Chapter 469: You're Not Fine
Chapter 469: You're Not Fine
Emily's body went rigid.
She couldn't tell him about Sebastian. Couldn't tell him about the bone marrow extraction. Couldn't tell him about the antibody still incubating in a lab thousands of miles away—the one that might save his life. She could only stay silent, swallow every secret whole.
Charles felt her resistance. He didn't press. Instead, he released her, then cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"If you won't tell me, I won't ask." His thumb traced the shadows beneath her eyes, concern etched into every line of his expression. "But Emily, you look like you've been dug out of a grave."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. Your right hand is trembling." His fingers slid down her wrist, stopping at a tiny needle mark. "What's this?"
Emily tried to pull away. He held her tighter.
"Anouk will be back any second," she deflected.
"Nathan will buy us time."
He tilted her chin up, refusing to let her look away. "Emily, I don't care what you were doing in Eldoria. I don't care what you're hiding from me." His forehead pressed against hers, their breaths mingling. "But from this moment on, I'm monitoring your recovery personally."
"Charles, I—"
Footsteps echoed outside. The muffled sound of Anouk's voice conversing with Nathan filtered through the door. In those final seconds, Charles pressed Emily's hand against his chest, letting her feel his racing heartbeat.
"Remember—I'm performing for the world. But I'm only real with you. Now get in bed and pretend to sleep. Let me handle Anouk."
Before Emily could protest, he guided her down onto the mattress. His movements seemed rough, but his palm cradled the back of her head, protecting her from the hard surface. He pulled the blanket up to her chin. Beneath it, his fingers intertwined with hers and squeezed hard.
"Trust me."
The door opened. Anouk entered carrying a water glass, her white coat swaying elegantly. Her gaze swept over the "sleeping" Emily, eyes narrowing slightly behind her glasses.
"Mr. Windsor, your wife—"
"She's exhausted."
Charles's voice carried the perfect pitch of hoarseness and fatigue—a man who'd just survived death and desperately needed support. "Long flight, then that emotional scene. Ms. Montgomery, could you arrange a rest room for her? I don't want to... disturb her sleep."
The look he gave Anouk transformed into that focused, vulnerable intensity Emily had witnessed from outside the door.
Under the blanket, his grip on her hand tightened even more.
Anouk exited the room, her white coat rippling in the draft that swept through the corridor.
She navigated the long hallway and pushed open a door marked "Equipment Storage." Inside, the cramped space was packed with disinfectants and disposable medical supplies. She locked the door behind her, then extracted a satellite phone from her inner coat pocket and dialed an encrypted number.
"It's me. He's awake."
Static crackled on the line before Donovan's voice emerged—or rather, the voice of whoever was using Donovan's identity. "Six hours ahead of schedule. What's the fusion rate post-viral awakening?"
"Vitals stable. Consciousness clear. Cognitive function normal. But he seems too alert." Anouk leaned against the cold metal shelving, her fingers unconsciously toying with an unopened syringe.
Silence stretched so long Anouk thought the connection had dropped.
Finally, Donovan spoke, his tone carrying that familiar, unsettling amusement: "Fascinating. Typical Windsor resilience."
The phrase "Windsor resilience" pierced Anouk's eardrums like a needle. Her fingers clenched, the syringe's plastic packaging emitting a sharp crackle.
Donovan seemed oblivious to her reaction. "I need his blood. Fresh, unprocessed samples. Within seventy-two hours of viral reactivation, the antigenic expression peaks. I need to map his immune response curve against viral progression."
"Understood."
Anouk's agreement came swiftly. She was even more invested in Charles's condition than Donovan. She needed Charles to survive more desperately than most people realized.
Because she had another name.
Kismet.
If the research succeeded, if Charles recovered, she could finally tell him. Tell him she had saved him.
She needed them to know what she'd done.
Anouk closed her eyes.
She saw three years ago.
She remembered the tremor in her finger as she pulled the trigger. The shriek of the bullet cutting through air. Charles collapsing while nausea roiled through her stomach, fear so visceral she nearly vomited.
She'd thought it was just a warning shot.
Until news of Charles's viral infection spread. Until the Windsor family's assassination bounty flooded black markets with astronomical figures. Until she spent days on a smuggling freighter vomiting herself unconscious, she finally understood what she'd become.
A weapon. A scapegoat. A disposable tool.
She'd only wanted to survive.
The Windsor family's kill order still stood. Anouk was saving him to make him owe her his life. To make the Windsors understand that Kismet still had value, still had purpose, still had...
Hope.
The fantasy that he might forgive her.
The fantasy that he might look at her the way he looked at Emily.