The Governor's Daughter

Masked Faces

Rain didn’t come back for the remaining lessons after the break. Her seat stayed empty—mocking, silent, accusing. I texted her twice, then three times, but my messages remained unanswered like clothes hanging on a rusted line waiting for sunlight.

Her reply finally arrived that evening.

"Aria, I'm so sorry for everything you went through yesterday. I know you must hate me. I'm so, so sorry. —Rain"

Typical Rain.

A carefully polished apology, shining on the surface while skillfully avoiding everything beneath—the bruise on her forehead, the way she jumped into Nico’s arms at school just minutes after being terrified of him, the way she left me alone that night without looking back. No explanation. No truth.

Just Rain, sweeping chaos under the rug with a sweet, trembling “sorry.”

I sighed, peeled off my uniform, and slipped into an oversized hoodie. After dinner, I turned on the TV, sinking into the couch. Roman had stepped away for the evening—“inspection,” he’d said. He was probably out checking on the new protective detail, making sure none of them slipped up as embarrassingly as Agent Griffin did the night I escaped the mansion.

The TV flickered to life.

CNN.

Of course.

My father’s face filled the screen—commanding, animated, electrified by the crowd in front of him. The news caption read:

“GOVERNOR DONOVAN FIRES UP PENNSYLVANIA RALLY.”

The reporter’s voice carried a reverent excitement.

“The Republican Party gained momentum today as Governor Donovan campaigned in the battleground state of Pennsylvania…”

The camera panned across waves of cheering supporters, red signs rising and falling like tides. Then it focused on a young woman pushing through the crowd. She wore a blue top, jeans, and white sneakers—looked hardly older than me, maybe a college sophomore. Her face was flushed with determination.

Before anyone could stop her, she reached the front.

"It's an embryo, not a child!" she shouted.

My father didn’t miss a beat. He leaned toward the mic, voice steady and sharp.

"And what species is it?" he shot back.

The girl blinked. “It’s a human.”

“Exactly,” he said, spreading his arms theatrically. “A human. So should killing a young human suddenly be allowed? Why is it unacceptable to murder an adult but excusable to murder a child at an earlier stage of development? Same crime. Different penalty.”

The crowd roared.

The girl fired back, “I should have a right over my own body! Having a child could ruin my collegiate life!”

My father’s jaw tightened—just a little—but his smile stayed polished.

“You should think of that,” he said, “before choosing to engage in premarital immorality. Actions have consequences. If you decide to play risky games, then be prepared for the consequences that come with them.”

The moment he said “play risky games,” something ignited in the crowd.

Signs raised higher. Chants erupted.

“Governor Donovan, we love you!”

“Pennsylvania is RED!”

“Life begins at conception!”

“No more abortion!”

The screen flashed images of cheering supporters, all swelling with a faith in him that I wished I could understand. The camera cut back to him—my father—standing there like a commander on a battlefield, golden lights behind him making him look larger than life.

For a second—just one—I felt that familiar flicker of pride.

His charisma was unmatched. It always had been.

It won him the mayoral race after joining the campaign only a month before the election.

It carried him into the Governor’s seat as the youngest in Texas history.

It made Senator Sam McGee step down during the Republican primaries.

It was the force he wielded now in Pennsylvania.

It was the reason he was poised to become the 49th President of the United States.

Everyone loved him.

The media adored him.

The people worshipped him.

Everyone—except those who lived under his roof.

I pulled my knees to my chest. The glow from the TV cast long shadows across the living room, making the mansion feel even colder than usual.

Sometimes I wondered how a man could electrify a crowd of thousands yet fail so completely at loving the very people who bore his name. How he could speak with tenderness about unborn children but look at his living daughter like she was an inconvenience.

The chants grew louder through the speakers.

“DONOVAN! DONOVAN! DONOVAN!”

I muted the TV.

The silence felt heavier than the noise.

Everyone loved Governor Donovan.

But the truth? The real truth?

I hated him.