General's Battle for Honor

The victory parade through Washington D.C. should have been the beginning of everything we'd promised each other. Seven years. Seven years of dust and blood and waiting, and now the crowds lined the streets waving flags, their cheers washing over us like a wave I couldn't quite feel. I wore my dress uniform, every ribbon and medal precisely placed, but my hand—my hand was clasped tight in Owen's, and that was the only thing that felt real.

I kept scanning the crowds for my father's silver hair, for the Hart family banner, but my eyes kept drifting back to Owen. He looked perfect in his uniform, jaw set in that way that made my heart stumble even after all these years. But something was wrong. His palm was sweaty against mine. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Are you okay?" I leaned close so only he could hear.

"Fine." The word came out clipped. Military. "Just tired."

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him.

That evening, the military gala blazed with crystal chandeliers and dress uniforms and champagne that tasted like celebration. I'd waited seven years for this night—not just the victory, but the after. The beginning of our real life together. I'd researched venues during those rare quiet moments between campaigns, circled a date on my calendar in red ink, dreamed about walking down an aisle in something other than combat boots.

I found Owen near the bar, and my heart lifted. Finally. Finally, we could talk about the future.

"Look." I pulled out my phone, scrolling to the photos I'd saved. "The botanical gardens have an opening in three months. I know it's fast, but—" I glanced up at him, suddenly nervous. "I thought maybe we could—"

Owen wasn't looking at my phone. His gaze was fixed across the room, and when I followed it, I saw his commanding officer, Colonel James Mitchell, standing in the corner with a woman I'd never seen before. She was striking—dark hair, elegant posture, the kind of woman who looked like she belonged in diplomatic circles rather than military ones.

"Owen?"

"What?" He blinked, finally looking at me. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

I swallowed the hurt. "The venue. For our wedding. Three months—"

"Three months is too soon." He took a drink, his knuckles white around the glass. "We just got back, Isabelle. There's debriefing, reassignment processes—"

"We've had seven years to think about this." I tried to keep my voice steady. "You said when we got back to D.C., we'd—"

"Things are more complicated than I thought they'd be." He still wasn't looking at me. "Let's just... let's table this discussion for now."

Table this discussion. As if our wedding was a strategic briefing that could be rescheduled. I felt something cold settle in my chest, but I forced a smile. "Okay. We can talk later."

But later never came. Owen kept finding excuses to drift away—conversations with superior officers, classified updates he couldn't discuss, that