<h4>Chapter 123: Let’s Hear a Story</h4>


    Anthony was startled by the second voice in his study.


    Other than the cleaningdy, no one had the permission to enter this room. Even she only came when he was out of the house. That was the strict rule he had imposed himself. This study was his sanctuary... a ce where he could reflect, read, and work in solitude. His personal thoughts remained behind this door, and he guarded them fiercely. When he was reading or writing, even the faintest presence nearby would disrupt his concentration.


    Though surprised and admittedly unsettled by the sudden presence, Anthony managed to keep hisposure. There, seated casually in one of the armchairs across from him, was a figure dressed head to toe in ck.


    "Who are you?" Anthony asked, voice calm but tinged with tension.


    Although his voice quivered slightly at the end, it was remarkable that he hadn’t screamed or raised an rm.


    "That’s not the right question," the man in ck said, his tone slow and deliberate. "The correct question is: What do you want?"


    The man’s entire body, including his face, was shrouded in ck cloth. He sat with the air of someone who owned the ce...pletely at ease, almost disdainfully so.


    Barron Anthony Hayward Chapman had never encountered such a brazen intruder in all his years. Taking a deep breath, he replied, "Fine, then. What do you want?"


    The man leaned forward just slightly. "I want you to be the party chief... and work under my boss."


    Anthony scoffed at the sheer audacity of the request. "You think bing party chief is that simple? Although I’ve never pursued leadership, even if I tried, it’s a brutal uphill battle. There are alliances, deals, and decades of positioning. You can’t just waltz in here and hand me a crown."


    He paused, his eyes narrowing. "I don’t know how you managed to sneak into my study. And frankly, I’m not interested in finding out which of my staff helped you. But I’m giving you one polite warning: leave now. Otherwise, I’ll call the authorities."


    The man in ck chuckled softly, the sound strangely devoid of humor. "Why the rush, Barron? We’ve only just begun. I want to tell you a story. I think you’ll find it... important."


    Anthony raised an eyebrow, suspicion hardening his expression. "Is this some kind of prank? Am I being recorded for some hidden camera show? Or is this some bizarre live show? Where did you hide your cameras?"


    He nced around the room instinctively, eyes searching for a concealed lens.


    "Rx," the man said, his voice calm. "There are no recordings. No livestream. This is real. I’m genuinely here to tell you a story."


    He cleared his throat, then continued, "Listen carefully."


    "Many years ago," he began, "a young girl was sick one Sunday. Her family, as was their custom, went to church without her. They left her at home, thinking she would rest and recover."


    His voice grew solemn.


    "That day, a terrorist attack struck the church. Every member of her family died in the explosion. The girl survived by sheer ident, but she became an orphan in an instant."


    Anthony’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t interrupt.


    "A local clergyman from another church took her in temporarily. When higher authorities from the Church arrived to investigate the tragedy, a visiting deacon met the girl. The deacon, moved by the girl’s story and resilience, took her to a church-run boarding school. She arranged a stipend for the girl and monitored her progress over the years."


    The man in ck paused briefly, as if letting the weight of the story sink in.


    "The girl turned out to be a prodigy. She earned schrships at every level of her education and eventually gained admission to a prestigious university. The deacon was so proud of her that she held a celebration at the church in her honor."


    Anthony was listening intently now, his earlier wariness reced by curiosity.


    "But, as with every story, there was a viin," the man continued. "A powerful local man with influence, wealth, and the means to destroy lives. The girl had fallen in love with his son. The powerful man disapproved of the rtionship. He sent his men to threaten and harass the girl, even warning her that her life... and the lives of those she loved... were at risk."


    The story grew darker.


    "Frightened, the girl turned to the deacon for help. By that time, the deacon had be an archbishop. She wielded some political weight. Although she couldn’t directly confront the powerful man, she managed to secretly send the girl abroad for safety."


    He paused again, this time for longer. Anthony’s gaze never left him.


    "There’s a twist," the man said softly. "It waster discovered that the girl had been pregnant when she fled. She gave birth in a foreignnd, alone and in hiding. She never married. She raised the child... her daughter... on her own. A daughter born out of love, born in secret."


    A silence settled in the room.


    "The girl is now a woman. And that woman works under my boss."


    The man in ck leaned back, folding his hands on hisp. His story was finished... or at least, almost.


    Anthony’s voice was barely above a whisper. "What are their names?"


    The man didn’t hesitate. "The girl’s parents were Jack Osborne and Katherine Wilson. The girl’s name was Joan Kelly Osborne."


    The name hit Anthony like a thunderp.


    The man added casually, "Would you like to know the name of the viin in the story? Or the son she loved?"


    Anthony inhaled deeply, struggling to steady his nerves. His chest felt tight. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum. Slowly, deliberately, he locked eyes with the intruder... his gaze settling on the only visible part of the man’s face: his eyes.


    And then, with a trembling voice, he asked the one question he needed to ask before tears clouded his eyes and mind.


    "Where is my daughter?"