“Brenda walked them to their car in the lower lot.”

“Understood, sir,” I said.

“They didn’t stay for the honor mess reception,” Vance added, looking at me over the top of his wire frames.

“Your father left a small envelope with the duty officer at the gatehouse.”

“He said what he needed to say,” I said.

I looked down at the dark blue velvet box in my hand and felt the quiet reality of eight years of strain finally lifting off my shoulders.

There was no victory in the room and no grand feeling of triumph, only the clear, unshakable boundary I had drawn with my own hands.