Anthony was startled by the second voice in his study.
Other than the cleaning lady, no one had the permission to enter this room. Even she only ca when he was out of the house. That was the strict rule he had imposed himself. This study was his sanctuary... a place 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 his composure. There, seated casually in one of the armchairs across from him, was a figure dressed head to toe in black.
"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 scread or raised an alarm.
"That’s not the right question," the man in black 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 black cloth. He sat with the air of soone who owned the place... completely 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 beco the party chief... and work under my boss."
Anthony scoffed at the sheer audacity of the request. "You think becoming 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 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 black 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 so kind of prank? Am I being recorded for so hidden cara show? Or is this so bizarre live show? Where did you hide your caras?"
He glanced around the room instinctively, eyes searching for a concealed lens.
"Relax," 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 ho, thinking she would rest and recover."
His voice grew solemn.
"That day, a terrorist attack struck the church. Every mber of her family died in the explosion. The girl survived by sheer accident, but she beca 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 t 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 black paused briefly, as if letting the weight of the story sink in.
"The girl turned out to be a prodigy. She earned scholarships 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 replaced by curiosity.
"But, as with every story, there was a villain," the man continued. "A powerful local man with influence, wealth, and the ans to destroy lives. The girl had fallen in love with his son. The powerful man disapproved of the relationship. He sent his n 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 ti, the deacon had beco an archbishop. She wielded so 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 ti for longer. Anthony’s gaze never left him.
"There’s a twist," the man said softly. "It was later discovered that the girl had been pregnant when she fled. She gave birth in a foreign land, 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 black leaned back, folding his hands on his lap. His story was finished... or at least, almost.
Anthony’s voice was barely above a whisper. "What are their nas?"
The man didn’t hesitate. "The girl’s parents were Jack Osborne and Katherine Wilson. The girl’s na was Joan Kelly Osborne."
The na hit Anthony like a thunderclap.
The man added casually, "Would you like to know the na of the villain 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?"
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