The General's Daughter: The Mission

Beatrice had spent days trying to uncover information, but every lead ended in frustration.

The household staff knew next to nothing. They were either genuinely clueless or too loyal to speak.

Moira had been even more useless. The thought made Beatrice’s lips curl in irritation.

That daughter of hers was becoming more disappointing with every passing day. She had been given every opportunity, every advantage, yet she could not even secure Asher’s affection.

Sometimes, Beatrice genuinely wondered how she had given birth to someone so foolish.

She had successfully gotten pregnant to a Zuvel princess, but she got the wrong man.

If only Anton had been her father...

The thought surfaced often, carrying with it an old bitterness that time had never managed to erase.

Back then, she was young and naive enough to believe sweet promises.

That scumbag had told her she was the only woman in his heart.

He had slipped a diamond ring onto her finger and whispered dreams of their future together. Once he inherited the family company, he said, he would give her everything she deserved—a mansion, a lavish wedding, and most importantly, his name.

And she had believed every word.

The truth revealed itself when she was seven months pregnant with Moira.

That afternoon, a sudden cramp had seized her stomach while she was shopping. Fearing something was wrong with the baby, she rushed to the nearest hospital instead of the private clinic where she usually attended her prenatal appointments.

It was there that her world shattered.

Through the glass doors of the obstetrics department, she saw him.

The man she loved. The man who claimed she was his entire world.

He was standing beside another heavily pregnant woman, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder while the other held the hand of a little boy no older than five.

His wife. His son. His family.

For several long seconds, Beatrice simply stood there. The corridor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.

The laughter of nurses, the beeping machines, the conversations around her—all faded into silence.

Only that scene remained.

The perfect family he had hidden from her.

Even then, she had been naïve. She turned around and left without creating a scene.

Without confronting him.

Without demanding answers.

She waited until that evening when he arrived at her apartment wearing the same smile he always wore.

The moment he stepped inside, she exploded.

The argument that followed was vicious.

Years later, she could no longer remember every word they exchanged, only the betrayal that had burned through her veins.

Her rage became so intense that labor pains struck before dawn.

Moira was born weeks too early.

The scumbag arrived at the hospital carrying flowers, apologies, and guilt.

Then he offered her money. A lot of money. And afterward, he demanded custody of the child.

The memory still made her laugh. A bitter, mocking laugh.

He truly believed she would hand over her daughter so easily.

Beatrice accepted the money without hesitation.

Five million. It was enough for her to start a life with her daughter somewhere.

The jewelry he had given him in the two years they were togethere were worth nearly as much.

She was heartbroken, not stupid.

”The baby is still too young,” she had told him sweetly. ”Let me take care of her first.”

The fool believed her.

A few weeks later, Beatrice disappeared.

She took the money. She took every necklace, bracelet, and diamond he had ever bought her.

And she took Moira.

Without leaving so much as a goodbye, she fled the country and raised her daughter overseas for seven years.

By the time she returned, she had every intention of making him pay. Only to discover that fate had beaten her to it.

The man was gone along with his wife and his son.

The entire family had migrated overseas years earlier, vanishing as though they had never existed.

And just like that, the revenge she had nurtured for seven long years slipped through her fingers.

...

Beatrice was pulled from her reverie by the soft rustle of fabric.

Anton was getting dressed.

”There is quite a collection,” she said.

She rose from the bed and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond the glass, the city lights glittered like scattered jewels against the distant darkness.

As she stared out, she recalled everything she had managed to piece together.

In the end, it had not been the servants or investigators who had provided the most valuable information.

It was Shay.

The little girl had revealed everything in her innocent, childlike way.

Beatrice could still remember the excitement dancing in Shay’s eyes as she described what she had discovered in her father’s study.

A treasure chest.

A real treasure chest.

The child had even used her tiny hands to demonstrate its size.

Beatrice had repeated every detail to Anton.

”Necklaces. Bracelets. Tiaras. Rings. Brooches.”

Her voice softened into a near whisper.

”An entire chest filled with ancient jewelry.”

Silence descended upon the room. Anton remained motionless. His gaze lowered to the crystal glass in his hand.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his fingers tightened around its delicate stem.

A faint crack appeared near the base.

An entire chest. Not just few scattered relics nor a handful of heirlooms hidden away in a vault but an entire treasure trove.

The kind that could fill museums. The kind that could build legends.

For the second time in his life, Anton Trillo felt the bitter poison of envy.

The first had been when he learned the truth about Ares. That Ares descended directly from Emperor Alaric Kromwel.

The revelation had tormented him for weeks.

Ares possessed something Anton had spent decades desperately trying to create.

Bloodline. History. A connection to a dynasty that had captured the imagination of an entire nation and the entire world.

While Anton had spent years manufacturing influence, Ares had inherited it simply by being born.

The unfairness of it still gnawed at him.

Fortunately, Anton had eventually discovered a solution.

History, after all, was nothing more than a story people agreed to believe. Tell a lie often enough, and it became fact.

Fund a narrative long enough, and it became history.

Most people never questioned what was placed before them. And Anton had built his empire on understanding exactly that.

His gaze drifted toward the invitation resting on the table.

The Imperial Hotel.

The auction.

The Kromwel treasures.

Everywhere Ares went, his claim to the past seemed to grow stronger.

And somehow, everything he touched transformed into wealth, influence, and public admiration.

Anton hated that. A slow smile curved across his lips.

It was not a pleasant smile. It was the smile that appeared whenever he identified a target.

A problem. An obstacle standing in his path.

His mind was already moving, already calculating possibilities.

Sooner or later, every treasure changed hands. Every dynasty produced enemies.

And every story...could be rewritten.

His eyes settled once more on the invitation.

Then his smile deepened.

Because for the first time since hearing about the auction, an idea had begun to form.

And Anton Trillo had never been a man who ignored an opportunity.