The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 23: Elyn: Secret Room

This doesn’t look good.

How the hell did I end up in this situation?

I remember I was in my room, minding my own business. I was preparing for my wedding, for god’s sake. But I thought I needed something to ease my nerves, so I went down to the mini library adjoining the study to play the piano.

Who would’ve thought I’d discover a secret room and then get myself locked inside it?

Yeah, I know. Dumb. It was spectacularly stupid of me to end up in a mess like this.

But how was I supposed to know that touching the painting beside the piano would open a hidden door in the wall?

Of course I got curious—who wouldn’t be?

I only meant to peek inside, but obviously things didn’t go the way I expected. The moment I stepped in, the door swung shut behind me, and that was it. Locked.

The secret room is small. There’s a switch I found after groping nervously around the walls, but the lone light bulb is ancient and one tantrum away from dying, judging by its constant flickering.

At least the place is well ventilated. There’s a table, two chairs, and a single shelf. When I check the piles of notebooks and papers stacked there, I realize they’re old diaries and letters, apparently from the Brandt family.

I don’t read them (I’m not that desperate to invade someone’s privacy), but the dates catch my eye. Most of them are from decades ago. Probably written by Mr. Brandt’s grandparents or someone from their generation.

There’s nothing else worth looking at, so I focus on figuring out how to get out instead of snooping through century-old heartbreaks or whatever those letters contain.

But the door... it doesn’t have a doorknob. Or a handle. Or anything.

From the inside it’s clearly a door, but outside it must blend perfectly with the wall panels. You’d never even guess it exists.

Maybe it only opens from the outside.

Well, doesn’t that sound awful.

I keep pacing back and forth, searching for any clue that might be a key. I touch everything, hoping something will trigger an automation or mechanism, but nothing works.

I want to cry out of sheer frustration.

I don’t have my phone, and I’ve already shouted myself hoarse. I doubt anyone can hear me. The servants only come to the study to clean, and today probably isn’t cleaning day.

Besides, even if they go to the study, will they hear me from here if they don’t enter the mini library?

I still need to get ready for my wedding. Mr. Brandt will kill me if I’m not prepared by the time he gets home.

Dahlia is in another guest room. I hope she notices I’m gone and alerts Jean or Stannis. Those two have better odds of finding me before I die of panic or starvation, whichever comes first.

Minutes stretch until it feels like I’ve been here for hours.

I sink to the floor and stare at the door, willing it, begging it, to open on its own.

More time passes, and the small room starts to feel even smaller, the air somehow thicker, heavier, as if the walls are inching closer.

I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them.

No.

I’m starting to feel... not good.

Being trapped in a room like this, it feels too familiar. And the more I remember that feeling, the more it crawls back to me, rising like waves and crashing straight down my throat, swallowing my breath.

Get a grip, Elyn.

Get a grip.

Focus.

But anxiety is a stubborn little thing, and the memories feeding it are even worse.

Breathe.

My grip tightens around my knees. My vision warps with the flickering light, shadows jumping in the corners.

My heartbeat is too fast, way too fast, and the noise inside my head refuses to quiet.

Come on, stop worrying. You’re breathing. You’re fine. Everything’s going to be okay.

Tears roll down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying. The familiarity of this situation claws at the child still hiding inside me. The trauma comes back in sharp, unforgiving pieces, and I wish I were brave enough to ignore it.

But your own mind is always the toughest enemy.

"Elyn, stay here and don’t leave until Mommy comes for you, okay? Only when I find you, then you can come out."

I squeeze my eyes shut.

No. Stay out of my head. Please.

"Let’s play hide and seek again, baby. Don’t come out until Mom finds you."

I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

"Don’t come out."

I shake my head hard, eyes still closed, pressing my forehead to my knees. I cling to myself so tightly it feels like I might bruise my own skin.

"Don’t come out."

The words keep echoing, circling, and tightening around me as the room feels smaller by the second.

Quiet sobs slip from my lips as I struggle to breathe.

"Don’t come—"

A noise at the door jolts me.

My head snaps up. Light spills into the room, a soft halo that blurs against my teary vision.

A silhouette stands there, blocking the doorway, but I can’t quite see past the blur.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there, looking at me.

I wipe my tears with the back of my hand, and the world finally sharpens.

Mr. Brandt’s face is dangerously grim as he stares at me. He doesn’t speak for several long seconds. He only looks at my tear-streaked cheeks, at the state I’m in, and something in his eyes darkens, deepens.

"I-I’m sorry... I shouldn’t have come here. I’m so—"

"Stop it," he cuts in, sharp and low, stepping forward.

I scramble to stand, but my legs almost give out. His hand catches my elbow before I can fall.

I’m still shaking, emotions flooding through me too fast to sort out, but I try to cling to what little composure I have left.

"Let’s get out of here," he says.

And he leads me out of the secret room.