The Governor's Daughter :

A Contemporary Romance about Truth, Freedom, Beauty and Love

(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.

Chapter 2: Rebellion

November 4th, 2025

"Ma'am, do you have anything to say for the panel? About statehood or independence?"

Camilla hesitated. She had stumbled onto the statehood side of the rally, bumping into the aide as he was working through the crowd asking questions. Rows of chairs under canopies were near the front reserved for the elderly and the infirm, where Camilla stood, it was standing room only under clear open skies. At the front, a table sat with a moderator between the crowd and the community amphitheater where a panel of dignitaries stood behind lecterns. One side for independence, one side for statehood. 

Cameras rolled, every eye turned to her, but only one gaze stood out.

Senator Julian Oz.

Their eyes locked across the panel, and in his expression—unreadable and sharp—he dared her to speak. A silent challenge coiled beneath the surface.

Oz stood motionless in his navy suit while everyone else wilted in the heat. Not a bead of sweat, not a wrinkle—like he'd stepped from an air-conditioned boardroom into the sticky plaza air without missing a beat.

His eyes tracked her with the precision of someone counting votes. When their gazes met, his mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile, but the look of a chess player who'd just been handed an unexpected piece.

She scanned the crowd for a lifeline.

Mari.

Near the edge of the independence crowd, wearing someone else's woven hat, laughing too loud at what someone said. Flirting. Her shoulders were bare, hair wild, smile easy.

She looked like freedom.

Camilla felt a want uncoil inside her. Not to be with Mari, but to feel that light. To live with unbothered ease.

She wasn't supposed to be here, wasn't supposed to speak, didn't even know what the question had been. But when the mic came toward her again, she didn't retreat.

She could already feel her father's disappointment, the headlines, the staff's tight smiles if she messed up. It wasn't just about them. If she said the wrong thing, she could ruin more than her own reputation—embarrass her family, cost her father, maybe even hurt Hangua's cause.

But if she stayed silent, if she kept pretending, she'd never know if her voice actually mattered.

She looked past the cameras, past Oz, and found Mari in the crowd.

Then Camilla said the first thing that felt true.

"I believe in independence."

Surprised cheers rippled through the room. Senator Oz gazed thoughtfully at her.

She remembered words she'd heard Mari say with passion and tried them on. "What is security without sovereignty?" Her voice steadied, gathering heat. "You say we are safe, but what is safety without freedom?"

She stepped forward, past the aide, past the chairs, past the table. Front and center between both sides. Unplanned. Unfiltered.

"Yes, the U.S. provides funding, but it enslaves our island in chains of gold. Comfort without control. Order without agency."

A hush fell. Even the moderator stilled.

Camilla felt a rush through her body, her breath light. "It is the right of the colonized to determine their future, to shed their colonial masters and stand on their own."

She became animated, her voice cracking rawer. "You say the U.S. is protecting us? No. They're protecting their interests. And heaven help us the day their interests no longer align with ours."

Complete silence.

Camilla raised her fist.

"Independence!"

The crowd ignited. Cheers burst from the independence side, chants echoing, swelling louder, unstoppable. "One of us! One of us!"

Statehood organizers paled. Reporters scrambled.

Only Julian Oz remained calm. He didn't smile, didn't blink. Simply leaned back in his chair like a man who'd just watched a queen blunder on the board.

Rafi stood frozen as cheers washed over him like heat. People were chanting, but they didn't realize who she was.

Not yet.

They were celebrating their new champion—the girl with perfect hair and defiant words. He snapped a photo, fingers flying across his phone.

BREAKING: GOVERNOR'S DAUGHTER BREAKS WITH FATHER. BACKS INDEPENDENCE.

Back on stage, the moderator was cutting through the chaos. "T-Thank you, Miss... Ma'am," he stammered, adjusting his mic. "Let's regain order here." He looked at the rest of the panel, visibly shaken. "The floor is open. Who would like to respond?"

Julian Oz's voice cut through the noise. "I do."

A hush fell again.

Oz stepped to the mic with a smile—slow, calculated—the kind you offer a child before delivering a lesson they'll never forget.

"I was in my twenties when your father first ran for governor," he said without raising his voice. "I remember the campaign speeches, the promises, the reforms. I remember him saying Hangua needed less rhetoric and more responsibility. Less bickering, more results."

He turned slightly toward her—not fully, just enough to make her feel the edge of his regard.

"He was right then. He's right now. So forgive me if I don't mistake a privileged outburst for a principled stand."

The crowd's attention was firmly on Oz now.

