Take that fake medal off before somebody realizes what you really are!”

The pre-ceremony gala was held in the grand ballroom of the Willard, an opulent space dripping with gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and military pride purchased with taxpayer dollars.

Michael remained at my side like an iron wall, wearing his full Dress Blues. The Silver Star and Legion of Merit pinned to his chest shone with blinding brilliance, demanding an instinctive deference from every officer in the room. I wore my service uniform, crisp and immaculate, the single row of ribbons representing my deployed time in the Shok Valley sitting quietly over my heart.

"They're watching the doors," Ruiz murmured through the covert earpiece I wore beneath my hair. "Sterling's personal detail has replaced the standard hotel security on the mezzanine level. They're trying to isolate us."

"Keep the perimeter tight, Thomas," Michael replied under his breath, taking two glasses of sparkling water from a passing waiter and handing one to me.

Suddenly, the crowd parted, and an older woman adorned in diamonds and a severe burgundy dress approached us, flanked by two active-duty colonels who looked visibly uncomfortable.

It was Eleanor Vance, the matriarch—Sterling’s sister and Julian's mother.

Her face was twisted with bitter hatred, the makeup failing to conceal the lines of rage etched around her mouth.

"You have some nerve showing your face here," Eleanor spat quietly, stopping inches from me. "You ruined my son. Julian is facing five years in a federal penitentiary because of your pathetic, fabricated sob story!"

"Your son is facing prison because he embezzled military supply contracts and stalked a wounded veteran, Mrs. Vance," I said calmly, looking down at her. "He put the handcuffs on himself."

"You are nothing!" Eleanor hissed, her voice trembling with venom. "A dirt-poor mountain girl whose father was a mechanic! You think a little piece of metal on your chest makes you our equal? You think you can marry Michael Harris and steal our family’s legacy?"

"Watch your tongue, Eleanor," Michael intervened, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal timber that made the two colonels beside her step back instinctively. "You’re speaking to a combat officer who defended this country while your son was running fake real estate scams in Denver. If you say one more word to my fiancée, I will have the Military Police escort you out of this building in zip-ties."

"You wouldn't dare," Eleanor gasped, looking around, expecting support. But the surrounding military brass, recognizing Michael’s rank and the undeniable authority in his posture, averted their eyes. Nobody wanted to jump on a burning ship.

"Try me," Michael said, not blinking.

Eleanor sneered, leaning into my face, her breath smelling of gin. "Enjoy your little parade tomorrow, Bradley. Because what happened in the Shok Valley won't stay buried. You aren't the only one with secrets."

She turned on her heel and stormed toward the mezzanine, where Sterling Vance was standing beside a group of uniformed men wearing unmarked black lapel pins.

"She’s rattled," I whispered to Michael. "They're getting reckless."

"Reckless means dangerous, Lauren," Michael replied, his hand resting on the small of my back, guiding me away from the center of the ballroom. "Sterling isn't going to let you walk onto that stage tomorrow. He knows that once the President hangs that medal around your neck, you have absolute immunity and a global platform."

Before I could reply, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

It was an encrypted ping from Ruiz.

*Code Red. The archives in Colorado just suffered a physical breach attempt. They're trying to wipe the paper trail from both ends.*

I looked up at Michael. His phone vibrated a second later.

"They hit the mountain," Michael said, his eyes darkening to obsidian. "Ruiz’s team held the vault, but Sterling just committed his private security contractors on civilian soil. He's desperate."

"Then we don't wait for tomorrow morning," I said, my adrenaline spiking, the familiar focus of combat flooding my veins. "We move the evidence to the press pool tonight."

"Not the press," Michael said, taking my hand and leading me toward the side exit. "The press can be silenced by a gag order from the Department of Justice. We take it directly to the one man in Washington Sterling Vance can't buy."

"Who?"