Chapter 997:

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Eleonora let out a strangled cry and lunged at Finch, trying to silence him. A bodyguard stepped in her path, blocking her easily.

The truth was out. She was cornered.

Her strategy shifted in an instant. The fury vanished, replaced by a torrent of hysterical, theatrical tears. She collapsed back onto the floor, a broken, tragic figure.

“Yes, I did it!” she wailed. But it was a confession wrapped in a lie.

She claimed Charla English had come to her, blackmailing her with an old, dark family secret. She painted herself as a terrified mother, a helpless wife forced into an impossible choice.

“She made me give her the poison!” Eleonora sobbed. “She said she would ruin us, destroy everything we’ve built!”

She cast herself as a reluctant accomplice, a pawn in Charla’s wicked game, a woman who had made a terrible mistake out of fear.

𝗪𝘩𝖺𝘁 𝘦𝘷𝖾𝘳𝗒𝗈ne i𝘴 𝗿𝖾𝖺𝗱𝗂𝗇g 𝗼ո 𝘨аl𝗻𝗼𝘷е𝗅𝗌.соm

Donovan listened to her performance, his face an unreadable mask. He knew she was lying. A woman who ran the family’s shadow operations would never be so easily manipulated by a girl like Charla.

But he didn’t have time. Giselle was dying.

And Eleonora’s story, however flawed, was an explanation. It gave him a villain to focus on, a narrative to cling to.

He crouched down in front of her and gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“This is the last lie you will ever tell me,” he said, each word a chip of ice. “When this is over, you and I will have a reckoning.”

She saw the promise of absolute ruin in his eyes. Their marriage was over.

He stood and turned to the trembling Dr. Finch. “To the lab,” he commanded. “Now. I want the antidote for RK-7.”

Finch stammered, “The antidote, the synthesis is incredibly complex, and the base materials, they are exceedingly rare.”

Donovan cut him off, his eyes wild with desperation. “I don’t care what it takes! If Giselle dies, you and your entire family will be buried with her!”

The raw, brutal threat terrified Finch more than anything else. He scrambled out of the study and ran toward the basement laboratory, his life depending on it.

The study fell silent. Donovan walked to the bar and poured a glass of scotch. He downed it in one gulp, but the fire in his throat did nothing to warm the ice in his heart.

Dr. Finch worked with frantic, desperate precision. The sterile, white light of the underground lab reflected off the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Outside the thick glass wall of the clean room, Donovan stood watch, a silent, menacing specter.

Hours crawled by. Finally, Finch emerged, his face pale and drawn. In his trembling hand, he held a small, sealed vial containing a pale blue liquid.

“It’s done,” he said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “The antidote is ready.”

A flicker of relief crossed Donovan’s face. He reached for the vial.

Finch pulled it back. “But there’s only one dose,” he stammered. “The core stabilizing agent, our entire stock was only enough to synthesize a single vial.”

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