"You talk about sovereignty," he continued, "but you've never stood in line for medicine you couldn't afford. Or prayed for aid when the roof blew off your home in a storm."

He leaned forward, voice sharpening to cut. "You call it golden chains. I call it clean water, electricity, and a hospital that doesn't collapse in a typhoon."

Heads in the crowd nodded.

"You say heaven help us if U.S. interests no longer align with ours? Let me ask you, Miss Reyes—whose interests built the airport you fly out of for your weekend trips to the mainland? Whose interests pay for the airspace we can't afford to defend?"

Camilla's face went red at the mention of her name, panic welling in her chest.

"I've spent years fighting for those interests because they are our interests. And while you were perfecting poetry about freedom, some of us were working to keep the ships coming in, keeping the shelves stocked with food."

Oz made a sweeping turn toward the crowd. "I do not blame you for your passion, but passion without knowledge is misguided. It burns bright, then it burns everything."

Camilla wished she'd never left the car.

"China would absorb Hangua in a generation if we went independent. The life we've known since our liberation during World War II would be over." He turned back to Camilla. "Just ask our neighboring island. They allowed Chinese money and influence in, and all they have to show for it is an abandoned casino, corruption, and a half-billion-dollar hole in their budget."

He faced the crowd again. "And as for the chants of 'one of us'?" His voice carried a sharp edge. "I say... she never was."

For a second, the world went silent.

Camilla felt everyone's eyes on her—not just strangers, but her father's ghost, the press, the staffers who measured her worth in speeches and smiles. The flush rising on her skin wasn't just embarrassment. It was the icy certainty she'd said the wrong thing and proved every whisper, every doubt about her was true.

She thought about her father, about the careful legacy he'd built, the weight of his expectations pressing down. If she failed here, if she looked like just another out-of-touch daughter playing politics, it would stain him too.

For a moment, she wanted to vanish, to disappear into the crowd, unremarkable and safe. Instead, she was exposed, every word ringing louder in her own head.

"She's the Governor's daughter," someone said.

The crowd jolted like it had been slapped. Someone gasped, another stood with wide eyes. The mood shifted—laughter thinning into awe. Phones were raised again, but this time with purpose.

The crowd no longer saw a naive girl. They saw a bloodline rebelling against its crown.

Some cheered louder. Others stiffened, arms crossed, unsure if this was courage or betrayal.

"Holy shit," someone whispered. "She's Reyes's kid."

A reporter surged forward with a camera. Another whispered into a mic. The news was already live.

Oz raised a calming hand. "Let's not get carried away. Let me say something sincerely about Miss Reyes."

The crowd settled.

"I meant what I said about passion needing direction. But I'll also say this—what she just did took guts." Oz looked at Camilla as he spoke. "She didn't come here as just anyone. She came here as the governor's daughter and spoke her truth. That matters."

He grinned. "However, I will say this," he paused for effect. "Dinner is gonna be awkward."

Laughter. Hoots. Cheers.

Camilla's face flushed. She scanned the crowd, searching. She called out—"Mari!"—but the crowd swallowed her voice. She thought she saw her, just a blur of curls in the third row. A hand raised, a mouth opening to call her name.

But when she looked again, Mari was gone.

Camilla turned, disoriented. The crowd pressed closer. People surged forward—phones, hands, questions. Her breath hitched. Her vision narrowed.

She pushed past someone, trying to disappear into the noise. Then she nearly ran into someone.

Rafi.

He looked at her like he'd just filmed a revolution.

Camilla's heart pounded. She pivoted, stumbled, until she hit a solid chest.

Niko.

He didn't speak. Just wrapped an arm around her shoulder—quiet, steady. "I got you," his voice was low, calm, but his grip was firm. His eyes scanned the room like a soldier's. "Keep your head down. We gotta go."

Outside, the crowd built to a roar. Inside, she was already crumbling.

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

The crowd's noise dulled behind them as Niko ushered Camilla toward the parked car. His grip was gentle, but the pace was not optional.

"Where the hell is Mari?" he muttered, scanning the street, the sidewalk, the thinning press crowd. "She was supposed to stay close."

Camilla didn't answer. She couldn't. The adrenaline had worn off, and all that remained was static. Her chest felt tight, her limbs far away. She was sleepwalking through the ruins of her own life.

At the vehicle, Niko crouched by the rear tire, brushing away leaves. "C'mon, c'mon..." He found the magnetic box, popped it open. "Thank you, past me," he muttered, gripping the spare key.

A rustle came from behind the hedge. Niko was on his feet in an instant.

