Chapter 1784:


    Both Henrik and Alban received it as a politely worded observation about how exhausted he appeared — the kind of remark thatnds gently enough that no one is obliged to respond. Henrik, who understood it rather better, felt the corner of his mouth pull upward against his better judgment. He made an effort to suppress it. He wasn’t going tough at his grandson. Even so — Alban couldn’t even manage a basic conversation with Gillian. The amusement was difficult to entirely contain.


    Alban noticed his grandfather fighting a smile and felt the weariness of it settle over him. This was the man who had raised him.


    “You’ve checked on me, so you can rx now. Go back to the office and focus on something useful,” Henrik said, in the firm, pleasant tone of someone who is not actually making a suggestion.


    His real concern was that Gillian might appear in the doorway at any moment, and if she did, they would both be turned away without ceremony.


    “I’ll walk you out,” Christina said.


    “Very kind of you, thank you,” Henrik replied promptly. Getting Alban away from that door as quickly as possible was the only item on his agenda.


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    Alban opened his mouth. The door had already closed.


    “After you,” Christina said, her posture and expressionbining into something thatmunicated, without any ambiguity, that she had no intention of stepping aside. She wasn’t going to let him through, and making a scene would only make things considerably worse for him.


    He recognized it. He let it go.


    He fell into step and followed her toward the exit, another opportunity slipping past him before he had managed to do anything at all with it. All he could do was tell himself the next one would be different, and try to believe it.


    Outside the hospital building, Christina stopped without warning.


    “Give me your hand.”


    Her voice was t and cold, and her eyes held Alban’s with something beneath the surface that he couldn’t quite read — but instinctively recognized as a warning.


    Alban frowned. “What are you doing?”


    “If you don’t want to die, do as I say.”


    He stared at her. He felt perfectly well. The idea made no sense to him at all.


    “Now,” she said, the impatience in her voice clipped and sharp.


    Had Alban been anyone other than Adide’s biological father — had she not caught the same faint, distinctive scent of poison on him that she had first detected on her own father — Christina would not have stopped him at all.


    Alban felt the weight of her focus settle over him like pressure on skin. Her presence had a quality to it that made the air around her feel different. He was reminded, not for the first time, that underestimating Christina was a mistake he would not make.


    Without fully understanding why, and without asking again, he extended his hand.


    Christina examined his palm, studied the texture of his skin, and pressed her fingers carefully against his pulse. The seconds stretched. Her frown deepened as she worked, and her expression grew heavier.


    Alban watched her face and felt a slow chill move down his back. Without realizing it, he had stopped breathing. Whatever she was finding, it wasn’t nothing. He wanted to ask, but something told him to hold the question — that interrupting her would cost him more than the waiting would. He also noticed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he hadn’t questioned her ability for a single moment. He simply trusted it.


    Christina exhaled — long and slow.


    The sound hit Alban like a door mming. The questions came out in a rush before he could organize them.


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