Chapter 486: It's Not Over Yet

Chapter 486: It's Not Over Yet

The instant Beau's words finished echoing through the hall, silence descended—the kind where you could hear a pin drop.

Then chaos erupted.

Journalists surged forward like a breaking wave. Security guards struggled to hold them back. The live broadcast cameras shook violently, the feed dissolving into a blur of motion. Miguel stood frozen in the spotlight, face pale as death, eyes hollow—like a corpse stripped of its soul.

He'd lost.

Utterly and completely.

Beau folded the royal decree and turned away. He gave Charles a slight nod. Charles returned it, then murmured to Emily, "Let's go."

Emily pushed the wheelchair forward, threading through the pandemonium toward the exit.

No one stopped them.

Every eye in the room was locked on the man center stage—the prince who'd stood triumphant mere minutes ago and now plummeted from heaven straight into hell.

At the doorway, Charles raised one hand. Emily stopped.

He turned his head, looking back toward the stage.

Miguel was staring at him.

Across two hundred feet of frenzied crowd, their gazes collided.

Slowly, Charles's mouth curved—barely visible, almost imperceptible, yet cold enough to cut bone.

Then he turned away. Emily pushed him into the darkness beyond the doors, and they disappeared.

Back in the hall, Miguel began to laugh.

It started low. Then louder. Then it became a roar—unhinged, wild, spiraling out of control. He doubled over, tears streaming down his face, laughing like a man who'd lost his mind. He wiped his eyes, his gaze sweeping across the crowd—the horrified faces, the contemptuous sneers, the gleeful schadenfreude—before settling on Beau.

Beau stared back, expression carved from stone. He gestured. Two guards stepped forward and seized Miguel by the arms.

Miguel didn't resist. He just kept laughing—desperate, broken laughter echoing through the hall.

"It's not over yet..."

 

Emily pushed Charles through a side exit into a quieter corridor. Nathan and several bodyguards followed close behind, eyes scanning for threats.

"Straight back to the estate?" Emily asked quietly.

Charles shook his head. In the dim corridor lighting, his face looked even paler. "The lounge. Your father said I need another round of IV fluids to stabilize my vitals."

Emily nodded and turned the wheelchair down another hallway—this one led to the backstage lounge area, usually staff-only. At this hour, it was deserted. Their footsteps echoed off the walls.

Halfway down, Charles suddenly raised his hand. Emily stopped.

"What's wrong?"

Charles didn't answer. He tilted his head, listening. A few seconds later, his expression changed. "Something's off. I hear—"

A muffled thud cut him off—coming from the far end of the corridor.

Then pale green smoke began pouring from the ventilation grilles, seeping through door cracks, flooding every gap in the walls. Within seconds, it filled the corridor.

Charles tore off his tie and thrust it at Emily. "Viral aerosol! Cover your mouth! Miguel's lost his goddamn mind!"

But it was already too late.

The smoke spread with terrifying speed. Emily barely got the fabric over her nose before a searing, chemical stench hit her nostrils. Her throat seized. A violent coughing fit tore through her chest.

"Emily!" Charles tried to stand, but his weakened body gave out. He staggered, fell from the wheelchair—yet still managed to grab her hand and pull her behind him.

Nathan and the guards tried to reach them, but the smoke was too thick. Vision went to zero. Coughing, gasping, bodies hitting the floor—sounds of chaos filled the air.

Charles bit down hard, summoning every ounce of strength to shove Emily toward a ventilation grate on the wall. "Go... take the duct..."

Emily shook her head violently. "No... we go together..."

"I can't walk..." Charles coughed up blood—dark red foam splattered across Emily's hand, burning hot.

She gripped his hand tighter.

"I'm not leaving... if we die, we die together..."

"Emily!" Charles's voice cracked with fury, but the effort cost him—more blood spilled from his lips. He looked at her, and his eyes softened. He reached up, cupped her face, thumb brushing away her tears.

"Listen to me... survive... live for both of us..."

Emily shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks like broken pearls. She watched Charles's face turn ashen before her eyes, watched his breathing grow shallow and ragged, watched his chest barely rise and fall.

The smoke thickened. The chemical stench became suffocating. She couldn't hear anyone else anymore—just the two of them, and the approaching footsteps of death.

Just as despair closed in, a deafening crash echoed from the far end of the corridor.

A ventilation grate exploded outward. A figure dropped through—landed light as a cat. Black tactical gear. Gas mask. Submachine gun.

Fiona.

She scanned the corridor in a glance, then sprinted toward Charles and Emily without hesitation. From her belt, she pulled two gas masks and snapped them onto their faces.

"Move fast. Concentration's still rising!"

Fiona's voice came muffled through the mask but clear enough. She crouched, hoisted Charles over her shoulder in one smooth motion, then barked at Emily: "Follow me!"

Emily stumbled to her feet and scrambled after Fiona into the ventilation duct. The space was narrow—crawling only. Fiona moved ahead with Charles slung across her back. Emily dragged herself forward, hands and knees scraping metal.

Behind them, the pale green smoke poured into the duct, chasing them down.

Suddenly, light appeared ahead.

Fiona kicked open the grate leading to the rooftop and vaulted out, then turned back to pull Charles through. Emily clawed her way out after them. The moment fresh air hit her lungs, her legs buckled. She nearly collapsed.

Wind tore across the rooftop, scattering the last traces of chemical stench. But Emily had no time to recover. She threw herself down beside Charles and ripped off his gas mask.

His face had turned the color of ash. Lips purple. Breathing so shallow it was almost imperceptible. His eyes were open, but his pupils had begun to dilate—unfocused, searching blindly for her.

"Charles... Charles, look at me... don't close your eyes, please, just look at me..." Emily cradled his face in her hands, tears falling like rain.

Charles's pupils shifted slowly, locked onto her face. He tried to smile—but only more blood spilled from his mouth.

"Emily... I'm... sorry."

"No... no... you promised me... you promised we'd go to Lumaria together, see the mountains, stay in that cabin... you can't break your promise... Charles, you can't..." Emily sobbed so hard she could barely breathe.

Fiona knelt beside them, fingers pressed to Charles's throat, checking his vitals. Her face darkened. "Heart rate forty. Blood pressure undetectable. Respiratory failure."

Charles's hand twitched—like he wanted to reach up and touch her face—but it fell limp at his side.

His eyes were still open, gazing at her with a tenderness so profound it seemed to overflow.

Then, bit by bit, the light in them went out.

"Charles? Charles!" Emily shook him, but he didn't respond. She pressed her ear to his chest—no heartbeat. Only silence.