Cynthia sat before a long table, several microphones lined up in front of her. The cameras flashed, and a wall of reporters filled the seats ahead. Behind her stood Nancy, Paula, and Eden — silent pillars of support.
Gasps echoed across the room as Cynthia calmly announced that her current film would be her last. Then, with steady resolve, she confirmed what many had long suspected.
"The rumors are true," she said softly. "I have a daughter. And no— I never gave her away. She has been with me all this time."
A storm of whispers swept through the reporters.
Eden stood frozen behind her, listening as her mother spoke. When Cynthia mentioned her marriage twenty years ago in Paris — "to a fine young man" — Eden's eyes drifted to the silver ring she'd turned into a bracelet. What kind of man was he? she wondered. And why has Mama kept him a secret all these years?
"Where is your daughter now?" a reporter asked.
"She lives with me," Cynthia replied firmly. "And I would prefer to keep her away from the spotlight. I want her to live a simple, peaceful life."
As she spoke, Eden noticed a man among the reporters — he wasn't taking notes. Instead, he stood abruptly, leaving behind a silver briefcase.
Her heartbeat quickened. That's strange… she thought. The man slipped quietly out of the room.
A moment later, Davin entered — tall, sharp in his uniform, several men following him. They fanned out along the sides of the room. Eden turned to Paula.
"What's going on?" she whispered.
"I have no idea," Paula murmured back. "But that's the same man we saw at the orphanage, isn't it? Lt. Commander?"
"He sure is," Eden whispered, eyes narrowing. "Did Mom add extra security?"
Before Paula could answer, a violent explosion ripped through the air.
The sound was deafening — a wall of fire and smoke swallowed the front of the room. Cynthia's voice disappeared into the roar as glass shattered and people screamed. Davin moved in an instant, throwing himself toward Eden, shielding her as debris rained down.
Another blast followed, shaking the floor. Chaos erupted — alarms blared, people ducked, and Davin's men surrounded Cynthia, Paula, and Nancy. Eden felt her world spin into noise and dust as everything went dark.
When Eden opened her eyes, the world was gray with smoke. Davin's body was draped over hers, shielding her from the debris.
"Lt. Commander?" she whispered, dazed.
He lifted his head, eyes scanning the chaos. "Are you hurt?"
"I—I don't think so. Thanks to you," she said, coughing as the smoke stung her throat. Then panic struck her. "Mama!"
Davin helped her to her feet. Around them, the conference hall was unrecognizable—tables overturned, shattered glass glittering under the flickering lights. Bodies of reporters lay scattered across the floor. Eden gasped, pressing her hand to her mouth, but Davin quickly stepped in front of her, blocking her view.
"This is Lt. Commander Bryant. Can you hear me?" His tone was sharp, commanding as he pressed a finger to the comm device on his ear.
"We hear you, Commander," came the reply.
"I need ambulances and paramedics, now. Send in backup and secure the perimeter."
Eden barely heard the exchange. Her eyes darted across the smoke-filled room. "Mama! Aunt Paula!"
Davin's men were already moving. Within minutes, the room filled with medics and SWAT responders. Cynthia, Paula, and Nancy were carried out—injured but alive.
Later, at the hospital, Eden sat in the hallway, her hands trembling as she clutched the silver ring around her wrist. When she saw the blood on her mother's head earlier, she'd felt her heart stop. Cynthia was still in surgery, and every second of waiting gnawed at her nerves.
Across the corridor, Davin was speaking quietly to his team, giving orders to tighten security. He glanced toward her—she sat so still, like a statue of worry and prayer. He started walking toward her.
But before he could reach her, a flash of light broke the stillness.
A woman stood in front of Eden, a camera pointed directly at her.
"You were one of the PAs, right?" the reporter asked breathlessly. "You were there when the explosion happened—can you tell us what you saw? Do you think this was an attack on Miss Cynthia Anderson?"
Eden looked up slowly, her eyes wide and hollow from shock. For a heartbeat, she said nothing—only the sound of the camera shutter echoed in the sterile hospital hall.
Eden stared blankly at the woman in front of her. The reporter's lips were moving, but her words didn't make sense. What was she asking? All Eden could think of was her mother — her voice, her smile, her blood staining the floor.
"Do you think this explosion was—" the reporter began, but her question was cut short when a hand snatched the camera from her companion. Davin ripped the memory card free and snapped it in half.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" the woman shouted.
"I should be asking you the same thing," Davin replied, his tone sharp and cold.
"I'm covering a story! This is an exclusive—"
He ignored her and turned toward the soldiers posted nearby. "Who let them in?" His voice dropped lower, dangerous. The soldiers stiffened.
"Escort them outside the hospital," he ordered.
"Wait—what? You can't do this!" the reporter protested, grabbing his arm. Davin's eyes flicked down to her hand, then back to her face, his expression unreadable.
"Move her out," he said. The soldiers immediately stepped forward.
"This is insane! Do you even know who I am?" she snapped, struggling as they guided her away. Davin didn't answer. His silence was heavier than anger, and the reporter's protests faded down the corridor.
"Lt. Commander," a voice called from behind. Davin turned to see one of his men approaching, an arm strapped in a sling.
"How's your hand?"
"It's fine, sir. I'll head back to the site, see what we can recover about the explosion."
"Good. Keep me updated," Davin said, his tone curt but steady.
When his officer left, Davin glanced back toward the waiting area. Eden was still there — silent, pale, her eyes fixed on the floor as if afraid to look up. He exhaled slowly. For now, the safest thing she could do was not remember any of this.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Davin said.
The soldier gave a sharp salute before exiting the hallway.
When he was gone, Davin turned to Eden. He noticed a faint scrape along her hand, streaked with dried blood.
"You're hurt," he said, reaching out to inspect it.
Eden blinked, startled. "I'm fine," she replied, pulling her hand back too quickly.
"Let's get this treated."
"I told you, I'm fine!" Her voice came out sharper than she meant. She caught her breath and lowered her gaze. "Sorry. I'm just… a little tense."
Davin's expression softened for a moment. He could see her hands trembling despite her denial. He was about to reach for her again when a voice called out—
"Davin."
He turned to see a woman in a doctor's coat walking briskly toward them.
"Aunt Claire," he greeted.
Eden stood at once, panic flickering in her eyes. "How's my mother?" she asked, forgetting her pretense entirely.
Claire paused, surprise flashing in her gaze before she looked at Davin. He gave a silent nod.
"She's fine," Claire said gently. "We were lucky—it was just a small wound to the head. She's resting now."
"That's… a relief." Eden sank back into her chair, a shaky breath escaping her lips.
"You can visit her now," Claire added with a reassuring smile.
"What about Nancy and my godmother Paula?"
"They're both fine, just resting in their rooms," Claire replied.
Davin turned to one of his men nearby. "Escort Miss Eden to her mother's room," he ordered.
The soldier nodded and stepped forward. As Eden followed him down the corridor, Davin watched her go—her shoulders tense but her steps determined. For the first time since the blast, he allowed himself a quiet breath of relief.