Chapter 1 — Shadows Behind the Smile
Skylar
The cursor blinked on the laptop screen, its steady rhythm a silent dare. Skylar Morgan sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft glow of her computer the only light in the room. The mansion outside her door slumbered in pristine silence, but the room hummed with unspoken rebellion. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised to unleash the words that would no doubt send someone in her father’s office scrambling for damage control.
She inhaled deeply, the smell of lavender soap lingering on her skin from a quick shower. Her fingers began to fly across the keys.
_Texas Governor Richard Morgan repeated his well-worn rhetoric on family values today, but the public deserves to know the truth about what those values are built on. The answer? A $2.5 million donation from Arcturus Oil, conveniently timed with his administration’s rollback of drilling regulations. Is this the kind of leadership Texans deserve?_
Skylar paused, tapping one finger on the keyboard. It wasn’t enough. It needed more bite, something to cut through the noise of a hundred other headlines. Adjusting her messy braid over her shoulder, she leaned forward, her nose almost brushing the screen. The faint creak of the house settling made her freeze, her heart skipping a beat. She glanced at the closed door, then exhaled when no follow-up noise came. Focus. She returned her attention to the screen, her green eyes narrowing.
_While children in East Austin breathe air thick with pollutants, Governor Morgan smiles for the cameras at charity galas funded by the same corporations poisoning their futures. But don’t worry—his backyard is safe. After all, privilege doesn’t have to inhale its own lies._
Her lips twisted into a faint smirk. Perfect.
The blog post was ready to go live, exposing yet another tendril of her father’s corruption. This one might not cause the ground to quake beneath his polished loafers, but it would add to the cracks in his empire. And tonight, those cracks felt like enough.
Hovering over the "Publish" button, a flicker of doubt surfaced—what if they traced it back to her this time? What if her father found out that _his daughter_ was the anonymous blogger systematically dismantling his pristine image? Her heart quickened at the thought, a cocktail of fear and exhilaration coursing through her veins. She imagined the fallout: the cold fury in his eyes, the suffocating weight of his wrath. Her public life would be over. No more carefully curated smiles, no more artfully arranged photo ops. And yet, she couldn’t stop herself. The truth demanded to be told.
Her fingers hesitated, then pressed the button. The laptop dinged softly, confirming the post was live.
She shut the laptop with a decisive snap and leaned back against her headboard, staring up at the ceiling. Shadows from the trees outside danced across the cream-colored walls, the faint hum of cicadas filling the silence. For a moment, she let herself imagine what freedom might feel like—freedom from the suffocating weight of privilege, from her father’s omnipresent shadow, from the double life she had to maintain to survive.
But the moment was fleeting. A smell—lavender and something warmer, like sun-warmed earth—seeped into her thoughts. Her mother’s garden. The memory rose unbidden: her mother’s soft hands tucking Skylar’s hair behind her ear as they sat under the wisteria vines. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you who to be, Sky,” she’d said, her voice a quiet rebellion against the rigid world her father dominated. “Not even me.”
The ache of loss settled in her chest, sharp and familiar. Her mother had died when Skylar was ten, and with her had gone the only person who ever seemed to see Skylar for who she really was. Her father had filled the void with expectations and control, molding her into the perfect governor’s daughter. Or at least, that’s what he thought.
Her jaw tightened. She wouldn’t let it be true. Not anymore.
A knock at the door shattered the quiet. Skylar’s heart leapt into her throat. Slamming her laptop shut again, she shoved it under the bed and tried to appear nonchalant. “Who is it?”
The door creaked open, and her father’s gruff voice sliced through the air. “Skylar.”
Her stomach flipped. “It’s late, Dad,” she said, sitting up. “What do you need?”
He stepped into the room, his tailored suit immaculate even at this hour. The scent of his cologne—sharp and woody—filled the space with an authority that made her fists clench beneath the covers. His piercing blue eyes swept over her room, lingering briefly on her desk, as if cataloging her every imperfection. The string lights she’d strung along the headboard felt childish under his gaze, a rebellion rendered laughably small.
“The gala tomorrow night,” he said, his tone brisk. “You’re expected to be on your best behavior. No surprises, no excuses.”
Skylar leaned back against the headboard, crossing her arms. “When am I not on my best behavior?”
His jaw tightened, a subtle shift only someone who knew him well would catch. “I don’t have time for your games, Skylar. Senator Calloway and his son will be attending. This is a critical event for our public image.”
She snorted. “Ah, yes. Nothing says ‘family values’ like parading your perfect daughter in front of cameras.”
His gaze hardened. “You will do as you’re told.”
The defiance in her chest flared, hot and unyielding. “Of course, Governor Morgan. Wouldn’t want to tarnish the brand.”
For a moment, she thought he might lash out—his hand twitched at his side, and his lips pressed into a thin line. But then, just as quickly, he reined himself in. “You should get some sleep,” he said curtly, turning toward the door. “You’ll need to be sharp tomorrow.”
As the door clicked shut behind him, Skylar exhaled a shaky breath. Her father’s visits always left her feeling like she’d been doused in cold water, her skin crawling with the weight of his expectations. But this time, there was something else—a flicker of satisfaction. He had no idea what she’d just done. No idea that while he was busy planning photo ops and handshakes, she was dismantling his empire, piece by piece.
She slid off the bed and crouched down to retrieve her laptop, her mind already spinning with plans. Tomorrow’s gala would be a circus, a parade of privilege drenched in champagne and false smiles. But beneath the glittering chandeliers and designer gowns, she knew there would be cracks in the facade. And Skylar Morgan, dutiful daughter by day and anonymous blogger by night, was determined to make those cracks impossible to ignore.
She opened her laptop again, green eyes flicking between tabs as her fingers danced over the keyboard. Arcturus Oil’s board of directors. Campaign donation spreadsheets. A web of connections slowly taking shape. She wasn’t just chipping away at her father’s world; she was building something of her own—an arsenal of truth to set fire to the lies.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she heard her mother’s voice again: _Don’t ever let anyone tell you who to be, Sky._
She wouldn’t. Not anymore.
By the time she finally closed her laptop, the first hints of dawn were creeping through the blinds. Skylar climbed into bed, exhaustion tugging at her limbs, but her mind refused to quiet. Tomorrow would be another performance, another day of her father’s watchful gaze and the suffocating weight of expectation. But it would also be another chance to fight back, to prove—to herself, to the world—that she was more than a pawn in his game.
Her eyes closed, but her resolve only sharpened. The shadows behind her smile would remain hidden. But they would grow deeper, darker, and more dangerous. And Skylar wouldn’t rest until her father’s carefully constructed world came crashing down.
