bloodstream. Now the virus has reactivated, replicating explosively, triggering systemic inflammatory storm and multi-organ failure... There's no hope."

His final assessment came out quietly, but to Anouk it landed like a thunderclap.

"No... that's impossible..." She staggered to her feet, grabbing the doctor's arm.

He shook her off, turning to Miguel with a shake of his head.

Miguel's face turned ashen.

Then, after a few seconds, he laughed.

The sound was cold—ice laced with poison.

He turned toward Anouk, warmth draining from his eyes. "Ms. Montgomery. The antibody you gave me—was it fake?"

Anouk trembled head to toe. "No... it wasn't fake. Your people took it directly from Sebastian. It was the real antibody."

"Yet it's useless. Charles is dying. On camera, in front of millions of viewers, he collapsed. Now the entire country knows the antibody failed, knows my so-called 'medical miracle' was a joke."

He stopped before her, looking down from his full height, voice dropping to a whisper:

"Do you understand what this means, Ms. Montgomery? It means my campaign is finished. My political career is over."

Anouk backed against the cold wall. "No... it wasn't me... I don't know why this happened, I swear I don't..."

Miguel reached out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. His fingers pressed hard enough to crush bone.

"Kismet. Did you really think changing your name, your identity, would wash away your past? The people you murdered—their ghosts are still watching."

Anouk—or rather, Kismet—froze, pupils contracting sharply.

"How... how do you know..."

"I know far more than you imagine."

Miguel released her, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his fingers meticulously, as if he'd touched something filthy. "You have two choices. First, you walk in there right now and tell the media you deliberately switched the antibodies to get revenge on Charles, that you wanted him dead. That way, I can pin the blame on you and salvage my campaign."

Kismet shook her head frantically.

Miguel tossed the handkerchief to the floor. "Then option two: you and Charles both disappear."

Kismet crumpled to the ground, shaking as two men in black dragged her away.

She didn't resist. She knew perfectly well what falling into Miguel's hands meant.

Making deals with the devil always ends like this.

As she was hauled off, the "unconscious" man on the hospital bed gave the faintest flutter of his eyelashes.

And on the monitor screen, those "critical" vital signs began creeping—slowly, almost imperceptibly—back toward normal range.

 

The night before the presidential election, torrential rain hammered down.

Miguel's campaign headquarters blazed with light, but the atmosphere was suffocating. On the massive electronic screen, real-time polling data cascaded like a waterfall. In twenty-four hours, Miguel's approval rating had plummeted twenty points while his opponent Ace surged ahead, now leading by fifteen.

"Useless! Every last one of you is useless!"