Chapter 478: The Antidote Fails

Chapter 478: The Antidote Fails

A cacophony of voices swirled around him, merging into a dull roar. Charles lay flat on the couch, the ceiling's ornate plasterwork warping and expanding in his vision. He could feel his body temperature spiking, as if flames were igniting deep within his marrow, scorching every nerve ending until they crackled and hissed.

"Emily..." The name escaped his lips in fragments, barely recognizable as words.

When Ollie descended the stairs with his cane, this was the sight that greeted him—his proud grandson curled on the sofa, face white as chalk, forehead glistening with beads of sweat. Charles's shirt clung to him, soaked through, outlining the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades.

"Charles!" Ollie's voice trembled—a rare break in his composure. He hurried forward, pressing his weathered palm to Charles's forehead, only to jerk it back from the searing heat. "He's burning up! Where's the doctor? Has someone called—"

"Already on the way, Mr. Windsor."

Ollie studied his grandson's contorted features, something vicious flickering in his rheumy eyes.

The virus. That goddamned virus again. He spun around, cane striking the floor with force. "Get the car. Fetch Ms. Montgomery. Now."

Nathan rushed off to comply.

Ollie lowered himself beside Charles, gnarled fingers brushing back the damp hair from his forehead. The touch made Charles's eyes flutter open—those eyes, usually sharp as a hawk's, now unfocused and hazy, as if veiled in mist.

"Grandfather... don't tell her... don't let Emily know..."

Ollie's expression twisted between anger and heartbreak. "Of all times to worry about her! Listen to me—she left before you got back. Some urgent business. She won't know a thing."

Charles seemed to relax at this, his lashes lowering as unconsciousness claimed him once more.

Meanwhile, across the city in a private laboratory, the man posing as Donovan stared into a microscope, brow furrowed in concentration.

The blood sample beneath the lens had been drawn from Charles days earlier by Anouk.

"Sir? What's the verdict?"

Donovan didn't answer. He adjusted the microscope's focus, his frown deepening. The lab held only the faint hum of equipment and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Finally, he straightened, removing his glasses to rub his strained eyes.

"This isn't right. Something's wrong."

Anouk's heart plummeted. "What do you mean?"

"The antidote isn't working. My formula—it's completely ineffective against the virus in Charles's bloodstream. What he's carrying is a mutated strain."

The color drained from Anouk's face.

She understood exactly what this meant.

Prince Miguel had staked everything on Donovan's antidote—the public's shattered trust in the Rivera family's bioweapon labs, the looming presidential election.

Miguel needed a victory. He needed a living, cured Charles standing before the cameras, assuring the world the virus was containable, proving Miguel could protect them. Proving he deserved the presidency.

And now, that trump card had just disintegrated.

The laboratory door slammed open.

Prince Miguel strode in, two anxious-looking aides trailing behind. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, golden hair slicked back without a strand out of place, but his blue eyes burned with barely contained frustration.

"The results. Now." No preamble. His gaze shifted between Donovan and Anouk like a searchlight.

Donovan hesitated, then handed over the report.

Miguel scanned it, his expression darkening visibly with each line. He flung the papers onto the lab bench—sheets scattering across the floor. "This is your breakthrough? This is what I've poured millions into?"

"Science isn't magic, Your Highness. Viruses mutate. That's a fact of nature. My antidote works on early-stage infections, but the strain in Charles's system... it's evolved beyond recognition."

"I don't care about your excuses! The election is weeks away. The media's circling like vultures. The opposition is spreading panic, claiming I ordered the Rivera labs to develop bioweapons. I need Charles alive. I need him on camera saying 'I'm cured.' Do you understand me?"

"I understand your predicament. But it's impossible. Current medical science can't cure him. His immune system is collapsing. The virus has invaded his central nervous system. Even the most aggressive treatments would only delay the inevitable, not reverse it."

Miguel's pupils contracted to pinpoints.

He stared at Donovan for what felt like an eternity, until the air itself seemed to freeze. Then, slowly, he smiled. The expression never reached his eyes—like a crack spreading across a porcelain mask, revealing the ice underneath.

"Dr. Donovan Diaz." His tone turned silky. "Ms. Montgomery has been studying under you for quite some time, hasn't she?"

Donovan's body went rigid.

"And that laboratory you sponsor in Imperial City—still full of your former students, I believe? Tell me, Doctor. What do you think would happen if the media suddenly received evidence of illegal human experimentation at your facilities? What would become of those promising young researchers?"

Donovan's jaw tightened. "You're crossing a line."

"Lines get crossed every day in this world, Doctor. The difference is, some people have the power to prevent consequences. Others don't."

Miguel stepped closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I'm not asking. I'm offering you a choice. Cure Charles, and your career, your life's work—everything remains intact. Fail..." He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "Let's just say I won't feel particularly sentimental about old acquaintances."

Donovan stared out the window at the darkness beyond.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, grating like sandpaper. "Even if I agree... I need time. The mutation rate in Charles's system is accelerating. I'd have to restart the analysis from scratch, reformulate the entire compound, run new trials—"

"How long?" Miguel cut him off.

"Three months."

"You have ten days."

"That's impossible!"

"Nine days, then." Miguel turned toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "In nine days, if Charles isn't standing in front of those cameras, Dr. Diaz... you'd better pray your laboratory can sprout legs and run."

The door slammed shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, Donovan seemed to deflate, releasing a long, shuddering breath. Anouk opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand to stop her.

"Leave. I need to think."

Anouk bit her lip, then silently retreated from the lab. In the corridor, Prince Miguel's figure had already disappeared into the elevator, leaving only two guards stationed at the corner. She leaned against the cold wall, listening to the sound of Donovan's ragged breathing through the door, and slowly closed her eyes.