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 talksabouthim 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 carefullanguage 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 asflourishing.
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. Justmakes 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.
Shehasto be talking about her groom...even if all of these articles seem to imply that theirs was a match made in mafia paradise. Andifshe were indeed talking abouthim,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.
