The General's Daughter: The Mission

Chapter 198: Father and Daughter Moments

His uncle.

Ares let out a slow breath, then pressed his lips into a thin line, irritation flashing beneath the surface.

"That greedy old man..." he murmured under his breath.

It was never going to end this easily.

Not when the prize was the family heirloom.

Not when obsession had already taken root.

His uncle would keep coming—again and again—until he either got what he wanted...

—or was buried for trying.

Not even half a month had passed, and yet he stirred up another piece of trouble.

Ares turned away, already losing interest in the broken man behind him. The outcome had been decided the moment the truth was confirmed.

"Since he talked, released him." He commanded.

But just as he reached the door—

Ding.

A sharp vibration broke the stillness.

Ares paused. That tone. It wasn’t just any message. It was Asher.

Another notification followed immediately.

Ding.

Ding.

Ares frowned slightly, pulling his phone from his pocket. It wasn’t like Asher to flood him with messages—one was usually enough.

"What now...?" he muttered, more curious than concerned.

He unlocked the screen with a smooth swipe.

And then—

He saw it.

The photos.

For a split second, the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Ares’s gaze darkened.

On the screen, under the blazing sunlight of Isla, stood Lara—

—and a man beside her.

Close. He was too close.

The man was tall, well-built, and dressed in uniform. His posture protective, his presence... familiar in a way Ares did not like.

In one frame, he was handing her a bottle of water.

In another, their hands nearly touched.

Ares didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

But something dangerous began to coil beneath the surface.

Another message from Asher sat below the images, almost taunting in its simplicity:

"Shay might soon be calling another man, Daddy."

Silence fell again.

He stared at the screen for a long moment—long enough for the air itself to feel strained.

Then slowly... very slowly... Ares smiled.

Not warmly. Not kindly.

But with a sharp, quiet edge that promised trouble.

"...Is that so?"

His voice was stern.

And somewhere far away, under the same unforgiving sun of Isla—

Someone was about to regret standing too close to what did not belong to him.

...

Artemio had been watching for a while.

Not obviously. Not in a way that would draw attention. But like a predator studying the rhythm of its surroundings—waiting, calculating, patient.

So when Aquilo finally stepped back after handing Lara the water, Artemio saw it.

An opening.

So, he moved.

Their eyes met briefly—just a flicker—and Artemio gave the slightest signal.

Aquilo stiffened.

Reluctance flashed across his face, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze lingered on Lara for half a second too long.

Then Artemio looked at him again.

His gaze was cold, sharp, and final.

Aquilo exhaled quietly, masking his frustration, before stepping back.

"I’ll take my leave for now," he said, his tone controlled. He didn’t wait for a response.

He left.

And just like that, the space around Lara shifted.

Heavy silence settled between them.

Artemio approached and took the seat across from her without asking.

They sat beneath a large blue umbrella, its fabric fluttering faintly in the warm breeze.

The table between them was pristine, almost too clean for a place filled with dust and ruins—as if someone had deliberately carved out this small pocket of civility in the middle of excavation chaos.

But there was nothing gentle about the man now sitting across from her.

"Aren’t you going to ask me questions?" Artemio said, his voice calm—too calm.

Lara didn’t answer immediately. Because she couldn’t.

The moment his gaze locked onto hers, something deep inside her recoiled.

It wasn’t fear born from thought. It was instinct. Raw. Unfiltered.

Her body recognized him before her mind accepted it.

Every nerve seemed to tense at once, her spine stiffening, her breath catching ever so slightly. It was the kind of reaction one couldn’t fake—and couldn’t easily suppress.

Danger.

That was what her body whispered.

Lara’s fingers tightened subtly against her lap. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to gather the fragments of her composure before they slipped any further.

When she finally spoke, her voice was measured—slow, deliberate, stripped of anything that might betray her unease.

"I saw the photo," she said.

Her eyes did not leave his.

"And I figured out... you are my father." Her voice was flat, almost mechanical. No tremor. No hesitation.

Just a statement.

Artemio didn’t interrupt and did not react.

He simply watched her, listening with a level of attention that felt almost oppressive.

Lara continued, her tone sharpening just a fraction.

"But what I can’t figure out..." she said, each word chosen carefully, "is why I am Larissa Reyes

..."

She paused. A challenge.

"...and not Larissa Fuegerro."

Silence followed. Heavy and taut.

And then— Artemio chuckled.

It was low, amused.

As if she had said something mildly entertaining rather than something that cut straight to the truth.

The sound sent a violent ripple through her.

Before she could stop it, Lara’s body reacted.

A tremor ran through her hands.

Her shoulders stiffened.

Her breath hitched for the briefest second.

It was involuntary. Unwelcome. And infuriating.

Her fingers curled tightly into fists beneath the table, nails pressing into her palms as she forced herself to stay still—forced her body into submission.

She would not show weakness.

Not to him. Not now.

Across from her, Artemio’s sharp gaze missed nothing.

And if anything—

That reaction only made the faint curve of his smile deepen.

Artemio leaned back slightly in his chair, as if settling into a conversation he had long anticipated.

"Reyes..." he repeated, almost tasting the name. "A convenient lie to protect your identity."

Lara’s jaw tightened.

"A lie?" she echoed, her voice sharper now. "Then tell me the truth."

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it grew colder—more assessing.

"You think you’re ready for it?"

The question struck harder than she expected.

Lara straightened, forcing down the unease clawing at her chest. "I deserve it."

Another low chuckle escaped him—but this time, there was no amusement in it.

"Deserve?" Artemio said. "The truth is a bitter pill to swallow, Lara."

He leaned forward slightly, his presence pressing down on her like an invisible weight.

"You are not ready to receive it, yet."

The words settled between them like a verdict.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then—

"You were not meant to live as Lara Fuegerro..."