The Governor's Daughter :

A Steamy Enemy-to-Lovers Romance (Book One of the Han'gua Chronicles)

(sample)

by Parker Williamson

Prologue: The Denial

September 15, 2025.

"Come in."

Emilio Reyes sat behind his mahogany desk, the wood polished to a mirror sheen, the corners carved with the red, white and blue seal of the United States of America. The walls rose high and dark, paneled in native hardwood that hadn’t been milled in decades—illegal now, but grandfathered in. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one side, full of thick, leather-bound volumes embossed in gold: legal codes, economic reports, family histories—anachronisms in a digital age. Across from them, museum-lit display cases showcased medals, archival photos, and gifts from heads of state like the trophies of an undefeated gladiator.

The air was cool and dry, regulated by a climate system quieter than a breath. Heavy double doors shut out the sound of the rest of the house. The curtains, drawn just enough to let in a slice of light, were custom-dyed to match the deep red of Hangua’s flag—the dark color of blood. 

Behind him, the seal of Hangua gleamed on the wall, cast in bronze and mounted with screws the size of a man’s thumb. The desk itself had been imported from Washington D.C. to the first civilian governor after the 2nd Great War. Emilio Reyes, the 8th Governor of Hangua sat with a glass of whiskey in his right hand. Produced by a private distillery, bottled 17 years ago, the same year he first won the office. Half drunk it was the only evidence he wasn’t a species of statue.

Senator Julian Oz entered as if he belonged there. Navy suit, burgundy tie, every detail deliberate. His face remained calm, but his eyes catalogued everything.

"Governor." 

"Senator." Emilio gestured to the chair across from him. "Let's not waste time."

Oz sat with the stillness of a man who'd already won. Not smugness—worse. Certainty. "I want your endorsement for Diplomatic Liaison to the U.S."

No preamble. No diplomacy.

Emilio studied him through the silence, letting it thicken between them.

"I'm the strongest candidate," Oz continued. "I have relationships on the hill. I've earned respect on the floor, both here and abroad. I understand the capital’s language—its politics, its rhythms, its fears. More than that, I can sell the integration vote to people who still don't trust it. They'll listen to me."

Emilio took off his glasses, idly wiping the lens clean with a small cloth. "You're not wrong. You're persuasive. Young. Energetic. Half-American blood." He paused. "America likes that."

Oz waited.

"But you're not getting the appointment."

Oz didn't blink, but something shifted behind his eyes. "May I ask why?"

Emilio took a measured sip. "Because this isn't about capability. It's about the message we send."

"And you think I send the wrong one."

"I think you send an uncertain one." Emilio leaned back. "For the first time in our island's history, there's a real opening for statehood. China's aggression has softened internal resistance. DC is listening—but they're not eager. They're looking for stability, legacy, proof Hangua belongs and always has."

He let the words settle like sediment.

"Theodore Washington moves to the island next month. Son of the Vice President. He'll establish residency, take meetings, smile for cameras. Then I'll appoint him as liaison."

Oz's jaw flexed once. "Washington."

"I'm aligning Hangua's bid with a name the country already trusts."

The moment stretched taut as wire.

Emilio sighed. "You're talented, Oz. If this were just policy, you'd have it already. But this is theater, and in theater, bloodlines matter. Theodore Washington represents both America’s past and its future. His appointment tells China we're serious. It tells the U.S. electorate that Hangua is more than a military outpost."

"And where does that leave me?"

"Where you are now. Working. Rising. Waiting." Emilio rotated his glass, ice cubes circling. "You have a bright future if you're willing to be patient."

Something flickered behind Oz's eyes—quick and unreadable. He stood with fluid precision. "Thank you for your time, Governor."

"You're disappointed."

Oz offered a paper thin smile. "I understand." He nodded once and turned toward the door.

Emilio watched him leave. No dramatic exit, no parting threats—yet something lingered in the air like the taste of copper before a storm. It was the right decision. Washington was safe, smart, Hangua's best chance at real integration.

And yet.

Senator Oz wasn't known for volatility, but Emilio knew better than to wound ambitious men and expect no response. Sometimes slights festered in darkness, their consequences unpredictable.

He took another sip. The whiskey tasted the same, but the chill remained.

It was the right decision. He had to believe that.

