CHAPTER 1

THE MOST HONEST THING

There are three things I know to be absolutely one hundred percent true.

One, there are gentler ways to find out your face was never yours. 

I assume.

Two, there are nicer ways to find out your entire life was a lie.

And three, I knew absolutely nothing at all.

Life taught me that, over and over again.

And while I reminisce about the how, I recall asking myself why.

Not the passing question that is always burning in the back of your mind.  You know, the itch of suspicion that drives you into an existential crisis.  The one that sits between making the right decision and the easy one.

No.  That would come later. 

What I am talking about is the question I asked myself as I stared in the mirror that day.  Which, to me, had become the most important one.

Were my eyes always green? 

Had they changed?

I swear they were blue.  Ice crystal blue.  Cold.  Calculating.  Cut your soul in half, kind of blue.  Or maybe those were my mother’s.  Maybe I always saw too much of her in myself.

No.  I know mine were definitely blue.

Same with my hair.  It was suddenly shit brown.  Not the sweet honey blonde I had brushed earlier that morning.

So why did I suddenly want it back?  I always hated the color of my hair.  It never measured up to those around me.  I was never blonde enough.  Come to think of it, I was never white enough either, despite being pale. 

My family was porcelain and ashen, exactly like all the other citizens.  So white they were colorless.  And their hair, nearly translucent, as if each strand were carefully sculpted from silk and racism. 

They were quite ethereal really.

And there I was, already hating myself for not being like them, watching myself change even more.  My skin tone warming as mysterious dots appeared on my face, one by one, as if my questions and choices were somehow marking me for life.

Were they freckles?

But what choices?  What had I done to deserve it?  Why was I standing in the mirror?

And at first, I had no idea. 

Whatever had changed my face changed my mind.

Then, I looked down at my hand.  In it was a remote.  A small silver controller with one single button. 

Its only function—off.

And I had apparently pressed said button while staring at myself.  Hence the change in looks.  Also, the scrambled brains.

Brains that slowly started piecing together snapshots of a conversation I had a couple days before.  Words like, “What you think you know is wrong.”  Or “I have been trying to rescue you” kept popping into my head.

Which begged the question, why? 

Again.  Why being the word of the day. 

Why would I need to be rescued? 

It’s not like I had been kidnapped.  In fact, I was quite secure in my life.  I was a Harred after all.   The only heir to an empire, daughter of the Chairman of the Federation and quite protected.  So, who did I need to be rescued from?

I couldn’t remember that part. Or how my life would have been a lie.

I mean, did I buy into the whole, ‘we were the saviors of a nation’ bullshit?  No, but not for a lack of trying. 

Did I believe that my grandfather elevated the United States when he dragged it into the Golden Era and formed the Federation?  Maybe.

Did I wholeheartedly believe that we were more famous and powerful than any family in history?  Yeah.  If you saw my life, you’d agree.

So, what was the lie?

That we were great?  I’d buy that.

Dominating citizens under the fear of retribution and creating a Doctrine with fortified Tenets that basically scared people into submission didn’t seem ideal.  Whitewashing a nation and erasing history so that it could be told your way wasn’t exactly my cup of tea.  And controlling every single resource necessary for the entire world’s survival seemed a bit excessive.

So no, I did not think we were great, despite what my mother and grandfather said.  But I did grow up a Harred, so, I could see all the pros too.

The big one being, I would run it someday.   If she ever died.  If being the key word.

So again, what was the lie?

Well, I’ll tell you. Because I did eventually start to remember.  It just took me a while. 

As far as the remote, well, Coen had given it to me.  Not to push, but to hold on to until the moment was right.  You see, I had agreed to go with him, the same as I had done many times before.

I just didn’t know I had. 

I also didn’t know that at twenty-one, the same man who tried to take me away moved into my home as my caretaker and spent four years of my life getting to know me.  Taking care of me.  Loving me.  Protecting me.

Becoming the only person on the planet that I would trust.

Even if I didn’t believe him, I trusted him.

By this point in the story, we were only three years apart.

Make that make sense.

I know I didn’t.  As a matter of fact, I didn’t even try.  Not at first.

Not even when those supposed memories started coming back.  Him meeting me in the park as a child.  Walking toward me in a black trench coat and ripped onyx jeans.  Dirty light brown hair and hazel eyes, with a tan that seemed impossible under our artificial sun.

Oh yeah, did I mention I grew up in a domed city?  One of twenty in the Federation.  A closed ecosystem of recycled air and controlled atmosphere.   A dome that sat on a wall, surrounding a city that sat on an island. 

So, he seemed impossible, the whole situation, implausible.   Too absurd to try and wrap my head around.

The Coen I knew was colorful and vivid.  Almost too pretty.   A Capitol transplant who brightened the Silver Grid.

The man in the memories was dark and brooding, and at least twenty years old.

But he swore he was the same man.   And that I was not the same Isabella my mother claimed I was.

That, by the way, was the lie.  Not my name, but who they said it belonged to.  Supposedly. 

Which is why I was holding the button.

“Oh no,” he whispered, slipping into the bathroom.  “I was gone for two minutes.”

I spun around to see Coen walking toward me, drab, raw and flickering between weathered and stylishly inconspicuous.

“What do you mean?”

He lifted my hand.  “The remote.  You weren’t supposed to push it.”

“Then why did you give it to me?” I asked, leaning against the sink.  Valid question.

He ignored me and straightened my jacket, his face switching between alabaster and the same tan I saw in my memory.

I reached out and ran my hand down the sharp edge of his face, hoping something solid under my fingers would stop my eyes from playing tricks on me. 

“Quit,” he said, gently pushing my arm down.  “You’re acting weird.”

“You’re acting weird,” I cried.  “Your face, it’s like all messed up.”

He turned toward the mirror.  “No, it’s fine.  It’s just the Imprint.”

Then he handed me another remote.  “Go ahead, push it.”

So, I did. 

And just like mine, his face turned off. 

Which led to me having so many more questions.  But he insisted we didn’t have the time to rehash it.   He said he had already told me and didn’t understand why I didn’t remember.

“This thing,” I said, holding up the remote, “it scrambled my brain.”

He grabbed my bag and threw it over my shoulder.  “Well, we will unscramble it as soon as we get out of here.”

Then he stopped.  “What is the last thing you do remember?”

I had to think.  “The Morning Doctrine?”

I was standing next to my mother as she gave her morning sermon in a Widecast to the entire Federation.   She was talking about loyalty.  Her favorite word.  Loyalty to family, to the Doctrine, to the Corporation and the Federation.

It felt very targeted, as I recall.

“That was three hours ago,” he said, throwing his own bag over his shoulder.  “Hmm.”

Then he turned and reached out his hand.  “Are you ready?”

I glanced one more time at the mirror and then at him.

“Yeah, whatever, ok.”

© 2026 E. S. Mercer. All rights reserved.
The Wrong Daughter and The Heresy of Isa Harred are works of fiction by E. S. Mercer. No portion of these excerpts may be reproduced or distributed without permission, except as permitted by law.