A male figure stepped out from the foliage, hands half-raised, mouth parting to speak. Niko moved like lightning—one sharp twist and the stranger hit the pavement with a winded grunt.

"Camilla, stay back!" Niko began, arm tensing for a disabling lock.

"Hey!" a voice cried. Mari popped up from behind the same hedge, curls wild, breathless. "He's a friend! Jeez, Niko, relax!"

Niko exhaled through his nose but didn't release his grip immediately.

Mari crouched by the fallen man with a sheepish grin. "You okay?"

"Never better," the man wheezed.

Niko's brow stayed furrowed. "Sorry, bud. But we gotta move. Now."

"Then let him come with us. Least you can do after nearly killing him," Mari said.

"No."

She stepped forward and whispered to Niko. "This boy is my friend," her voice sing-songy. "And his name is Moca." She mouthed silently: He's for you.

Niko turned to her slowly, eyes deadpan, looking at the man on the ground. Then back at her. His expression said everything.

"You heard me.” Mari grinned. “Moca."

Moca gave a weak thumbs-up from the sidewalk. "Nice to meet you?"

Niko sighed. "Fine." He popped the locks. "Camilla. Mari. Let's go."

Mari wrapped an arm around Camilla, who looked hollowed out, and helped her in.

"C'mon, handsome," Niko whispered to Moca with a wink, helping him up. "We'll give you a ride."

They piled into the vehicle—Niko and Moca up front, Mari and Camilla in the back.

As Mari buckled her seatbelt, she leaned over and whispered in Niko's ear, just loud enough to be smug. "He's cute, no?" 

Niko drove away, amused.

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

"You are my fucking hero." Mari slapped Camilla's thigh. "You are one bad bitch. I can't believe you did that!"

In the front seat, Moca sat still, like someone trying not to spook a wolf. "Yeah, seriously, that was... whoa."

Camilla didn't speak. Her gaze was fixed out the window, jaw slack, hands trembling in her lap.

But Mari's words finally cut through the fog. She blinked once, then whispered, "My father is going to kill me."

The words felt too small for what she'd done, but they were the only ones she had. It hit her then—this wasn't just rebellion. It was a declaration of war. And she'd made it live, on air, with her father watching.

"Well, Oz did get one thing right," Mari said. "Dinner with your dad is gonna be legendary."

Chapter 3: Fortress of Solitude

November 4th, 2025

"I blame you for this, Mari." Niko sighed theatrically.

Mari didn't look up from her phone. "How so?"

"You said no independence shenanigans. This is called shenanigans."

Moca blinked. "What's shenanigans?"

Niko looked at Mari. She just grinned.

The car climbed quietly up the winding switchbacks carved through Hangua's central hills, past memorial parks and coconut palms shadowing the old fortified walls. Those walls traced the hillside like scars—first laid centuries ago by Spanish colonizers when the island belonged not to itself but to a distant crown whose kings would never breathe its air.

At the summit stood the governor's residence. Once a fortress of whitewashed limestone and deep-set arches, time had softened its military edges with balconies and rose gardens. But the bones of occupation remained.

The city stretched below them, glinting with sunset and aftermath. Behind tinted glass, Camilla watched it pass like the closing shot of a film she hadn't meant to star in. Rooftops shimmered gold. Digital billboards flickered with breaking news. U.S. flags snapped in the breeze, oblivious to the storm brewing in the mansion above.

Somewhere in that sprawl, her words were echoing. I believe in independence. The crowd had roared. But here, ascending toward the house where her father waited, it all felt impossibly distant. The moment had already passed; she was just driving toward its consequences.

The wrought iron gates parted without sound. The driveway curved like a ceremonial march past manicured lawns and lamplight that seemed to press against the darkness.

"I've only been here on field trips," Moca said, peering out. "Never at night. The view's insane."

Camilla barely heard him. As they passed under the arch, thick stone swallowed the evening's warmth. The mansion loomed—white stone, red tile roof, cast-iron balconies catching the last light like something sacred. But it wasn't sacred. It was power dressed as beauty.

A guard stepped forward, posture rigid. "Good evening, ma'am. The governor is waiting in the study."

The foyer opened around them: cold marble, crystal chandelier, ceiling paintings of angels and viceroys frozen in eternal battle and peace. To the right—the long hallway of history—the creation of the Organic Act of Hangua, her father's ribbon-cutting photos from his senator days, her own six-year-old face beaming in a pink dress.

Camilla remembered her mother's voice then, laughter echoing from the kitchen, gentle fingers in her curls, the scent of sunscreen and frangipani. Gone too early. Too far to reach back to now.

