Podczas mojej wystawnej gali urodzinowej, mój mąż zrobił dokładnie to, co kazała mu matka – wstał i publicznie mnie upokorzył na oczach wszystkich. Sala ucichła, czekając, aż się rozpłaczę albo ucieknę. Zamiast tego, wstałam, poprawiłam sukienkę i zaczęłam się śmiać. Zamarł w miejscu, a jego twarz odpłynęła.

Time to wait for pain.

When I returned to the master suite, the afternoon light slanted through silk drapes, casting prison-bar shadows across the Persian rug.

A large white box sat on the bed tied with a satin ribbon.

My “uniform” for the evening.

I untied it.

Lifted the lid.

Inside lay a dress.

Silk.

Expensive.

Beige.

Not gold.

Not cream.

Beige.

The color of oatmeal.

The color of stale walls in a dentist’s waiting room.

A color designed to make a woman disappear.

On top was a note in Victoria’s razor-sharp calligraphy.

Heidi, please wear this. The neckline is modest as discussed. Try to look a little less common tonight. We have senators attending. —V

Common.

Her favorite word.

A Boston way of saying trash.

A reminder that while she was born into trust funds and summer homes on Martha’s Vineyard, I was born to a mechanic and a teacher in Ohio.

The dress wasn’t clothing.

It was a muzzle.

I walked to the sewing table in the corner and picked up heavy steel tailoring shears.

Cold.

Heavy.

In my hand, they felt like truth.

I returned to the bed.

Didn’t hesitate.

Snip.

The blades sliced through silk.

Snip.

Rip.

I cut the modest neckline in half.

Slashed the hem.

Destroyed the symbol of my submission.

The remains lay on the bed like expensive rags.

“Oops,” I whispered. “Wardrobe malfunction.”

Then I went to the back of my closet.

Past the muted clothes Victoria approved.

Hidden in a garment bag was my own purchase.

Bought six months ago with money saved and hidden like contraband.

I pulled it out.

Vintage Christian Dior.

Not beige.

Crimson.

Deep.

Dangerous.

The color of arterial blood.

Warning signs.

War.

I slid into it.

The silk hugged my body like armor.

The neckline dipped just enough to say: I’m a woman, not a child.

In the mirror, the tired wife vanished.

Captain Heidi Austin stared back.

I pinned Miller’s brooch to the left strap, over my heart.

My hands trembled—not from fear, but from magnitude.

I whispered a verse my chaplain read before our first patrol in the Korengal.

Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.

Ephesians 6:11.

“This dress is my armor,” I said aloud. “This brooch is my weapon.”

I picked up my clutch—Chanel compact inside, evidence hidden under powder.

When I opened the bedroom door, James was waiting in the hallway.

Black tuxedo.

Devastating.

For one second, the fog in his eyes thinned.

He looked up.

His breath hitched.

His gaze traveled from the hem of the red dress to my face.

Recognition flashed.

Pure.

Sharp.

“Heidi,” he breathed, voice cracking. “You look… you look like fire.”

My heart leaped.

He’s in there.

He sees me.

“James,” I whispered.

I reached for him.

Before our fingers touched, he flinched.

Pain spasmed across his face.

He grabbed his temples.

Like an ice pick had driven into his skull.

“James?”

“Too bright,” he groaned. “Too loud.”

It was the conditioning.

Victoria and Whitley had trained his nervous system like a leash.

Any strong emotion—desire, anger, excitement—triggered a migraine.

Punishment for feeling.

He lowered his hands.

The light in his eyes died.

Adoration replaced by dull emptiness.

“Mother is waiting,” he said robotically. “We shouldn’t be late.”

He turned toward the stairs.

I stood there with my hand still extended.

Grief tried to buckle my knees.

I locked them.

Lock it down, Austin.

More later.

Fight now.

We descended the grand staircase.

Staff stopped cleaning to stare.

Mrs. Higgins dropped a duster when she saw the red dress.

Her mouth fell open.

I met her gaze and held it until she looked away.

Outside, the Boston evening was cool and sharp.

A stretch limousine idled in the driveway, black and glossy, waiting to swallow us.

To anyone else it was luxury.

To me it was insertion into enemy territory.

My heels clicked on the stone steps like gunshots.

Inside the limo, I sat opposite James.

The door slammed.

Sealed.

“To the venue, sir?” the driver asked.

“Yes,” James answered flatly.

I touched the brooch.

Recording.

Always recording.

Ephesians 6:11.

We were entering the devil’s playground.

And I wasn’t taking prisoners.

The Harrington ballroom was old-world intimidation made into architecture.

Crystal chandeliers from France in the 1920s dripped light onto a sea of people who owned half of Boston.

A string quartet played Vivaldi in the corner.