Chapter 485: Blowback

Chapter 485: Blowback

Ace smiled coldly. He reached beneath the podium and produced a thick folder of documents. "Then perhaps you can explain this, Your Highness. Over the past decade, a total of two hundred and thirty million dollars has been funneled into the Rivera family laboratory through seven separate offshore accounts. Was that you?"

The hall erupted.

Every camera in the room swung toward Miguel. His expression didn't crack—but something behind his eyes went ice-cold. "Absurd. Mr. Austin, are you seriously willing to fabricate evidence and slander your opponent just to win an election?"

"Whether it's fabricated or not will be obvious in a moment." Ace pressed the button on the remote in his hand.

The screen behind him blazed to life. The footage was grainy but legible—a security recording. In it, Miguel stood inside a laboratory, several researchers in full protective gear arrayed before him. He held a test tube up to the light, studied it for a moment, then turned to the person beside him. "This is taking too long. What I need is a strain that spreads fast and hits hard. Not this watered-down garbage."

The audio had been processed—slightly distorted at the edges—but the voice was unmistakably Miguel's.

The clip ran for barely fifteen seconds. It didn't need to be longer. The hall went absolutely silent. Every person in the room stared at the screen. Then they stared at Miguel.

A thin sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead. He kept his posture rigid and his jaw set. "That footage is a fabrication. The audio is synthesized. The video has been edited. Mr. Austin, your tactics are embarrassingly transparent."

"Are they?" Ace pressed the button again.

The second clip was sharper. Much sharper. It had been recorded inside what was clearly a private office—Miguel's, from the look of the bookshelves and the crest on the wall. He sat behind a mahogany desk; across from him stood Gerald Rivera, the laboratory's director. Their exchange came through with crystalline clarity.

"The new strain performed well in animal trials, but the risk profile for human subjects is significant—"

"I don't want risk assessments. I want results. Use volunteers. The prisons are full of them. They're going to die anyway—might as well let them contribute something to science."

"That's not ethically defensible—"

Miguel's laugh cut through the room like a scalpel. "Ethics. Once we control this pathogen, I'll be the savior of this entire country. At that point, does anyone really care what happened to a few convicts?"

The footage ended.

Silence. Total, absolute silence.

Even the broadcast cameras seemed to forget to cut away—they held, motionless, on Miguel's face. He had gone the color of chalk. His mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out. A bead of sweat broke free from his hairline and tracked slowly down his temple, catching the light as it fell.

That was the moment the commotion started at the back of the hall.

Heads turned. All of them, at once.

The spotlights swept toward the entrance.

Emily walked in, pushing a wheelchair with measured, unhurried steps. In the chair sat Charles. He was in a hospital gown beneath a black wool coat, his face as pale as marble—but his eyes were clear and sharp, two blades honed to a killing edge.

"Charles?" someone near the front gasped.

"He's supposed to be in the ICU—"

"How is he here?"

The murmuring swept through the crowd like a current. Miguel's eyes locked on the wheelchair, and his fists closed at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms.

"Charles." His voice came out strained and hollow. "You're seriously ill. You should be in the hospital. This is not the place for you."

"I'll decide where I belong." Charles coughed—once, twice. Emily crouched instantly and rubbed slow, firm circles on his back. He steadied himself and continued, "A moment ago, Mr. Austin asked whether you were the financial backer behind the Rivera laboratory. You denied it. So let me ask you something different." He paused. "Decades ago, Princess Elizabeth was killed in a riding accident at the royal stables. Was it really an accident?"

The question detonated in the room like a grenade.

Princess Elizabeth. The late king's eldest daughter—his favorite, by every account that existed. First in the line of succession.

She had died when her horse bolted during a routine training session, throwing her headfirst into a paddock railing. The investigation had concluded it was a tragic accident. The horse had been put down. The trainer had been dismissed. The matter had been closed.

Until now.

The blood drained from Miguel's face in an instant. He stared at Charles with an expression that had stopped pretending to be anything other than what it was. "Charles, do you understand what you're saying? Defaming a member of the royal family is a crime."

"I've already submitted the evidence to the FBI." Charles held his gaze without flinching. "Your Highness. It's over."

The hall came apart at the seams.

Journalists hammered their shutter buttons. The broadcast cameras whipped back and forth—Miguel, Charles, Ace, Miguel again. Reporters scrambled over each other. The audience was on its feet.

Miguel lunged at the microphone. "This is a setup! Charles, you've been bought by Austin—you've both manufactured this from nothing, you're trying to drag me down, you want to destroy me, and I am telling you it will not work—I am the rightful heir to this throne, I am the next president of this country, I have the support of the people, and you two are nothing but—"

"Your Highness."

A single voice, low and controlled, cut through the noise like a blade through silk.

Miguel stopped mid-sentence.

Everyone turned toward the side entrance.

A man in a black formal uniform emerged from the wings and walked to the center of the stage. His jacket bore gold braid at the shoulder. His face was carved from stone, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. He moved with the particular gravity of someone who had spent decades standing at the right hand of power.

It was Beau Campbell.

The color emptied from Miguel's face completely. His lips trembled. He couldn't form a single word.

He escaped.

Beau walked to the edge of the stage. He did not look at Miguel. He turned instead to face the hall—the crowd, the cameras, the country watching on the other side of every screen—and when he spoke, his voice carried to every corner of the room.

"In my capacity as Chief Royal Protector, I am exercising the authority granted to me by His late Majesty the King, and hereby initiating formal royal review proceedings against His Royal Highness Prince Miguel Perez."

Then, and only then, he turned to face Miguel directly.

"Your Highness. You stand accused of the following: First—the murder of Princess Elizabeth and the deliberate usurpation of her place in the line of succession. Second—the covert funding of the Rivera family laboratory for illegal pathogen research, and the intentional release of the virus to manufacture public panic. Third—collusion with foreign arms dealers, with the intention of selling an enhanced biological weapon following your election to office. Fourth—the long-term poisoning of His late Majesty the King, which hastened his death."

With each count, what remained of Miguel's composure crumbled. By the final charge, he was gripping the podium with both hands, white-knuckled, the only thing keeping him upright.

"You—" His voice was barely a rasp. "What evidence do you—"

Beau reached inside his jacket and produced a document. He held it up to face the cameras—unhurried, precise. It was a single page from a set of classified royal records. Two things were unmistakable at the top: the late king's personal seal, and his handwritten signature.

"This is a final decree, written in His late Majesty's own hand and entrusted to my keeping before his death." Beau's voice did not waver. "In it, His Majesty stated that he had reason to believe Prince Miguel was implicated in the death of Princess Elizabeth. He directed me to maintain close surveillance of Prince Miguel following his passing, and granted me the authority, should Prince Miguel's actions be found to endanger the security of this nation, to exercise an absolute veto—stripping him of all royal privileges and removing him entirely from the line of succession."

He lowered the document and looked at Miguel directly, one final time.

"Miguel Perez. By the authority vested in me as Chief Royal Protector, I hereby formally declare: you are stripped of your status as a member of the royal family. You are removed from the line of succession. Your candidacy for the presidency of this nation is revoked, effective immediately. You will be placed under house arrest at the palace annex, pending trial before the Royal Internal Tribunal."