The General's Daughter: The Mission

Beatrice hummed softly as she sat before the vanity mirror, the melody light and almost girlish—completely unlike the woman she usually was.

Warm golden lights framed the mirror, casting a flattering glow across her carefully made-up face. Powders, brushes, lipsticks, and expensive skincare products littered the marble vanity table like treasures from a luxury boutique. The scent of perfume and setting spray lingered heavily in the air.

For nearly two hours, she had been perfecting every detail.

Every lash. Every strand of hair. Every stroke of lipstick.

”Mom,” Moira said from the doorway, amusement slipping into her voice. ”Why are you so happy tonight? You’ve been in front of that mirror forever.”

She walked closer until their reflections nearly overlapped in the mirror.

Moira blinked in surprise.

”Wow...” she murmured honestly. ”Your makeup is incredible. You don’t even look like my mother.” She grinned teasingly. ”You look young enough to be my older sister.”

Beatrice’s lips curved upward immediately, clearly pleased by the compliment.

”Of course I do,” she replied smugly. ”I trained under some of the best beauticians in the country. And these products are imported. Do you know how expensive they are?”

Her fingers lightly touched her cheek as her gaze lingered on their reflections side by side.

Moira was right.

They looked like sisters.

The years seemed to have melted away from Beatrice’s face, leaving behind only elegance and carefully preserved beauty. Her skin looked smooth beneath the warm lighting, her curls glossy and styled perfectly around her shoulders. Combined with the silk dress hugging her figure, she looked less like a mother and more like a woman preparing for the most important night of her life.

”Mom...” Moira narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ”You still haven’t answered me.” She leaned against the vanity table. ”Are you going on a date?”

A dreamy expression softened Beatrice’s features.

”Yes, my dear,” she admitted quietly.

For a moment, her eyes lost focus, as though she were seeing someone far away.

”I’m going to meet a very special man.”

Moira frowned slightly at the unusual tenderness in her mother’s voice.

”A special man?” she repeated slowly. Then her brows lifted. ”Wait... could it be my father?”

Beatrice froze for half a second.

Then she laughed.

It was the kind of laugh meant to hide something.

...

When her mother finally left the house, Moira stood by the window and watched the car disappear beyond the gates.

For a brief moment, she considered following her in secret.

Not because of excitement.

Not because she longed to reunite with the father she had never known.

She was simply... curious.

Curious about the kind of man who could disappear for most of her life yet still make her mother look at the mirror like a lovestruck teenager.

Curious about the man whose existence had always felt more like a story than reality.

Moira barely remembered him.

Only fragments remained from her childhood—a tall silhouette, the faint scent of expensive cologne, a deep voice she could no longer clearly recall. His face had long faded from her memory, worn away by years of absence and indifference.

Whenever she asked about him as a child, her mother always gave the same answer.

Your father is a very special man.

He’s away because of business.

At first, Moira believed it. Then she waited. And waited.

Birthdays passed. School events passed. Holidays passed.

The ”special man” never came.

Eventually, the answers began sounding rehearsed, empty enough to lose meaning. Moira stopped asking questions long ago because she realized something simple:

If a man wanted to be part of her life, he would have been.

So she stopped wondering about him. Stopped expecting him.

Stopped caring.

In her mind, her father occupied the same place as the dead—not mourned, not loved, simply absent.

Moira rested her chin against her palm as she stared at the dark road outside.

Then she exhaled softly and stepped away from the window.

In the end, she decided not to follow her mother.

The man she was about to meet was a stranger anyway.

...

Beatrice sat alone inside the restaurant’s private room, surrounded by soft golden lighting, velvet chairs, and walls lined with dark wood polished to perfection.

Classical music drifted faintly from outside, elegant and calm—mocking the storm slowly building inside her chest.

A bottle of imported wine rested on the table beside her half-filled glass.

She lifted it with practiced grace, fingers delicately holding the stem in a way that revealed this was not unfamiliar territory to her. Beatrice had spent enough years around wealth to mimic sophistication perfectly.

But tonight, her composure was beginning to crack. Half an hour had already passed.

The untouched dishes on the table had long gone cold.

Her eyes flicked repeatedly toward the door every time footsteps echoed from outside, only for disappointment to settle heavier each time they passed by.

A dangerous thought slowly crept into her mind.

What if he doesn’t come?

Again.

Her stomach tightened painfully.

Beatrice lowered the wine glass before her trembling fingers betrayed her anxiety. Beneath the table, her nails dug into her palms hard enough to leave crescent marks on her skin.

No.

She forced herself to calm down.

She could not afford to look desperate.

Especially not in front of him.

After all these years, she understood one thing clearly: men like him could smell weakness the same way predators smelled blood.

So she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and reached for her compact mirror.

For the third time in less than an hour, she retouched her makeup even though it remained flawless. She reapplied lipstick with careful precision, checked the softness of her curls, adjusted the neckline of her dress.

Anything to distract herself from the humiliating possibility that she had been summoned only to be ignored. Again.

The clock continued ticking.

Each second stretched painfully longer than the last.

Then—

The door finally opened.

Beatrice’s breath caught.

A tall figure stepped inside, and suddenly the entire room felt smaller.

He entered without hurry, dressed in an immaculately tailored black suit that seemed molded perfectly to his body. Power clung to him as naturally as his shadow.

The years had been kind to him, almost respectfully. Though well into his fifties, he looked devastatingly younger—his face still sharp and commanding, his broad frame still imposing enough to dominate the room the moment he walked in.

But it was his eyes that remained unchanged.

Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.

The kind of eyes that could make a woman feel chosen one second and destroyed the next.

Even the air shifted around him.

The waiters outside grew quieter. The atmosphere itself seemed to bend under the sheer weight of his presence.

Beatrice’s heart pounded so violently she feared he might hear it.

For a moment, she forgot every rehearsed line she had prepared.

Forgot the years. Forgot the resentment. Forgot her anger at being abandoned over and over again.

Because he still had the terrifying ability to make her feel like a young woman standing before him for the first time.

Slowly, she rose from her seat.

”Anton...” she whispered, her voice softer than intended. ”It’s been so long.”