His gaze drifted to the credenza, to a small frame holding a photograph of his daughter Camilla as a child, clutching her mother's hand outside a polling station. The girl's face blazed with faith in things Emilio wasn't sure existed anymore.

There was always a price. The cost would come.

He didn't fear Oz's disappointment—but some men don't stay disappointed long.

Chapter 1: Chains of Gold

November 4, 2025

"What happens if I say no?"

Camilla shifted in the leather seat, silk whispering against her thighs. For the last twenty-eight years her life was schedules, dress codes, scripts—but today, she was done. She glared into the rearview mirror, locking eyes with the driver. Sharp. Expectant. Almost daring. "What if I don't want to go to the stupid dinner?"

Niko Tamayo didn't flinch. From the front seat, he lifted one perfectly groomed brow and exhaled through his nose—a subtle sigh that said not this again, though something softer lived underneath. Resignation. Affection.

"Then I drive us in circles until your father thinks you're lost," he replied smoothly, eyes on the road. "I get fired. But you, my darling, still end up at the event. Because no one says no to Governor Emilio Reyes. Not even you."

As she rebraided Camilla’s hair, Mari Cruz snorted—a warm, sun-drenched sound slicing through the tension. With her pink hoodie and blue glasses holding up her hair, she was rebellion incarnate: wild curls piled high, bronze skin glowing in afternoon light filtered through tinted glass. Legs tucked under her, she sat sideways like the car belonged to her. 

Mari preferred a more modern style on Camilla and would undo her more traditional braid any chance she got. "Oh please," she said, popping her gum. "Like you've ever actually tried saying no."

Camilla stiffened.

The car hummed forward—a black, silent transport ferrying Hangua's princess between stages. From council receptions to veteran award luncheons, her day had been curated down to the minute. Even her dress wasn't hers. Navy blue— selected to match regional colors. Elegant. Tasteful. Controlled.

Last week she'd asked to cut her hair. Nothing drastic—shoulder-length, a reset.

Her father blanched. "Your hair is part of the brand. Part of your public identity. Continuity matters." It wasn't a conversation. It was a correction.

Niko caught her expression in the mirror, his tone softening. "You wanna disappear for a bit? Skip the reception, grab coffee? I can blame traffic."

Her father's denial, the dress that wasn't hers, the braid Mari always redid, all of it ignited a small spark in her. Consequences be damned. Camilla leaned forward.

 "Let's go to the rally instead."

Mari shot upright. "Please say yes!” She threw herself between the front seats. “I promise I'll find you a hot mocha boyfriend."

"Look." Niko adjusted his sunglasses like they were part of his uniform. "I would love to let you gallivant across the island, but I am unfortunately sworn to take bullets for you. And these cheekbones?" He gestured to his face. "Way too handsome for bullet holes."

"Boo." Mari groaned, mischief blooming in her eyes. "It’s a decolonization rally. What's the worst we could do?"

Niko shot her a look. "You want a list? Because last time I let you two out unsupervised—"

"Don't say it! That was diplomatic outreach."

"He was a DJ."

"Exactly. A cultural ambassador."

"Hey, I was completely innocent," Camilla protested.

"See? Innocent." Mari gestured dramatically. "She would never do anything reckless. Your cheekbones are safe, Mr. Human-Shield."

"Bodyguard," Niko said primly. "We have standards. I'm also the sexy, moral compass of this operation. What kind of bodyguard would I be if I was bought off so easily?"

Camilla leaned forward with her sweetest smile. "Pretty please, Niko? Pretty pretty pretty please? I promise I'll be good."

Mari threw in her most innocent nod. "Yeah, no sprawling demonstrations for independence or anything." She batted her lashes. "Just wanna feel the crowd. See how big the statehood turnout is getting. Reconnaissance for the cause?"

Niko let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "So let me get this straight." He glanced at them with narrowed eyes. "You two little debutantes want to play spy today?"

He considered for a moment, then shifted into park and turned halfway in his seat, dropping his voice to a mock-serious whisper. "This mission, should you choose to accept it, is fraught with peril. It will require cunning, grace"—his eyes flicked to Mari—"and payment in the form of a hot mocha boyfriend with an espresso shot of plausible deniability."

Camilla and Mari gasped in unison, eyes sparkling.

