Chapter 7
Finn’s jaw tightened
he registered the accusation in Stella’s eyes. “Operational priorities dictated civilian rescue protocols today;
not personal choice. As an officer’s wife, you understand duty–bound hierarchy, Stella.”
His words rang hollow against the hospital’s beeping monitors.
Stella watched him–the man who’d chosen a stranger who resembled his mistress over his bleeding wife.
“I understand,” she whispered, the heart monitor tracing her calm. “You’d save any woman with Celeste’s eyes before your spouse.”
A muscle twitched near his temple. “Believe what you want.”
He pulled a folder embossed with the Pentagon seal from his briefcase. “Pacific Command reassignment. I deploy to Guam in seventy–two hours.”
The orders blurred before Stella’s eyes–identical to the ones that had shackled her for three decades in another life.
The ones she’d accepted, burying her dreams to maintain his fortress.
But this deployment–this lifetime–she’d no longer stand sentry over his needs.
Stella Morrow was going dark on Finn’s frequency.
Forward march toward the life she’d been drafted to abandon: the dazzling, medal–worthy existence command had stripped from her service record.
Finn collected her at discharge without inquiring about her pain or prognosis. “The Joint Chiefs‘ farewell gala requires spouses,” he stated as she limped toward his SUV. “You’ll attend.”
Stella remained silent, the wheelchair’s metal frame cold beneath her palms.
Crystal chandeliers blazed over the Marine Corps Ballroom.
Stella trailed Finn past admirals clutching whiskey tumblers, her borrowed gown scratching at fresh stitches.
At the VIP table, Celeste held court. Liam piled lobster tails onto her plate while Fiona artfully rearranged the surgeon’s silk scarf.
Stella crossed the threshold.
Liam and Fiona glanced up–twin barnacles clinging to Celeste’s silk blouse–then skimmed over Stella with dismissive flicker before reattaching themselves to the surgeon’s orbit.
The silence thickened with the scent of betrayal.
“Dad!” Liam smirked as Stella approached. “Told you Aunt Celeste belonged at our table!”
Fra didn’tance up from her grip on Celeste’s arm. “Thirty months without you will
feel like er!”
Celeste stroked Fiona’s hair, eyes luminous. “Your father promised video calls from the base every Sunday.”
Stella stood at parade rest, a sardonic lift at the corner of her mouth.
Same deployment rotation. Same ghosts.
Finn would still embed Celeste within his Pacific Command unit.
Their departure would ignite a thirty–year tour of duty.
Last deployment: Left garrisoned with aging veterans and raw recruits–his parents crumbling, his children feral.
She’d buried her sniper–sharp ambitions under grocery receipts and VA claim forms.
Every dream surrendered.
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Every skill atrophied.
Then homecoming arrived. Not with folded flags or Purple Hearts–just separation papers signed “Brooks” before the welcome banners dropped.
Final insult?
The soldiers she’d raised with her own bloodstained hands now flanked Celeste’s perimeter, declaring Stella unfit to shine his colonel insignia.
Not this time.
Not this war.
Stella locked eyes with her reflection in the chrome coffee pót–the woman who’d outmaneuvered fate.
Finn noticed her drifting attention. He murmured something to Celeste, then snapped his fingers at the children.
Reluctantly, they flanked Stella like sullen sentries.
To the assembled brass, they projected familial unity–a patriotic tableau.
Stella’s tactical mind decrypted the maneuvers in real–time: They’re running OPSEC protocols using me as human shield against gossip artillery.
All evening, Finn’s unit maintained formation around her chair, yet his gaze tracked Celeste’s Armani Privé gown through the ballroom while Fiona radioed Celeste’s champagne status updates.
Stella sat motionless–an unclassified ghost haunting her own deployment.
Then Admiral Rowlan’s voice boomed, “For thirty years of service-
“Aiiii-!”
A blood–curdling shriek sliced through the citation.
Stella’s combat reflexes snapped her head upward—just in time to see Celeste execute a contortionist’s fall from the mezzanine balcony, silk scarf billowing like a sabotaged parachute.
Chapter 7
