Lydia’s text was worse.
Congrats. Is he active duty? Hope you know what you’re getting into lol.
As if I were naive. As if I hadn’t spent eight years living this life already.
After London, something in me shifted, like finally seeing the blueprint of a house you’ve lived in for years and realizing the foundation has been cracked the entire time.
I didn’t call them demanding explanations. I didn’t write long messages about how hurt I was. I sat in my quarters the night after the engagement ceremony, stared at their London photo, and realized I had been fighting a one-sided war for years.
Every achievement, every pressed uniform, every commendation I had hoped they might ask about was a silent plea for validation.
They left the country to make a point.
Some celebrations actually matter.
That caption wasn’t careless. Lydia wrote it knowing I’d see it, knowing people I worked with would see it. It was a public statement about my worth.
Lieutenant Commander Chin knocked on my door that evening and let herself in when I didn’t answer fast enough.
“You doing okay, Ward?”
“I’m fine.”
She sat on the edge of my desk, arms crossed. “That’s not what I asked.”
Chin had earned the right to push. We’d known each other since officer candidate school. We’d deployed together. We’d covered for each other during inspections, crises, and the occasional bad day where the only thing keeping you upright is the fact that someone else is watching your back.
“That photo was cruel,” she said bluntly.
“It was honest,” I said.
“Cruelty and honesty aren’t the same thing.” She leaned forward. “You know you didn’t deserve that, right?”
I wanted to agree. I wanted to feel righteous anger. Mostly, I felt tired.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The ceremony happened. Mark and I are engaged. Whether they were there doesn’t change that.”
Chin looked at me for a long moment, her eyes softening. “Except it does,” she said quietly. “Because you’re sitting here alone instead of celebrating with your fiancé.”
She was right.
The next morning, I met Mark for breakfast at the base commissary. He was already there, reading through briefings on a tablet, his posture relaxed but alert.
“Morning,” he said. “Sleep okay?”
“Well enough.” I sat down, staring at my coffee. “We need to talk about the guest list.”
He set down the tablet. “Okay.”
“Your aide mentioned the Secretary of Defense confirmed attendance.”
Mark blinked, genuinely surprised. “I told her to send regrets on my behalf. He doesn’t need to spend his time at a junior officer’s wedding.”
I stared at him. “Mark. What is your actual rank?”
His expression shifted, almost amused. “Major General,” he said simply. “Though I expect to make Lieutenant General next promotion cycle if the board goes well.”
I blinked, my brain catching up.
Major General. Two stars.
That explained the security. The guest list. The attention.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Would it have mattered?” he replied, not defensive, just curious.
I thought about it. “No,” I admitted. “But it explains a lot.”
He nodded. “I can make calls,” he offered. “Keep it small if that’s what you want.”
I thought about the empty chairs. I thought about London. I thought about the way my family only looked up when something could be turned into status.
“No,” I said slowly, feeling resolve build. “Don’t make calls. Let them come. Let’s do this properly.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He studied my face for a moment, then nodded. “All right. But this is still about us, Elena. Not about proving anything to them.”
“I know,” I said, and I meant it.
Wedding planning became something else entirely.
I expected simple logistics: book the chapel, arrange flowers, choose music. Instead, I found myself coordinating with Mark’s aide, Lieutenant Colonel Patricia Vasquez, a sharp woman who approached wedding planning like a military operation.
“Captain Ward,” she said in our first meeting, “I need to confirm details for security clearances.”
“Security clearances,” I repeated.
“When you’re marrying a two-star general who works in strategic operations,” she said, “yes, ma’am.”
“How many people are we talking about?”
She pulled up a spreadsheet. “Seventy-three confirmed, twenty-two pending. Forty-one require enhanced protocols.”
Seventy-three.
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