"Wait, seriously?" Camilla blinked, halfway to hope.

"You're letting us go?" Mari sat up, electric.

"Of course not." Niko opened his door with theatrical precision. "I'm just stepping out for coffee. Don't drive off without me." He lifted his sunglasses enough to wink.

The door shut with a decisive click.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

"Mari grinned, hopping into the front seat and flipping her curls like she was stepping into a heist film. "Mademoiselle," she said in an exaggerated accent, "where shall I take you?"

Camilla smirked from the back. "Let's go to the rally."

Mari squealed with delight. "I was hoping you'd say that. Though hopefully we time it right and get there after Oz finishes his speech. I'm not really looking to give myself an aneurysm."

"Who's Oz again?"

Mari rolled her eyes. "Seriously? Senator Julian Oz. Statehood poster boy. The only white guy in politics. Always wears a suit."

"Oh, that guy." Camilla groaned. "The one with the viral hose video?"

"Yeah. 'If the house is burning, pick up a hose,' blah blah blah. Super pro-statehood. Mr. 'China is coming to eat your babies if we leave.'"

Camilla put a hand to her heart. "Honestly, if he says 'China' three times in a mirror, does a destroyer appear?"

"Right? He's part of the integration task force. Thinks independence is a pipe dream for poets."

"He's kind of cute, though, no?" The words slipped out before Camilla could stop them. The image flickered behind her eyes—Senator Oz in his sharp suit, dark eyes, the careful way he listened before speaking. She'd seen him once at a veterans' event, felt his gaze across the room like a current in the air. She'd brushed it off but couldn't quite forget.

Mari rolled her eyes. "He's fine, I guess. But the pro-statehood politics is a dealbreaker. I'm here for the counter-protest—where the good stuff is."

"You mean the chaos?"

"I mean the hot guys." Mari pulled away from the curb with a grin. "We promised Niko a mocha boyfriend, remember? Independence protesters have all the hotties. Statehood boys are so,”she pulled a face,“plain."

"Plain’s not a crime."

"No," Mari said, slipping into traffic, "but it's not a flavor either."

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Mari drove with the casual confidence of someone who belonged to herself, and Camilla watched her too long, chest tight with something she couldn't name. Not envy exactly. Not awe. Something older, hungrier.

What would it be like to be the one driving? Not just the car, but her life. To decide where to go, when to speak, what mattered. To move through the world without handlers or security briefings or scripts written days in advance. To make a mistake and not have it haunt the evening news. To say what you meant, even if it was messy.

Camilla looked away from her reflection in the window—perfect, pinned, brushed into place like everything else in her life.

"I wish I was you," she whispered before she could stop herself.

Mari didn't hear, or pretended not to. She tapped the turn signal and rolled them toward the rally with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was and didn't owe anyone an apology.

Outside the tinted windows, Hangua unspooled like a memory Camilla hadn't asked to remember. The island had always been beautiful—effortlessly so. Hills draped in green jungle, oceans the color of stolen jade against white sand beaches.

Night market vendors prepared their stalls for evening crowds—locals, U.S. soldiers, tourists from across the Pacific region. Kids in school uniforms played basketball on cracked courts with netless rims. Elders chewed betel-nut under open-air shelters, sharing stories and gossip. Politics too, always politics, running through the island like humidity. Inescapable.

The island had always felt like home, but lately even the beauty felt curated. U.S. flags fluttered from lampposts. Digital ads looped sleek messages about progress and unity. Glass-and-steel government buildings rose from the earth, casting shadows over crumbling markets and colonial walls.

Her father called it evolution. Mari called it erasure.

And Camilla? She didn't know what to call it anymore, but she knew it didn't feel like hers.

"There it is," Mari said, shifting into park as the crowd swelled before them.

Camilla's heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn't ready—but part of her didn't want to be. Another part wanted to see what it felt like to throw away the map.

Just once.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

"You ready?" Mari asked, popping her gum again.

Camilla hesitated, watching banners snap in the humid wind. Statehood Now. Stronger Together. Hangua Belongs. Anxiety coiled in her stomach. "I'm supposed to be at the gala. My dad will kill me if I'm spotted here."

