Something uncompromising in my tone shattered his certainty. His fingers twitched, then released.

My father watched the exchange, his irritation mounting. “You’ve learned a great deal of arrogance out there.”

“No,” I said, smoothing my sleeve. “I learned how to enforce a boundary.”

I returned to Table 42 and set my chair with my back to the wall. Some habits are permanently wired into the nervous system. Even in a ballroom drowning in champagne, I found myself scanning the room — three marked exits, two service doors, blind spots behind the pillars.

I noted the private security contractor near the north wall touching his earpiece too often, and an aide near the stage watching the crowd instead of the bride.

Not paranoia. Situational awareness — the cost of a career built on anticipating disaster.