Chapter 1381:


    A sudden rush of nostalgia hit Cohen, catching himpletely off guard. A shiver ran down his spine as fear of what might have happened gripped him.


    Another question formed in his mind as he wondered why he had acted so recklessly.


    A quiet curse echoed within him, and he finally managed to speak with an unsteady voice. “Are you Richard’s daughter?”


    A heavy weakness settled over Cohen. He could no longer keep a firm grip on the rifle as his strength slipped away without warning.


    Maia moved quickly and jerked the rifle from his hands. She handled the weapon with ease until it came apart in one swift motion.


    A sharp “click” followed as the bullets scattered across the floor.


    A momentter, she flung the empty rifle to the side.


    “Who are you supposed to be?” She stood with a steady posture and met him with a gaze as cold as steel. Her tone stayed calm. “Richard is not my real father. I stopped using the name Maia Morgan years ago.”


    A look of shock settled on Cohen’s face as he pointed a finger toward his own chest. “It’s me. I am Mr. Archer. Do you still remember me?”


    “Mr. Archer?” Maia arched a brow, genuine confusioncing her voice.


    The moment the name slipped out, the entire hall drew a sharp breath.


    “What? Maia knows the man trying to kill her?”


    “What did she do to deserve this? Why does this man hate her so much?”


    “No, look—he didn’t even recognize her at first. He nearly shot the wrong person!”


    Another voice cut through the growing murmurs. “Where are the security guards? Why isn’t anyone restraining him?”


    Up on the stage, Kiley stayed unnervingly calm. The situation was spiraling, but she didn’t know whether this was part of Raegan’s design or aplete derailment. She subtly signaled her people to hold position.


    Pattie and Rnd moved as if to rush in, but Maia lifted a hand, stopping them with a steady warning.


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    “Stay back. Be careful.” Her gaze never left the man in front of her.


    The name Mr. Archer tugged faintly at her memory.


    But the middle-aged man standing there—stubble covering his jaw, skin weathered, eyes sunken with years of exhaustion—felt like a stranger. His cheekbones were sharp, his expression harsh. He was a man remade, almost beyond recognition, by years of toil.


    But regardless of who he once was, the way he’d pulled the trigger moments ago told her everything she needed to know.


    He hadn’t hesitated. He had fully intended to kill her.


    Maia’s eyes hardened. She shifted her weight, ready to move at the slightest twitch. A man who fired once could easily have another weapon hidden.


    Seeing she didn’t recognize him, Cohen grew unexpectedly agitated. His shoulders shook, and his voice trembled with something caught between excitement and desperation. “When you were little,” he stammered, “you used to bring me meals. Every time, I’d tell you a story.”


    Maia froze. It was as though a sealed door in her memory cracked open, and light spilled through.


    From the depths of her childhood, she recalled the injured man who had taken refuge in the Morgans’ attic.


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