Chapter 2 - The Golden Boy’s Toast
The ghost of Helmand faded back behind my eyes, swallowed by the soft jazz and the scent of expensive lilies. I blinked, grounding myself against the marble floor of the Vance estate.
"Still spaced out, I see," Preston sneered, adjusting his tailored silk bow tie. He turned toward his fiancée, Julianna Vance-to-be, the daughter of a prominent senator whose name guaranteed Preston’s government consulting firm endless federal funding. "Julianna, babe, you remember my sister Harper. The girl who went to Georgetown just to end up filling out requisition forms for motor pools."
Julianna offered a thin, pitying smile that didn't reach her diamond-studded ears. "Of course. It’s so brave of you, Harper. Really. All that roughing it in the dirt while the real men do the fighting. I don’t think I could survive a single day without my aesthetician."
A ripple of condescending laughter swept through the cluster of defense contractors and Washington insiders standing around them. Arthur Sterling, an executive VP from a major defense firm, chuckled and shook his head.
"Every cog is necessary in the machine, Preston," Arthur remarked, swirling two-finger scotch in crystal. "Someone has to count the boots and keep the coffee warm while our boys in JSOC handle the actual combat."
"Exactly," Beatrice chimed in, stepping closer to tuck an imaginary stray hair behind Preston’s ear. Her touch with him was gentle, maternal—the exact opposite of the iron claw she had dug into my wrist moments earlier. "Preston has always been the one carrying the family's intellectual mantle. Harper was simply too restless to build a respectable career. But tonight is about celebrating winners. Preston, darling, tell Arthur about the eighty-million-dollar defense logistics contract you’re about to close."
"Well, Mother," Preston puffed his chest out, basking in the glow of unconditional praise, "it takes vision to coordinate defense logistics. Unlike desk clerks who just rubber-stamp orders, I’m modernizing the entire supply line for Central Command."
I stood silently in my simple navy cocktail dress. Beneath the hem of my skirt, a three-inch jagged scar ran down my calf from a piece of shrapnel taken outside Sangin. Across my shoulder blades lay the faded burn marks from dragging Sergeant Morales out of a burning Humvee while three machine-gun nests raked the dirt around us.
None of them knew. Because my operations were black-budget JSOC task force missions, my records were sealed at Tier One classification. To my family, I had merely taken an administrative commission in the Army after college—a stubborn, embarrassing detour.
"You look quiet tonight, Harper," Julianna noted, tilting her champagne flute. "Aren't you happy for your brother? He’s making history in D.C. What's the biggest decision you made this month? Paper or plastic clips?"
"I'm very aware of what Preston does," I said quietly, my voice level and controlled. "And I'm equally aware of what real service costs."
May you like
Preston’s jaw tightened. "Oh, save the sanctimonious lecture, Harp. You took the coward’s route inside the military. You hide behind brass desks while making twenty grand a year, riding on our father’s name. If you had an ounce of ambition, you'd be wearing dress blues tonight with actual ribbons, instead of dressing like a librarian at my engagement gala."
Before I could answer, the glass french doors at the far end of the ballroom rattled. Outside, down the quarter-mile driveway, a line of flashing red and blue strobe lights pierced the darkness of the Potomac night.
