Chapter 482: Press Conference

Chapter 482: Press Conference

The man in the bed's eyelashes fluttered. Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes opened.

Those eyes were veiled with a layer of weakness, pupils focusing gradually before finally settling on Ollie's face.

"Uncle... Grandfather..."

Tears streamed down Ollie's weathered cheeks as he gripped Charles's hand tightly. "You're awake. Thank God, you're awake..."

Charles's gaze moved slowly, sweeping past the doctor, past the nurse, before finally locking onto Anouk's face. He stared at her for so long that Anouk nearly suffocated. Then, with excruciating slowness, he tugged the corner of his mouth upward.

It was a weak, pale smile—but unmistakably real.

"Ms. Montgomery... thank you."

Anouk's tears burst forth like a broken dam. She shook her head violently, wanting to speak, but her throat was choked with sobs, only managing broken whimpers.

It worked. I saved Charles. They'll have to accept me into the Windsor family now.

Ollie wiped his eyes and turned to the physician. "What's the next step?"

"We need continuous monitoring for twenty-four hours. If his temperature stabilizes below 99.5°F and his mental state continues improving, it means the antibody is working."

"Let him rest." Ollie's voice was soft as he gestured for everyone to leave.

 

In the study, Emily stared at the surveillance feed on her tablet, slowly releasing a breath.

On screen, Charles opened his eyes the moment everyone left. He raised his hand and withdrew a micro-communicator from beneath his pillow, pressing the switch.

"Emily."

"How are you? Any adverse reactions to the injection?"

"None. It's just saline and nutrients. The sedative's making me a bit drowsy. Did they buy it?"

"Completely. Anouk was crying her heart out. Miguel's already received word and is preparing a press conference. Fiona intercepted his campaign team drafting a speech—they're planning to package you as 'a medical miracle under Miguel's leadership.'"

Charles gave a low chuckle. "Let him package it. The prettier the wrapping, the harder the fall."

"Father says the sedative in the decoy will maintain effects for about twelve hours. After that, you'll need to start 'gradually deteriorating' while maintaining the appearance of being 'conscious and improving.' Can you manage it?"

"It's just acting. I'm good at that."

Emily's heart clenched. She knew how much Charles loathed these charades, how he despised hollow touches and empty courtesies. But right now, this was the only way to keep Miguel's guard down—the only way to wait for the virus to reach its true critical point.

She spoke softly, as much to comfort him as herself. "Just hold on a few more days. Once the virus is induced to full outbreak and we administer the real antibody, it'll all be over."

"When this is over, I'm taking you to Lumaria. You said you wanted to see snow-covered mountains, wanted to stay in a cabin overlooking a lake. We can read by the fireplace. We can stay inside all day. Just the two of us."

Emily nodded hard, even knowing he couldn't see her.

"Deal. You promised. No backing out."

"No backing out." Charles paused, his voice suddenly very soft. "Emily, if—"

"No 'ifs.' You're going to survive. We're going to Lumaria together. We'll spend many, many New Years together. You promised me, Charles. You can't break your word."

A low laugh came through the communicator.

"All right. No breaking promises. Get some rest. Tomorrow... we've got a lot more acting to do."

"You too. Don't push yourself."

The communication cut off.

Emily stood before the window, watching the light in that distant window go dark. She knew Charles wasn't sleeping. He was lying there in the darkness with his eyes open, calculating every step, plotting every detail.

Just like every day before.

She turned back to her desk and opened her laptop. The screen displayed intercepted emails from Miguel's campaign team, media movement reports, polling data shifts.

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

Emily opened an encrypted folder containing files Beau had just transmitted—surveillance footage from the palace years ago, financial records linking Miguel to the Rivera family laboratory, and that damning royal internal档案.

She flipped through them one by one, her gaze ice-cold.

Miguel thought himself the hunter, unaware he'd long since become the prey.

 

Twenty-four hours post-injection, Charles's temperature stabilized at 99.5°F—still slightly elevated, but no longer the fatal fever. He could sit up to take liquids, could hold simple conversations with Ollie. Though his voice remained weak, his mind was clear and his logic sharp.

On the third morning, he could even walk a few slow steps around the room with Nathan's support.

The family physician stared at the latest test results, his voice trembling with excitement. "A miracle! This is nothing short of a medical miracle! The antibody completely neutralized the viral load in his bloodstream. Inflammation markers have dropped seventy percent! Though his immune system is still fragile, full recovery is just a matter of time as long as we continue consolidating treatment!"

Anouk stood beside the bed, watching as nurses helped Charles into a wheelchair. He wore a light gray loungewear set today, which made his complexion appear even paler—but some of the light had returned to his eyes.

He turned toward her with a pale smile. "Ms. Montgomery. Thank you for all your hard work these past few days."

Anouk quickly shook her head. "It was nothing. Seeing you improve means everything."

Charles studied her, his gaze gentle and grateful. That look made Anouk's heart race, nearly drowning in that pool of tenderness.

Charles spoke softly. "Prince Miguel has arranged a small press conference on the manor grounds. Would you... be willing to accompany me?"

Anouk nodded vigorously. "Of course!"

 

Ten o'clock, the south lawn of Windsor Manor.

Cameras from a dozen mainstream media outlets were already set up, reporters murmuring among themselves while glancing toward the main building. Prince Miguel stood beside the temporary podium in a deep blue suit, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. His face wore an expression of perfectly calibrated concern and relief, as if Charles's "recovery" were his personal greatest achievement.

The main building's doors opened.

Charles sat in his wheelchair as Nathan slowly pushed him out. Anouk walked alongside, carrying a thin blanket. The sunlight was rather harsh—Charles squinted slightly and raised a hand to shield his eyes.

That subtle gesture was captured with precision by the cameras: a fragile man, recovering, but undeniably alive.

A wave of suppressed gasps rippled through the crowd.

Miguel strode forward quickly, crouching before Charles's wheelchair and grasping his hand. "Charles, I'm happier than anyone that you're getting better."

Charles looked at him, slowly curving his lips upward. "Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. And for your support in helping Dr. Diaz develop the antibody."

"It's the least we could do."

Miguel stood and faced the cameras. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm deeply gratified to stand here today. Just days ago, Mr. Charles Windsor lay in a hospital bed, his life hanging by a thread. And today, he can sit here before you—this is not merely one man's recovery, but a victory for medicine, a major breakthrough in our war against this virus!"

Applause erupted.

Miguel continued, elaborating in detail on how "under his full support," the Donovan team worked around the clock to develop the antibody, overcame countless obstacles, and ultimately "saved Mr. Charles Windsor's life." He spoke with passion and sincerity, painting a vivid portrait of a leader who cared for his people and championed scientific progress.

At the conclusion of his remarks, he turned toward Charles. "Charles, is there anything you'd like to say?"

Every camera swiveled toward the man in the wheelchair.