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 typeAbigail Brionesinto 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.
