The garden fell silent as if the world itself held its breath. All eyes were fixed on Michael Ashworth, the patriarch whose next words would reshape alliances throughout Veridia City.
I felt Isabelle's fingers tighten around mine beneath the table. Her touch anchored amid the sea of hostile stares.
Michael rose from his chair with deliberate slowness. Despite his advanced age, he commanded the attention of every person present. When he spoke, his voice carried effortlessly across the garden.
"When did the press beco so interested in an old man's birthday celebration?" he asked, a hint of amusent in his tone.
The reporter persisted, "Sir, the public is curious about your family's alliances. Could you please address the question?"
Michael's gaze swept over the crowd before settling on . Sothing in his eyes—a mixture of approval and resolve—made my heart race.
"Very well," he said. "If I must choose between these two young n, I believe my preference is clear by today's seating arrangents."
A collective gasp rippled through the assembly.
"Liam Knight has demonstrated exceptional character and ability," Michael continued. "He lacks neither courage nor conviction. If my granddaughter were to choose him, he would have my blessing."
The words hit like a thunderbolt. I struggled to maintain my composure as Isabelle squeezed my hand so hard it almost hurt.
Dashiell's face contorted with rage. His father, Roderick, maintained his poise, but the dangerous glint in his eyes told this wasn't over.
"That's absurd!" Dashiell burst out, unable to contain himself. "The Blackthorne family has—"
"Has been a valued ally," Michael cut in smoothly. "And will remain so. But my granddaughter's future is not a business transaction."
Roderick stepped forward, his smile tight and threatening. "Michael, you surprise . I didn't realize you'd beco so... sentintal in your old age."
"Not sentintal," Michael replied. "Just clearer about what matters."
I watched Roderick's calculated calm crumble slightly at the edges. His eyes flickered to , filled with cold fury.
"This discussion isn't over," Roderick said quietly, for Michael's ears alone, though I caught the words. "You've made a grave miscalculation."
As Roderick led his seething son away, Corbin approached our table, his face dark with anger. "Father, what are you doing? The Blackthornes—"
"Will survive the disappointnt," Michael said firmly. "And so will you, Corbin."
The reporter attempted one more question, but Michael waved them away. "I believe the press has their story. Now, let an old man enjoy what remains of his birthday."
As the guests resud their conversations—now buzzing with fresh gossip—Michael sank back into his chair. I noticed a subtle tremble in his hands, a flash of pain crossing his features.
"Grandfather?" Isabelle asked, concern in her voice. "Are you alright?"
"Just tired," he assured her, though his face had gone pale. "These gatherings drain more than they used to."
I studied him carefully, noting the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the unnatural pallor beneath his skin. My dical knowledge raised imdiate alarms.
"Perhaps you should rest," I suggested quietly.
Michael nodded. "Yes, I think that's wise." He turned to Isabelle. "My dear, would you mind handling our guests for a while? Liam can accompany to my study."
Isabelle hesitated, clearly worried, but nodded. "Of course, Grandfather."
As we stood, Michael gripped my arm for support. The strength in his fingers surprised , betraying his urgency.
"Help inside," he whispered. "Quickly."
We made our way through the mansion's corridors, Michael's steps growing heavier with each passing mont. Finally, we reached his private study—a room lined with ancient texts and artifacts from his travels.
The door had barely closed behind us when Michael stumbled. I caught him as his legs gave way.
"Michael!" I exclaid, lowering him onto a leather sofa.
His breathing was labored, his skin clammy. "I've been holding on... through sheer will," he gasped. "Didn't want to... show weakness... at the banquet."
I pressed my fingers to his wrist, counting his rapid, irregular pulse. "How long have you felt this way?"
"Months," he admitted. "But much worse today."
I activated my Golden Eye technique, scanning his body with my spiritual sense. What I saw made my blood run cold. His life force was fading rapidly, like water draining from a cracked vessel.
"I need to treat you imdiately," I said, reaching for my dicine pouch.
Michael shook his head weakly. "Too late for that, my boy."
"Don't say that," I insisted, preparing a needle. "I can stabilize you at least."
"Listen to ," Michael gripped my arm with surprising strength. "I'm dying. I've known it for so ti. The doctors gave two months... six months ago."
His words hit like a physical blow. "Why didn't you say anything? I could have—"
"What I need now is not dicine, but your promise," he interrupted. "Isabelle... you must protect her."
I stared at him, the weight of his request pressing down on . "I will. With my life."
"Corbin... will move quickly once I'm gone," Michael continued, his voice growing fainter. "He's always... resented her influence. And now... he'll use my death... to seize control."
I tried inserting acupuncture needles at critical ridian points, desperately channeling my energy into him, but his condition was deteriorating too rapidly.
"Promise ," he wheezed, "that you'll stand by her... no matter what."
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"I promise," I said, my voice breaking. "But please, let try—"
Suddenly, the door burst open. Corbin Ashworth stood there, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene—his father collapsed on the sofa, kneeling beside him with needles in hand.
"What's happening here?" he demanded, his voice rising with accusation.
Before I could explain, he shouted over his shoulder. "Security! Co quickly! My father needs help!"
Michael tried to speak, but only managed a weak cough. Within seconds, the room filled with people—security personnel, family mbers, and dical staff who rushed to Michael's side.
"Get away from him!" Corbin ordered, shoving aside. "What have you done?"
"I was trying to help him," I protested. "He collapsed—"
"Lies!" Corbin's face contorted with calculated rage. "Father was perfectly fine until he was alone with you!"
People gasped, their suspicious gazes turning toward . I stood my ground, though I knew how damning the scene appeared.
"Check his pulse," I said to the doctor who had arrived. "He needs imdiate dical attention."
The doctor knelt beside Michael, his expression grim as he conducted a quick examination. "His condition is critical. We need to move him to his bedroom imdiately."
As they lifted Michael onto a stretcher, I caught his eyes. He mouthed sothing to —words I couldn't make out, but his intent was clear. Rember your promise.
Corbin positioned himself between and the stretcher. "You're not going anywhere near him again."
The commotion had drawn a crowd. Among them was Isabelle, who pushed her way through, her face pale with worry.
"What happened?" she gasped. "Grandfather!"
Corbin turned to her, his expression transforming into one of calculated concern. "Isabelle, your grandfather collapsed... while alone with him." He jabbed a finger in my direction.
I saw the mont of shock in Isabelle's eyes as she looked from to her unconscious grandfather being carried away.
Corbin's voice dripped with venom as he asked, "Isabelle, is this the man you like? Soone with malicious intentions?!"
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