Mari rolled her eyes and reached behind her back, pulling off her slouchy hoodie and obnoxiously blue plastic sunglasses. "You worry too much. Wear this." She tossed the disguise into Camilla's lap. "Remember, we're spies today. And spies don't get caught."

She stretched, accentuating a tight maroon crop top clinging to every curve. Mari written in sharp white cursive across the front.

“Really?” Camilla asked, stealing a glance at Mari’s chest and the letters hugging them.

“Don’t act like I don’t look good.” Mari said with a wink and a crooked smile.

Camilla watched her with awe and envy—the way Mari moved, effortless and unapologetic. It wasn't just the clothes. It was the comfort in her own skin.

Camilla pulled the hoodie over her hair and slipped on the ridiculous glasses. Incognito Barbie.

Outside, the air was sticky with summer heat and political fervor. The plaza was packed: statehood supporters with polished shirts and printed signs on one side, independence organizers with handmade banners and louder voices on the other. A subtle line divided them like tectonic plates pressed together by ceremony.

Food trucks and generators thickened the air with diesel and frying oil. From a brightly painted sari-sari store, cultural dancers practiced, their rehearsal nearly drowned out by a vendor selling fruit drinks. Children in pristine uniforms chased a stray dog, their laughter echoing against a mural of ancient island navigators painted on the library wall.

Camilla turned to look for Mari, but she was gone—swallowed by the crowd like the only witness who knew who she really was. Camilla hung back, searching, standing in the middle of it all. Anonymous and out of place. A warm body among the noise.

One side of the plaza pulsed with the polished chants, matching shirts a sea of navy. The other hummed with different, fiercer energy—a vibrant, chaotic swell of handmade banners and ancestral hymns.

Camilla's shoulders drew up as the statehood supporters stepped closer on her left, their voices synchronized. On her right, the independence supporters swayed to drum beats. She couldn't move forward without choosing a side, couldn't step back without abandoning both. Her breathing shortened, caught between the competing rhythms.

The plaza tiles beneath her feet—the same ones she'd played hopscotch on as a child—now felt uneven, wrong. When had they installed those sleek American flags where the old tamarind tree used to cast shade? The food vendors' familiar calls sounded different too, amplified by speakers that hadn't been there before, their voices losing the warmth she remembered.

Why does it feel like the island changed when I wasn’t looking.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

"Are you... Camilla Reyes?"

Camilla froze. She turned slowly.

The man beside her was tall, tan, with button-down sleeves rolled to the elbows. Camera bag slung across one shoulder, press badge clipped to his belt.

She forced a laugh. "Uh... no. You've got me mistaken."

He tilted his head, skeptical but amused. "You sure? Because your necklace says Reyes." 

Camilla instinctively grabbed the delicate gold chain—her father's gift, her name in cursive script.

"I'm Rafi Mendoza," he added, offering his hand. "Pacific News Daily. I saw you at the veterans forum a few months ago, with your dad."

Camilla swallowed. "I'm not that Reyes."

Rafi raised a brow, half impressed, half unconvinced. His eyes lingered just a beat too long, like he wasn't just seeing her but watching her. "Uh-huh."

From somewhere in the crowd, her name exploded like a firework.

"HEY Camilla!"

Mari, of course.

Camilla's whole body locked up.

Rafi's brows shot up. "So not that Reyes, huh?"

Camilla bolted. She pushed through the crowd, heart pounding, hoodie slipping off her shoulder as noise swelled around her. Faces blurred, banners flashed as she ducked between bodies, desperate to disappear.

In the confusion, she slammed directly into a man in jeans and a volunteer t-shirt holding a microphone.

The man steadied her with one hand, "Yes, ma'am," he said without missing a beat. "What's your question for the panel?"

A hush fell over the circle. People turned, waiting. Eyes on her.

Camilla blinked.

Oh no.

The man placed the microphone in front of her. The crowd watched as she held it like a foreign object.

Camilla knew how to speak—was even good at it from years of practice. But she had never spoken without a script. Every word in her public life had been written and vetted. This moment, raw and unscripted, terrified her. Her mouth went dry. Her pulse throbbed everywhere.

Near the edge of the stage, a man in a dark suit stood perfectly still. Sharp bearded jaw caught in low light, his eyes fixed on her like he was seeing not who she was, but who she might become.

Camilla didn't know what she was about to say, but she knew it would be hers.