I stick my tongue out at the camera in the hope that one of them is watching, and then look at the full-length mirror. I primp, smoothing every hair into place, and adjusting the neckline of my sweater until it looks effortlessly casual. In the month I was locked inside my father’s house, I was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
I tried so hard to be evasive in the psychiatrist’s questioning, to feed her the answers she wanted to hear. It didn’t matter.The real betrayal came when she told me medication wasn’t strictly necessary, just therapy, unless my symptoms became unmanageable. But my father decided a nice, heavy dose of antipsychotics would be the best course of action anyway.
The issue wasn’t the diagnosis itself. Mental health is real; I’m not ashamed of it.
The issue was the entire world watching it happen in real time. Watching my father’s press secretary spin it into “a courageous journey toward stability.”
They never wanted to fix what was broken in me.
They wanted to sand down my edges until I was no longer dangerous to their narrative. They didn’t want me healed, they wanted me complacent.
Stability isn’t health, it’s currency. Permission to exist outside the gilded cage. The quicker I nailed the performance, the more they eased up. And once I figured out the game they were playing, I learned the rules better than them.
But before I could flip the board myself, the guys stole me away and did it for me.
That doesn’t mean the game is over. It just means the board is bigger now.
A knock echoes through the house, followed by the low murmur of one of the perimeter guys letting someone in.
“Miss Black?”
I smooth my features into a soft, practiced smile as a woman steps into the living room in a bland, professional uniform, hair pulled back so tight I wonder if she gets migraines as a hobby. On the surface, I can’t tell if she’s Syndicate-coded or straight White House.
My dad is just a couple days away from being inaugurated as President of the United States, and I have to attend. Hence the reason for this visit.
“I’m Kacie. Your new White House Security Liaison.”
Liaison.
Not aide or assistant.
Guess Dad upgraded from fancy babysitters to full-on handlers.
She thrusts a slim packet at me, bound in sleek black cardstock. “Updated protocols, post-attack adjustments. Your father asked that you review them immediately.
I take it, flipping through without a word.
Visibility requirements.
Reassurance optics.
Standardized escort details.
It’s all dressed up in corporate-speak, but I smell the politics a mile away. This isn’t about my well-being, it’s damage control for the family empire. Hide me away, and it screams scandal.
But trot me out, calm and collected? That’s the narrative win.
President’s Daughter Unbroken; Everything is Under Control
My body isn’t mine, it’s a PR tool.How empowering.
Being seen isn’t about safety, it’s about control. And isn’t that just the cherry on top of this dysfunctional sundae?
Kacie hovers, eyes scanning for any sign of rebellion. I don’t give her the satisfaction. “This is... comprehensive,” I murmur, injecting a touch of wide-eyed concern.
Her stance softens. “Routine reinforces stability.”
I glance up, playing the cooperative card. “Who handles approvals for outings now? Still my parents?”
