Chapter 996:

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Hilliard’s face was a mask of grim fury. Their timeline had just been cut in half. He barked an order at Ethan Cole to double the watch on Giselle. He couldn’t let her die. Not yet.

Meanwhile, Donovan’s helicopter touched down on the manicured lawn of the Long Island estate. He strode into the main house. Eleonora was pacing in the grand foyer, her face a portrait of anxiety.

She rushed toward him. “Donovan! Is Giselle alright? What happened?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at her, his eyes as cold and dead as a winter sea.

The feigned concern on her face froze. She took an involuntary step back.

He grabbed her arm, his grip like iron. Without a word, he dragged her across the marble floor and into his study. He slammed the heavy door shut and turned the lock.

Then he shoved her away from him. She stumbled and fell to the plush carpet.

𝗙𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝘂𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀.𝗰𝗼𝗺

“Donovan!” she cried, looking up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He had never laid a hand on her before.

He stood over her, a figure of pure, righteous fury. “Tell me,” he snarled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble from the depths of his soul. “What is your deal with Charla English?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she sobbed, crawling toward him. “It’s a lie! Hilliard is framing us!”

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped his lips. He walked to his desk and pressed a hidden button on the intercom.

“Bring Dr. Finch to the study. Now.”

The color drained from Eleonora’s face. She knew what he was doing.

She scrambled across the floor and clutched at his leg, her tears now real. “Donovan, please, don’t. This is a family matter. We can’t let the staff see—”

He kicked her away with a look of utter disgust.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Two bodyguards escorted Dr. Alistair Finch into the room. The chemist’s face was slick with sweat, his eyes wide with terror.

Dr. Finch stumbled into the study, his gaze darting from the furious, imposing figure of Donovan to the weeping, disheveled form of Eleonora on the floor. His knees felt weak.

Donovan ignored his wife completely. He strode to Finch and slapped a file against the chemist’s chest. It was the toxicology report from Cailin’s bloodwork.

“Tell me,” Donovan said, his voice dangerously quiet, “if this is one of ours.”

Finch’s hands trembled as he took the report. He only needed to see the molecular diagram on the first page. His face went ashen.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “It’s a variant of RK-7.”

“And who else,” Donovan pressed, his eyes boring into the terrified man, “is capable of creating this variant?”

Finch’s terrified gaze flickered toward Eleonora. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Donovan’s patience snapped. He grabbed Finch by the collar of his lab coat and slammed him against a towering bookshelf. “Answer me!” he roared.

The chemist broke. “It was the madam!” he shrieked, his eyes squeezed shut. “Madam Van Doren ordered me to modify it! She said it was for an experiment!”

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