Chapter 484: Last Chance
Chapter 484: Last Chance
Miguel hurled the tablet across the room. It hit the floor and shattered, the screen splintering into a spiderweb of cracks. His eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving, blond hair falling in disheveled strands across his forehead—every trace of his usual polished composure gone.
His chief of staff steeled himself and stepped forward. "Your Highness, this isn't the time to lose your head. The final vote is tomorrow. We still have options—"
Miguel spun around and grabbed him by the lapels. "Charles is lying in the ICU waiting to die, and the entire country knows the antibody was a fraud! The media is saying I played fast and loose with people's lives, that I used a dying man as a prop, that I'm the one who let the virus loose in the first place!" He tightened his grip. "So tell me—where exactly are these options?"
The chief of staff's face went scarlet as he gasped for air.
The rest of the staff stood frozen against the walls, not one of them daring to intervene.
"Where's the woman?" Miguel released him and shoved him aside like he was taking out the trash.
That scheming little traitor had the nerve to play him with a fake antibody. He was going to make her pay for every last second of this.
The head of security stepped forward and held up a tablet.
On the screen was a surveillance feed. Location: an abandoned industrial facility on the outskirts of Western. Timestamp: one hour ago. In the grainy footage, Kismet was huddled in a corner, soaked to the bone, shaking violently. Several men in black circled her, kicking and beating her with methodical indifference.
Miguel stared at the screen, his expression utterly cold. "Is she dead?"
"Not yet. Per your instructions, we kept her alive. Waiting for you to handle her personally."
The corner of Miguel's mouth curled into something that barely resembled a smile—twisted, ugly. "Good. When I have a moment, I'll make sure to thank her properly."
"Understood."
The security chief turned and left. Miguel dropped back into his chair, fingers laced together against his chin, eyes fixed on the poll numbers hemorrhaging across the screen. His gaze had the flat, venomous quality of a snake coiled to strike.
At that same moment, on the other side of Western, inside an abandoned factory—
Kismet had been dragged into an empty warehouse and dropped on the concrete floor like a bag of garbage. Rain leaked through the rotting roof, hitting her face in cold, irregular drops, mixing with blood before running into her eyes.
She lay on her back and stared up at the gray, broken ceiling.
She thought about the first time she had walked through the gates of Windsor Manor. Years ago. Another lifetime.
It was beautiful, back then.
Kismet tried to smile. What came out was a cough—wet and raw—and a mouthful of blood. It splattered warm across her chin.
The warehouse door groaned open. Four men in black filed in. One carried an iron bar. Another had a length of rope. The third held a clear glass bottle. The one in front crouched down and grabbed her jaw, wrenching her head back.
"Prince Miguel sends his regards," the man said, grinning. His teeth were yellowed and uneven. "He's keeping you alive—wants to thank you personally once he wins the election. But until then, he figures we've earned a little advance payment."
The iron bar came down on her arm.
The crack of bone was sharp and clean. Kismet didn't scream. She clamped her teeth together and held on, until she tasted blood pooling under her tongue.
The second blow landed on her leg.
The third caught her ribs.
She was thrown around like a ragdoll—struck, dragged, discarded. Consciousness ebbed and surged with each wave of pain. There were moments where she genuinely wasn't sure she was still alive.
Then someone pulled at her clothes, and something ice-cold splashed across her skin. The smell hit her a second later—sharp, chemical, unmistakable.
Gasoline.
They're going to burn me.
Kismet lurched upright and screamed with everything she had left.
The iron bar came down across the back of her skull.
The world went dark.
Good, she thought, as the blackness swallowed her whole. I can finally be done with this.
The venue for the final presidential debate was the National Convention Center—a hall built to hold five thousand people, and tonight every seat was filled. Camera rigs jutted from every corner of the room; the live feed was going out to screens across the country. The air smelled of antiseptic and tension. Security personnel had tripled from their usual numbers. Every one of them wore the tight, watchful expression of someone waiting for something to go wrong.
At seven o'clock sharp, the event began.
Under the full blaze of the spotlights, Miguel and Ace walked out from opposite sides of the stage. They shook hands, smiled for the cameras, and took their seats at the moderator's direction. Both wore dark suits with coordinating ties. Both wore the rehearsed, practiced smiles of career politicians. But when their eyes met across the stage, the air between them went electric.
The moderator stepped up to the podium. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, we gather here for the final debate of this presidential election cycle. Both candidates will address key issues—the economy, healthcare, and national security—in what promises to be a defining exchange. We'll begin with Prince Miguel."
Miguel rose and approached the lectern. He adjusted the microphone with deliberate calm, swept a look across the crowd, and settled his gaze on the live camera.
"My fellow citizens." His voice filled the hall. "Over these past months, we have faced a crisis unlike anything this generation has known. A virus spreading fear. Lives cut short. Panic taking hold. And yet, even in that darkness, something emerged. The hope of science. The strength of unity. The resilience of this nation."
He let the pause breathe before continuing, his expression shifting to something heavier, more solemn. "Just days ago, every one of us watched as Charles Windsor—a remarkable young man, a leader in his own right—pulled back from the edge of death. In that moment, I believe we all felt the same thing. Gratitude. And hope."
Applause rippled through the hall.
Miguel raised a hand to quiet it. "But we also saw something else. We saw the limits of science. The uncertainty of medicine. Mr. Windsor's relapse was a painful reminder that this fight is far from over. That is not a reason to give up. It is a reason to push harder. To invest more. To stand behind scientists like Dr. Donovan Diaz until the day we finally defeat this disease—for good."
The applause surged. Miguel's supporters rose from their seats, brandishing signs, chanting his name. The cameras caught the strong line of his jaw, the flash of apparent conviction in his pale blue eyes.
Across the stage, Ace pressed his lips together almost imperceptibly. The original plan had been to go straight for the jugular the moment Miguel brought up Charles—challenge the legitimacy of the antibody, put the spotlight on Miguel's negligence during the outbreak's critical early weeks. But Miguel had outmaneuvered him, framing the relapse as a limitation of science rather than a failure of leadership, casting himself as the rational, research-driven statesman. The attack line had been blunted before Ace could even draw it.
"Mr. Austin," the moderator said. "Your response?"
Ace stood and walked to his lectern.
"Prince Miguel is right—it's going to be a long road." His voice was measured, unhurried. "But I'd argue that the obstacles on that road aren't all scientific."
He turned to look directly at Miguel. "I'd like to ask Prince Miguel a straightforward question. The biocontainment breach at the Rivera family laboratory—are you genuinely claiming you had no knowledge of it?"
The hall fell silent in an instant.
Something flickered across Miguel's face—a fraction of a second where the smile didn't hold—before the mask reset. "Mr. Austin, I've addressed this question multiple times. The Rivera facility is a private research institution. Their procedural failures led to the containment breach, and the appropriate authorities are already conducting a full investigation. Those responsible will face the legal consequences they deserve." He kept his voice even, almost magnanimous. "As a member of the royal family, I find what happened deeply troubling. But I had no involvement."