The Governor's Son

Chapter Six

Ariel had left immediately for her place. She hadn’t planned on watching it, she never did, but the headline froze her in place, the remote slack in her hand, the room suddenly too quiet.

“Governor’s youngest son saves a commoner.”

Her stomach dropped. Then the news came back on, again, and again, and again. Different anchors, different voices, same story. Every headline centered on none other than the governor’s youngest son, looping like a bad dream she couldn’t wake from.

“Earl Grayson, youngest son of Franklin Grayson, set to run for office this coming election, right after saving a random citizen.”

“Ariel! Ariel, you squirrels,” she hissed under her breath, pacing the small room. “Not ‘random citizen,’ not ‘commoner’—just me.”

Why him though? Why couldn’t it have been some other normal person? Someone anonymous. Someone forgettable. It had to be him. The one wrapped in power and expectation, the one whose name bent headlines and narratives alike.Her chest tightened, breath shallow.

Of course he was the governor’s son. Of course he was running for office.Everything slid into place with cruel precision. The way the nurses hovered, their eyes flicking to doors; the politeness that felt rehearsed, almost scripted; the black car waiting like a silent promise; the apartment in the sky that had never been meant for her. None of it had been kindness. It had been proximity to power.

She couldn’t stay in that house another second. The memory of it made her stomach churn, bile rising. Politics had always done that to her. Politics was the reason she lost her father.

He had been a personal assistant to a prominent leader. They’d lived well once, quietly and omfortably. Sunday breakfasts. Laughter. Plans. Until he started working on a corruption case that finally began to make sense. Then came the accident. It was sudden, convenient and final.

Ariel and her mother had never believed it was just an accident. They had grieved, whispered, suspected—but there had been no one to question. No one powerful enough to answer.

She was grateful to Earl. She would always be. But he couldn’t exist in her life. Politicians used people, then discarded them when they became inconvenient. She refused to be another lesson written in blood and silence.

A fleeting, ugly thought crossed her mind, what if he had saved her for sympathy? For optics? She pushed it away immediately, ashamed of herself.

The last two days had given her a strange kind of clarity. A fragile one, but real. She wanted to sculpt again. To paint and reclaim the parts of herself she had buried just to survive.

Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she took one sip and stopped. Her journal. The cup slipped slightly in her hand as she rushed to her bag, digging through it with trembling fingers. Nothing. She emptied it onto the table. Still nothing. Her breath hitched, vision blurring.

That journal was the last thing her father had given her. Her thoughts lived there. Her fears. Her grief. It was the reason she stayed sane all those years.

“f**k,” she hissed.

Panic pressed in on her chest, sharp and familiar. She tried to remember the last time she’d seen it, but her mind offered only fragments of her past memories.

Needing distraction before the thoughts swallowed her whole, she opened her laptop and began applying to galleries. One after another. Uploading pieces of herself into the void, hoping quietly that someone would see her like her father once saw her.

And yet in the midst of all that chaos, an uninvited memory surfaced. His strong arms, how protective and solid they had been. She slapped her cheeks sharply.

No. We can’t think of him. Not now. Not ever.

***

There was only one person that Earl wanted to speak to all this time .

Ariel.

He had not given up just yet. He called and again it went straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened. He called his assistant instead.

“Anything on the girl?”

“It wasn’t easy,” the assistant said. “But I managed to trace her background. Her mother lives in Pranto with two step-siblings. She remarried. The girl attended State University and studied art.”

He hesitated. “But there’s something strange about her father.”

Earl straightened. “What?”

The assistant glanced back at the file. “According to these records, he worked for the government. There were rumors surrounding his death. Some believe he may have been assassinated.”

Earl’s jaw tightened. “That’s serious. What was his name?”

“Isaac Triny.”

Earl paused. The name stirred something faint, unsettled, like a memory refusing to surface.

“That sounds familiar,” he murmured. Then, sharper, “Where does she live now?”

“That’s the problem,” the assistant said. “She moved out of her old apartment. I can’t trace her current address"

“Then find it,” Earl snapped. “Search everywhere. Ask everyone if you have to. We have to find her”

He ended the call, breath tight in his chest. And then it hit him. The journal. It was right there in the car with him. The hesitation returned immediately. Crossing this line felt wrong, but desperation has a way of dulling morality. One page wouldn’t hurt.

November 20th, 2005

Dear Journal,

I haven’t touched this book since Dad left us. It hurts. It’s been two years, but it still feels like yesterday. I can still feel his scent on these pages, like he lives here. I miss you, Dad. I’m also angry that you left me and Mom. We need you—now more than ever.

Earl closed the journal at once. It felt like trespassing. Like standing inside her grief without permission. He locked it back inside the safe.He didn’t need the journal anymore.

He needed to find her.

He needed her.