Chapter 2: Ghost Princess

I remained a daughter of privilege, but never the governor’s real child.

People in town called me the ‘ghost princess’—always present, never belonging. At holidays, I sat at a separate table, my place set with fine china, but conversations died as soon as I entered.

I was the daughter of Walter’s favorite partner, and because of her favor, I was given the title of ‘princess’ in the new household.

The house was a sprawling Georgian revival in the city’s wealthiest district, walls lined with family portraits I barely recognized. My bedroom overlooked the river, once the border between old and new.

Drama lifted others up in this family.

Here, gossip never stopped. Even the staff whispered, comparing Mom’s calculated rise to everyone else’s scramble for affection.

My mother rose by selling out a state.

She had a survivor’s gift for turning tragedy into currency. But it never bought her real happiness.

Even as a child, I could see the price was too high. There was always another party, another rival, and all for what? An extra seat at the table? A bigger slice of nothing?

Now, my mother is indeed favored, but Walter doesn’t love her. He loves only power.

He never forgot a slight and never gave anything for free. Even his affection was a calculated investment.

My mother, this beautiful tool, kept shining in the household, even after being used.

She wore beauty like armor, every smile rehearsed, every glance measured. The servants rolled their eyes behind her back; the other wives sneered when they thought no one was looking.

But Mom didn’t see it. She was trapped in a glittering dream.

She’d spend hours at the mirror, humming old love songs, trying to conjure up the life she thought she deserved.

I once wanted to believe she betrayed Dad out of loyalty to her homeland.

I needed some reason for her betrayal that didn’t leave me hollow.

But that wasn’t it. She was simply addicted to love.

She chased it the way some chase money or fame—a craving that never left her satisfied.

And the one she loved wasn’t my father.

It was Walter, the current governor.

I became mute. The family doctor said I was traumatized.

They sent me to expensive therapists, even to a specialist in Nashville. None of it mattered. Silence was my only shield.

I don’t know if I was truly traumatized, but I didn’t want to speak.

Words felt dangerous. Silence was safer. In silence, I controlled what I lost.

I still lived in the mansion where I grew up. After the Southern State fell, the capital moved here—it felt like an invasion all over again. Familiar halls now held unfamiliar faces, their accents sharp and foreign. Even the food changed, spiced the Northern way. The kitchen now smelled of rye bread and pickled herring, nothing like the cornbread and sweet tea I’d grown up with.

Mom was still Mom, the mansion still the mansion, but I disliked everyone here.

The air was colder. The laughter was meaner. Every day felt like winter, even in July.

Mom wanted me to call Walter Dad, but I refused—I no longer spoke at all.

She coaxed, bribed, even begged. I stayed silent.

She was disappointed, and a faint dislike for me began to show.

It started as sighs and eye rolls, then became open resentment. She avoided me in the halls, as if my silence was contagious.

Walter didn’t care. He treated me well and often sent gifts.

He gave me books, jewelry, even a puppy once. But his affection felt impersonal, like a CEO rewarding a promising intern.