Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
"Intéressant," he murmurs finally. The word is soft. Almost to himself.
And then, without another word, he turns and walks out.
Not a goodbye. Not an explanation. Just—gone. Like he got more than he came for, and he needs to think.
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
I sink onto the bed, breathing hard, heart pounding against my ribs.
What was that?
What does he know?
And then I do what any rational person would do.
I try the window.
It opens easily. No locks, no bars. Just a three-story drop to the gardens below, with nothing but perfectly manicured hedges to break my fall.
I close the window.
I try the door again.
The guards are still there. One of them glances at me, his expression professionally blank.
"Is there something you need, miss?"
"I'm a prisoner."
The words come out before I can stop them. Too loud. Too blunt. The kind of thing I never say, because I learned a long time ago that saying hard things out loud doesn't change them.
The guard doesn't even blink. "Is there something you need, miss?" he repeats, in exactly the same tone.
My face goes hot. I want to apologize—for what, I don't even know. For making this awkward. For putting him in a position where he has to pretend he didn't hear me. For being the kind of person who blurts out uncomfortable truths and then feels guilty about it.
"No," I manage. "I'm...no. Thank you."
I close the door gently. Carefully. Like that somehow makes up for what I just said.
I sink down against it, my back against the wood, and pull my knees up to my chest.
The room is beautiful. The bed is soft. The guards are polite.
But I'm not a guest.
I'm not a bride.
I'm a prisoner they're calling a bride, in a world that shouldn't exist, with a wedding in three days and no idea how to stop it.
Coincidence or conspiracy, he said. I don't yet know which.
Neither do I.
But there's something he's not telling me. Something he recognized when I told him about the time shift. Something that made even Devyn Chaleur—impatient, certain, in control of everything—pause.
I'm going to find out what it is.
SLEEP DOESN'T COME.
I lie in the impossibly soft bed, staring at the silk canopy, and my brain won't stop spinning. The guards change shifts outside my door—I hear the quiet exchange of words, the soft footsteps. Moonlight spills through the windows, making everything look like a black and white photograph.
Abigail.
The name floats up from wherever I've been pushing it down. The terrified bride in the black gown. He's gone insane—you should hide too.
Why did she run?
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."