Chapter 4: The Invisible Cage
The White House was a palace of glass and silence.
Every corner polished. Every word rehearsed. Even the walls, thick as they were, seemed to listen. For Abigail Monroe, it hadn’t been a home for a long time. Maybe it never had been.
Her earliest memory of this place was of red velvet ropes and being told not to touch the antiques. She’d been five years old, in a daisy-print dress, clutching a juice box while her mother guided her through a reception for donors she couldn’t pronounce the names of. People smiled at her like she was a porcelain doll. She learned to smile back even when she didn’t feel like it.
Now, at twenty-four, Abigail still played the part. The public saw a poised woman in tailored suits, shaking hands with charity leaders and smiling for photo ops. But behind closed doors, she was just a girl who didn’t know what normal felt like.
She sat in her private study that morning, legs curled beneath her on the window seat, nursing a cold mug of coffee. Sunlight poured through the bulletproof glass, casting gold patterns over the floor. Her phone buzzed beside her, vibrating with texts from journalists, PR handlers, and an old friend who had just “happened to be in D.C.”
She didn’t answer any of them.
There was only one message she reread:
“You could trust me.”
Nathaniel’s voice echoed in her mind, low and steady.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. Trust. The rarest currency in this building.
At 10:00 a.m., her mother entered without knocking.
Elizabeth Monroe, graceful as ever, in a slate-gray blazer and pearls, moved like she owned every room she stepped into. She didn’t sit—she never did unless there were cameras—but stood near the fireplace, arms folded.
“I saw the photos,” she said, without preamble.
Abigail didn’t need to ask which ones.
Her mother continued, voice like ice under pressure. “You know how fragile things are right now. You’ve read the same headlines I have. The press is circling like sharks. And now you want to hand them blood in the water?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is how it looks.”
“Then maybe you should stop worrying about the press and start worrying about me,” Abigail snapped. “Your daughter. The person under surveillance in her own damn bedroom.”
Elizabeth flinched, but only for a second. “You chose this life.”
“No, you chose this life. I was born into it. There’s a difference.”
Her mother’s expression didn’t change, but her voice lowered. “You think you’re the only one who’s suffered? You think I liked pretending everything was perfect while your father worked eighteen-hour days and the tabloids made me out to be some Stepford wife? I’ve sacrificed just as much as you.”
Abigail stood, fury simmering beneath her skin. “Then why did you make me feel like I was the sacrifice?”
Elizabeth didn’t reply. She left without another word.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Later, Abigail slipped out through a back exit, swapping her heels for sneakers and her designer coat for a hoodie. Nathaniel trailed her silently, keeping a three-step distance as always.
They walked past the garden and toward the South Lawn, which had been closed to tours for the day. The frost on the grass glittered beneath the pale sun, a reminder that spring hadn’t fully arrived.
She stopped near the Jefferson tree—a sprawling oak that had stood for over a century. Press briefings had been held beneath it. Peace treaties signed in its shade. But to her, it had always been a hiding place. The one corner of the property that still felt untouched.
“I used to think this tree was magic,” she said, not looking at him.
Nathaniel said nothing, but his presence told her to keep talking.
“When I was a kid, I’d sneak out with a book and read under here for hours. Sometimes, the Secret Service would pretend they couldn’t find me. I think they knew I needed it—the illusion of freedom.”
She touched the bark with her fingertips.
“I wanted to be an architect,” she said softly. “Did you know that?”
He shook his head.
“I used to sketch buildings in the margins of my notebooks. Domes and arches. Spires reaching into the sky. My college applications were ready. I was going to go to Boston. But then the campaign started. My father won. And suddenly I was needed here. For optics. For interviews. For photo spreads in fashion magazines.”
She turned to face him.
“They let me take online classes. Gave me a tutor. But they never gave me a choice.”
“You could still go,” he said. “After the term ends.”
She gave a sad smile. “There’s always another term. Another press cycle. Another reason to stay.”
He didn’t argue. Because they both knew she wasn’t wrong.
That night, after dinner, she retreated to her room again—except this time, she invited him inside.
Just to talk.
That was what she told herself.
Nathaniel stood awkwardly near the bookshelf, hands behind his back as she poured two cups of tea.
“Why did you choose the military?” she asked, handing him a cup.
He accepted it with a nod. “It made sense.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He sat on the edge of a plush armchair. “I needed structure. Purpose. Something to control when everything else felt like chaos.”
She studied him. “You’re not chaotic.”
“Not now.”
“But you were.”
He nodded. “We all carry ghosts. Some louder than others.”
She walked over to him, her bare feet soundless against the carpet. She didn’t touch him—just sat on the floor beside the chair, her shoulder brushing his knee.
“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t want anything from me.”
“That’s not true,” he said, voice low. “I want something.”
She looked up.
“I want you to be free,” he said.
Something cracked inside her at those words.
Because no one had ever wanted that for her before.
Not without condition.
Not without cost.
She didn’t kiss him. Not yet.
But the silence between them changed—became heavier, more fragile.
She rested her head against his leg.
And he, after a long pause, placed a hand gently on her hair.
They stayed like that until the tea went cold.
And for once, neither of them felt the need to run.