The hallway ended. The study doors stood open like a mouth.

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

Governor Emilio Reyes sat carved from stone, weathered hands gripping the desk's edge like cathedral ledges. 

Waiting. 

Watching. 

Silent as something judging sinners for centuries.

Niko pulled out Camilla's chair. She sat, shifted, tried to arrange herself into someone who looked composed—as if posture alone might count.

"What happened?" Emilio asked.

Niko straightened. "I stopped for coffee. When I returned, they were gone. I found them at the rally and brought her home safely."

"Do you consider this acceptable?"

"No, sir."

"Dismissed."

Camilla spoke up. "Dad, it wasn't his fault—"

Emilio severed her excuse. "Enough." 

Niko hesitated, caught Camilla's eye with a faint, reassuring smile she couldn't return, then left. 

The door closed with a soft click. Now it was just the two of them.

"Daddy, I can explain."

Emilio said nothing. He rose and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the incoming storm rake silver lines across the glass. The Hangua seal loomed behind his desk.

"Explain."

Camilla’s breath was shallow, spine locked straight. "I didn't plan it," she said quietly.

Rain began to tick against the glass. 

"The rally. The speech. That moment—it wasn't calculated. I wasn't trying to start anything." She swallowed hard. "I saw Mari in the crowd. She was laughing, wearing some stranger's hat, dancing like the whole world was just background noise." Her voice softened. "For a second, I wanted to feel that. To be... free. Not safe, not styled, not managed. Just real."

She took a step forward. "I wasn't thinking about you. The island. Or statehood. I wasn't thinking at all, honestly. It just came out of me." She met his reflection in the window. "And it felt good."

Emilio's shoulders remained rigid. "Good," he echoed, the word hanging like a judgment.

"I know it wasn't the right time or place. But I didn't do it to hurt you." Her voice cracked. "I swear I didn't."

Emilio turned slowly, deliberately, and looked at her like she was a stranger.

"You didn't do it to hurt me," he repeated. "But you did." He moved behind the desk and sat, folding his hands with the precision of a man who had made a career of controlling his gestures. His voice dropped—not in volume but in temperature. "Three weeks ago, we had alignment. An integration deal. A clean transition. Theodore Washington's appointment as diplomatic liaison was in motion—quiet approvals from DC, a press rollout scheduled for next quarter. With polling in our favor, Hangua was finally positioned to join the union as a full state after years of territorial limbo."

He didn't blink.

"And then my daughter raised her fist and declared independence on live television."

Camilla flinched.

"They won't call to ask questions. They'll call to ask if I've lost control. If the political situation I promised them remains secure." He stood again, pacing once—just enough to let the chill settle around her. "We promised them unity. Stability. The governor's daughter was a symbol of smooth transition. And now?" He shook his head. "Now you'll be on t-shirts. Protest banners. The face of fracture."

"I didn't mean—"

"They don't care what you meant." The words snapped out, then he caught himself. Smoothed his shirt. Leveled his voice. "They care what you signaled. And what you signaled was chaos."

He walked to the bookshelf, tapped a finger against a family photo. "Washington's appointment was meant to signal serious consideration for statehood. Now people will wonder if I can even finish my term, much less deliver on promises. They already whisper I'm too old; now they'll question whether I can keep my own house in order."

He turned back to her.

"Moderates will retreat to tepid support. Conservatives will return to stonewalling. We'll continue languishing in territorial limbo—not getting worse, perhaps, but certainly not getting better."

A breath. Quieter now. Controlled. Cutting.

"You want to be free, Camilla? Be free. But freedom has weight. And right now, I'm carrying the full consequences of your impulse while you get to process with wine and sympathy from your friends."

"I didn't mean to destroy everything," she whispered.

"No. But it's still destroyed. And it needs to be rebuilt." He stepped closer. The space between them narrowed, diplomatic rather than intimate. "You have two options. You fix this publicly, with poise, with Theodore Washington beside you at the upcoming gala. You issue a statement explaining you were momentarily emotional but have returned to form."

A pause. A breath. A beat.

"Or I fix it without you."

Her chest tightened. "What does that mean?"

"It means you disappear. We announce a pause in your public appearances—emotional exhaustion, family strain, some vague 'personal growth' language. The media loves a redemption arc." He leaned closer, voice like silk over steel. "Or perhaps you take an extended vacation. Manila has lovely charity opportunities."

Camilla stared at him. "You would just exile me? "

"I will. Because I will not let decades of work collapse because my daughter confused rebellion with identity." He stepped back. "You don't get to play symbol and claim confusion. Not when generations of stability hang in the balance."

