The General's Daughter: The Mission

Layla slammed her bedroom door so hard the entire wall trembled. The framed portrait above her vanity tilted sideways, her smiling face in the photo now crooked—just like the expression twisting her features.

She hurled herself onto the unmade bed. The silk quilt bunched beneath her, pillows scattering to the floor. The room still carried the faint scent of expensive perfume and rose-scented candles, but none of it soothed the humiliation burning in her chest.

She waited.

Surely one of them would come.

Logan would knock first—firm, impatient, but worried.

Lucas would follow—soft voice, gentle coaxing.

That was how it always worked.

She counted the seconds in her head, staring at the ceiling chandelier as if willing footsteps to echo up the stairs.

Two minutes.

Five minutes.

Nothing.

The silence stretched.

Her jaw tightened.

She pushed herself up and began pacing, heels digging into the plush carpet. Her pulse beat louder with every step. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Whenever she threw a tantrum before, they would rush after her. They would choose her. They always chose her.

She glanced at the clock.

Thirty-two minutes had passed. There was no knock, no voices, no footsteps.

Her breathing turned ragged. Fury flared, sharp and irrational. She screamed and kicked the door with all her strength.

The impact was brutal.

Pain shot up her right foot instantly.

Layla staggered back, collapsing onto the floor. This time, the tears that welled up weren’t calculated or dramatic—they were real. Hot. Stinging. Painful.

She clutched her foot and sobbed, the sound echoing in the room she had once ruled like a spoiled princess.

Then—

A soft knock.

Layla’s heart leapt.

Finally.

She didn’t wipe her tears. She let them fall deliberately, letting her cheeks glisten. Let them see what they had done. Let them regret it.

She pulled the door open with trembling fingers.

”I knew it,” she said, her voice breaking just enough. ”You still dote on me—”

The words died in her throat.

It wasn’t Logan. It wasn’t Lucas and definitely not Liam.

It was Summer.

Summer leaned casually against the doorframe, eyes sweeping over Layla’s tear-streaked face, then down to her bare foot and the red swelling beginning to form. Her lips curved—not in sympathy.

In amusement.

”You...” Layla’s expression twisted. ”Why is it you? Where are my brothers?”

Summer stepped inside without waiting for permission. Her heels clicked softly against the carpet as she surveyed the chaos—the overturned pillows, the crumpled quilt, the crooked portrait.

She gave a low scoff.

”Look at you,” she said coolly. ”So pathetic.”

Layla’s nails dug into her palms.

”Your brothers already left,” Summer continued, settling into the cushioned chair beside the bed as if she owned the room. ”They went with Ares and Larissa.”

”What?” Layla’s voice cracked. ”Why would they leave? Why didn’t they come comfort me like they usually do?”

Summer crossed her legs elegantly, tilting her head.

”Well...” she said slowly, savoring every word. ”You miscalculated.”

Layla stared at her.

”You played the wrong card today. You made the wrong move.” Summer’s eyes gleamed. ”And Larissa didn’t even have to say a word.”

The name felt like a slap.

”Larissa won,” Summer finished softly. ”Without lifting a finger.”

Layla’s breathing grew uneven.

”No... that’s not possible.”

But even as she said it, doubt began creeping in.

For the first time—

No one had come running.

And somewhere downstairs, in a space she could no longer see, the balance of power had quietly shifted.

...

At exactly eight in the morning, the blades began to spin.

The roar built low and steady as the Sikorsky S-92 lifted from the private helipad behind the Zuvel mansion, scattering dew from the manicured lawns into glittering mist.

The mansion shrank beneath them—white marble, sweeping terraces, a symbol of power growing smaller against the city skyline.

Inside, the helicopter was less of an aircraft and more of an airborne luxury.

Ares had personally overseen the customization.

Electric blue dominated the interior—bold, unapologetic, commanding. Dramatic blue insets of synthetic crocodile leather cut sharply against pristine white seats in the spacious VIP cabin. The oval windows were framed with sky-blue accents that softened the intensity, while satin gold buckles and fittings gleamed subtly under the cabin lights.

Club seating filled the front—four seats arranged for business. Five more in the rear for family. The sidewalls carried the same statement: white leather layered with stingray-patterned blue panels above and crocodile-textured insets below, all framed by custom woodwork lacquered in high-gloss midnight blue.

A plush carpet in deep sapphire anchored the space.

Everything about it whispered wealth and screamed control.

Ares and Scarlet occupied two of the front seats. Lara and Shay sat opposite them. The three siblings relaxed at the back, already absorbed in their own quiet world.

And Sandro, whom Shay dragged along, was sitting comfortably in a chair beside Liam that was too big for him.

Lara wasn’t surprised to see Scarlet waiting in the Zuvel mansion’s living room earlier that morning.

Had she stayed overnight?

Lara had returned to the Norse mansion by sunset. Scarlet must have arrived afterward.

The thought lingered—but Lara didn’t ask.

It wasn’t her place.

Across from her now, Ares was focused on his laptop, sleeves slightly rolled, expression unreadable as financial reports flickered across his screen. Deals. Acquisitions. Strategies. Even at eight in the morning, he was building empires.

Scarlet leaned closer to him than necessary, tablet in hand. Her shoulder almost brushed his. She typed while occasionally glancing toward Shay with a look that was too sharp to be casual.

Earlier, Ares had explained calmly, ”Scarlet will be observing Shay closely. It’s part of her internship.”

Internship.

The word lingered in the air like something polished and convenient.

Lara’s lips curved faintly at the word.

”You don’t have to explain. I understand.” She said quietly.

”You don’t have to explain,” she replied softly. ”I understand.”

And she did.

Scarlet was not just anyone. She was someone special to Ares.

If it were her, she would also take every opportunity to spend time with the one she loved.

Hadn’t she once followed Alaric into the battlefield?

She had ridden beside him across blood-soaked battlefields, armor heavy on her shoulders, the sky dark with arrows.

Hadn’t she crossed mountain ranges and sailed ruthless seas just to stand in foreign courts at his side? To visit vassals and neighboring kingdoms under the guise of diplomacy—when the truth was far simpler?

She wanted to be near him.

And Alaric had done the same—abandoning comfortable routes to travel the longest trade roads, simply because she was there.

Love did not need excuses.

Presence was reason enough. Ares didn’t need to justify Scarlet’s presence.

That was what Lara meant.

Across from her, Ares’ fingers paused over the keyboard.

A faint line formed between his brows.

He looked at her.

”What,” he asked slowly, ”do you understand?”

His tone was calm.

But his eyes were not.