Chapter Two #3
I reach for my phone before I can think better of it. The screen lights up, bathing my face in blue glow. If this world has my social media accounts, my emails, my whole digital life—then maybe it has hers too.
I type Abigail Briones into the search bar.
Results flood the screen.
She's everywhere. Society pages. Charity galas. Philanthropy profiles. The daughter of Patrick Briones, apparently—a name that shows up in articles about territory politics and old money and the kind of power that doesn't need to announce itself.
I scroll through images. Abigail at a fundraiser, smiling beside her father. Abigail cutting a ribbon at a children's hospital. Abigail giving a speech about "continuing Father's vision for the territory."
In every photo, she's polished. Perfect. The kind of poised that takes years to learn.
But something about the images makes me pause.
I've spent years photographing people. Brides, mostly—women on the most emotionally charged day of their lives. You learn to read body language. You learn to see the cracks in the performance.
Abigail's smile never reaches her eyes.
It's subtle. Professional cameras, professional lighting—everything designed to make her look happy, engaged, present. But there's a distance in her gaze. A careful blankness that I recognize because I've spent my whole life perfecting the same expression.
The smile you wear when you're performing someone else's version of who you should be.
I find an interview. Some lifestyle magazine, soft-focus photography, the headline reading: Abigail Briones: The Territory's Favorite Daughter.
The questions are predictable. Her charity work. Her education. Her "beautiful relationship" with her father.
Her answers are even more predictable.
"Father has always been my greatest inspiration. Everything I do is to honor his legacy."
"I was so fortunate to attend boarding school in Switzerland. It taught me independence."
"Family is everything to me. I'm so grateful for the opportunities Father has provided."
I read the words again.
Father. Father. Father.
She talks about him constantly. But in every quote, there's no warmth. No anecdotes. No "Dad and I used to" or "He always made me laugh when." Just titles and gratitude and the careful language of someone who's learned exactly what she's supposed to say.
I dig deeper. Find a puff piece about her childhood. "Abigail was sent to Chêne Academy at age seven, where she flourished in an environment that encouraged her natural leadership abilities."
Age seven.
Sent away at age seven to a boarding school in another country. And this is framed as flourishing.
My chest tightens.
I know this story. Not the specifics, but the shape of it. The daughter who performs devotion for a father who never quite sees her. The child who learns early that love is earned through achievement, through obedience, through becoming exactly what someone else needs you to be.
I scroll through more photos. Father and daughter at a ribbon-cutting. Father and daughter at a press conference. Father and daughter posed in front of a fireplace for a holiday card.
In every single image, there's space between them.
Not much. Just enough. The kind of distance that a camera captures even when no one meant it to. His hand on her shoulder but not quite touching. Her smile bright but her body angled slightly away. Two people who've learned to look connected without actually connecting.
My father's anger was loud. Hot. Impossible to ignore.
But I think Patrick Briones's might be something else entirely. Cold. Distant. The kind that doesn't shout—just withdraws. Just makes you feel like you're reaching for something that's always six inches too far away.
Different weapon. Same wound.
I set the phone down on my chest and stare at the ceiling.
Abigail Briones was supposed to marry Devyn Chaleur. The perfect political match. The territory's favorite daughter and the mafia king of the South.
And instead, she ran.
He's gone insane—you should hide too.
She has to be talking about her groom...even if all of these articles seem to imply that theirs was a match made in mafia paradise. And if she were indeed talking about him, who’s now my current captor—
There’s only one way to find out if he’s insane like she implies...and thank goodness Google still works even if I’ve just found myself in another world.
Devyn Chaleur.
Articles and photos pop up, and I find it absolutely weird that my stomach starts churning when I read of how there’s this whole bridal war that unofficially took place, the moment Devyn released an actual PSA about needing a bride to maintain peace in his territory.
This world seems to be just as modern and advanced as mine was—maybe even more—but it’s surprisingly archaic when it comes to marriage and relationships. Do the women in this world really not see anything wrong in competing for a man’s attention? Is marrying for love not—
What was that?
I freeze and hold my breath...and there it is again.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Steady. Unhurried. And getting closer by the second.
Could it be Abigail?
Or the king?
Or someone else? Someone insane—
Phew.
The footsteps have passed my door before eventually fading into silence.
I let out the breath I was holding. Fall back into my bed, which is unfortunately a lot more comfortable than the one I have back home...in the other world.
Hysteria bubbles in my throat, but I manage to swallow it back.
The other world.
I can’t believe those words are starting to feel normal.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but sleep refuses to come.
Questions abound. And memories that I still can’t make sense of.
A bride in a black wedding gown.
Someone insane.
And a mafia king who wants to marry me because...
Oh.
Why did he want to marry me?
I think that matters, right?
But exhaustion pulls me under before I can even figure things out.