Rain traced the windows like the island itself was weeping. For a moment, Camilla felt the familiar guilt surge—automatic, practiced, almost comforting. But beneath it, something sharper twisted. Anger at being boxed in again, at realizing the outcome was already written regardless of her words. And something else: betrayal. Not because her father doubted her, but because she'd hoped this time might be different. That he might see her as someone with choices to make, not just consequences to manage.

The words tangled in her throat—too many to say, none that would matter. Shame burned behind her eyes, mingling with the urge to shout, to run, to do anything but submit. But she held herself perfectly still, swallowing it all, because that was what the script demanded.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Emilio didn't blink. "Then prove it."

He didn't look satisfied or vindicated. Just tired. "I've always told you to think through your decisions. Because you don't get to make them like everyone else."

Camilla nodded once. Her eyes stung.

"And maybe," he added, softer, "that wasn't fair of me."

Her head snapped up.

"I'm sorry." The words hit harder than any rebuke. "Go to bed, my love. We'll discuss details tomorrow."

Camilla moved forward on instinct and hugged him tight. For a moment, her anger wavered. She wasn't used to seeing cracks in her father's certainty. The apology should have made things easier, should have eased the guilt pressing against her ribs. Instead, it tangled her up more. Part of her wanted to believe this was the start of something real between them. Another part wondered if regret was just another tool in his playbook, another way to keep her in line.

She didn't know which was worse—that he meant it, or that he didn't.

"I'm sorry too, Daddy."

Emilio didn't move immediately. Slowly, he placed a hand on her back. "It's going to be alright."

They both hoped that would be true.

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

Mari stared at her phone screen: Hey you up?

The message hovered, unsent, like it might answer itself.

She sat on the low stone wall bordering the terrace, knees pulled to her chest, phone glowing soft in her palm. Beyond the veranda's arch, the island was a tapestry of lights and shadow. From this height, Hangua looked unreal—the city below shimmering like spilled starlight, golden traffic threading through hills, ferries blinking in the harbor, radio towers pulsing slow and red in the distance. The ocean beyond was black velvet, glittering faintly with moonlight.

Camilla was somewhere behind those heavy walls, surrounded by disappointment and expectations too vast for any one person to carry.

And Mari was out here, holding nothing but a draft message. The view didn't make her feel any less alone.

"Damn," Moca whispered beside her. "This view is incredible. If I lived here, I'd just... sit and stare at everything all the time."

Mari glanced sideways at him. "Is that profound, or are you high on the governor's landscaping?"

Moca shrugged, grinning. "Little of both. It's a whole vibe up here."

The front door opened with a soft hiss. Mari looked up to see Niko walking toward them, silhouette sharp against the interior light, posture stiffer than usual.

"So, are you fired?"

"Probably. If I am, I had it coming."

Moca chuckled. "Hope not. You're a solid bodyguard. My shoulder's gonna be sore tomorrow—you definitely have moves."

Niko crossed to them, let one hand rest briefly on Moca's shoulder. "I do have moves," he murmured, voice low enough to register as an invitation. "Usually save them for later, though."

Moca's eyes flicked up, just for a second, then away.

Mari watched the exchange and smiled despite everything.

"I used to think politics was boring," Moca said. "But Camilla was something else tonight."

Mari didn't answer immediately. She looked out at the city like it might explain something she couldn't name. "Yeah. She was."

Moca shook his head admiringly. "I couldn't imagine doing something like that if my dad was the governor."

Mari's expression brightened with fierce pride. "You know what her real superpower is? It's not the polished speeches or the pedigree. It's the way people look at her." She turned, voice soft but certain. "Camilla walks into a room and gravity changes. Been like that since we were kids. Teachers would pause mid-sentence. Boys forgot their names. Even adults listened harder, like she came with her own soundtrack."

Mari exhaled—half laugh, half old ache.

"I learned about gravity today," Moca said with a grin.

Niko chuckled, absently massaging Moca's shoulder.

"I should find better reception," Mari said, winking at Niko. "My texts aren't going through up here."

Behind her, she heard Niko say, "Want a beer? I've had a long night. Might be unemployed by sunrise."

Moca laughed. "Then first round's on me."

Mari had been here the night Niko came out. She and Camilla were the first to know. The memory hovered in her mind like a secret—warm, sacred.

She looked down at her phone again. The message waited. Mari didn't press send, not yet, but she smiled anyway, like she knew Camilla would feel it somehow through the mansion's walls.

"You asked what happens when you say no," she murmured to the night, almost fondly. "I guess we'll find out."