Chapter 6: Between the Lines

The world had not slowed down since Nathaniel left. If anything, it spun faster, more recklessly, as if determined to test the limits of Abigail’s resolve.

Reporters still lingered outside the gates.

Her name still trended on social media every few days—sometimes in anger, sometimes in sympathy. And her father’s administration, caught in a balancing act between diplomacy and damage control, continued to sidestep the growing unrest inside the country.

But none of that compared to the silence.

Nathaniel had been gone for thirteen days.

Thirteen days, one hour, and forty-seven minutes, to be exact.

And then his first letter arrived.

It wasn’t digital. No email, no traceable message. It came through an old-school diplomatic pouch routed through a trusted embassy contact—someone Abigail didn’t know, and someone Nathaniel had trusted implicitly.

The envelope was plain, addressed only to Miss A. Monroe in careful black ink.

Inside: two pages.

No greeting. No signature. Just his handwriting—angular, deliberate, restrained. Just like him.

I’m in Geneva.

The skies are gray, but not the way D.C. skies are. Here, the gray has depth. Texture. It doesn't suffocate—it just... softens the edges.

I think about your laugh more than I should.

And the way you tilt your head when you’re pretending not to be scared.

I’m keeping a low profile. Desk duty for now. Intelligence synthesis, daily risk reports. Not the worst job. Not the most meaningful either.

I miss that tree.

Write back.

Or don’t.

Just know I’d cross an ocean if you asked me to.

– N

She read the letter a dozen times.

Then she wrote him back.

Her reply was smuggled through a retired ambassador’s office—one of the few people in her father’s circle who had known Abigail since she was a toddler and still treated her like a human being.

She kept it simple.

The Jefferson tree misses you too.

So do I.

The press thinks I’m hiding because I’m ashamed.

Let them think that.

I’m planning something.

Not a scandal. Not a protest. Just... something real.

Stay safe.

And if you ever do cross that ocean again—

Make sure you’re not followed.

– A

Their correspondence became their rebellion.

Letters came weekly, sometimes with pressed leaves or a drawing Nathaniel sketched from a café window. In turn, Abigail sent him poems she never published, photos from her childhood, one of her favorite cufflinks—a tiny brass compass from her late grandfather’s study.

Each item a message, each envelope a defiance of the wall the world had built between them.

But while their love grew in secret, the world outside crept closer to collapse.

In the third week of Nathaniel’s absence, someone hacked into the White House internal messaging system. No data was publicly released—yet—but the breach sent ripples through every office, especially the President’s security team.

Rumors swirled. Foreign interference. Domestic whistleblowers. Disgruntled staffers. No one knew the truth.

Abigail wasn’t given a briefing, but she had learned how to listen at doors a long time ago.

She caught snippets:

“Communications breach.”

“Compromised chain of command.”

“Possible blackmail attempt involving the Monroe girl.”

Her name—again.

It was only a matter of time before someone tried to use Nathaniel against her.

That night, she locked herself in her room and called her father on the secure landline reserved for emergencies.

He answered on the second ring. “Abigail?”

“They’re going after him.”

A pause. “Who?”

“You know who. I’ve heard the staff talking. If Nathaniel’s letters are intercepted—if they use him to weaken you—then what happens?”

“I’ll protect him,” her father said. “As best I can.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re protecting your office. Not us.”

He said nothing.

She took a slow breath. “Then let me protect him.”

“Abigail—”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

She hung up before he could object.

The next day, she began erasing every trace of their connection.

She burned his letters in the fireplace and memorized every word.

She deleted the draft emails she never sent, cleared browser caches, disabled her private cloud drive.

She left only one thing behind: a single photograph of them standing apart during a public event, no closer than protocol allowed. To the untrained eye, it was just a candid shot of the First Daughter and her stoic guard.

To her, it was everything unspoken.

Across the ocean, Nathaniel received her next letter with shaking hands.

It was only five lines.

Stop writing for now.

Burn my last letter.

Trust no one—not even your superiors.

If something feels wrong, leave.

And if I go dark, it’s only to keep you safe.

He read it five times before striking a match and watching the page curl into ash.

He didn’t sleep that night.

But he did change his routine. Took longer routes to work. Sat with his back to walls in cafés. Watched who lingered too long in the hallway near his desk.

He felt eyes on him now, and not the kind that cared.

Meanwhile, Abigail made a plan.

If the White House wanted to treat her like a symbol, she’d give them one—but on her terms. She scheduled a televised charity event, fully approved by her handlers, all designed to showcase her commitment to “civic healing.”

What they didn’t know was that she’d hidden a message in her speech.

A line about hope crossing oceans. A metaphor drawn from compass stars and soldier’s letters. A whisper disguised as patriotism.

If Nathaniel was watching—and she believed he was—he’d know it was meant for him.

And he’d know she was still fighting.

The press began to notice.

“Is Abigail Monroe Hinting at a Bigger Battle?”

“Symbolism or Secret Messages? First Daughter's Speech Under Analysis.”

“The Compass Girl: Is the President’s Daughter Using Code?”

Her team scrambled to spin the narrative, calling her “an eloquent champion for national unity.” But the undercurrent of suspicion grew. Encrypted hashtags began to trend.

#LetterFromGeneva

#BeneathTheBadge

#CompassGirl

Supporters and critics clashed online, not realizing they were both half right.

Abigail didn’t respond publicly.

She simply sent one last letter.

I’m going underground.

You won’t hear from me for a while.

But I’ll come back when it matters.

And when I do, I won’t be alone.

– A

Nathaniel tucked the note into the lining of his jacket and stared out the window at the Geneva skyline.

Snow was falling again.

But beneath the silence, he could feel it.

The beginning of something louder.

Something unstoppable.

Love, sharpened into resistance.