He’d buried a broad Medical Power of Attorney inside it.

“The private ambulance is downstairs,” Grant said, checking his Rolex. “We’re moving you to a civilian psychiatric facility. It’s better for everyone if you’re out of the military’s jurisdiction while we finalize the divorce and custody.”

They were trying to isolate me — pull me out of the federal military hospital and trap me in a civilian facility where Grant called the shots, stripping me of my command and my child.

Before I could reach the emergency call button, the door opened again. The air dropped ten degrees. General Roland Keene stepped inside, his uniform immaculate, three silver stars gleaming.

Four armed Military Police officers filed in behind him and blocked the exit.

Grant puffed up his chest. “Excuse me, who are you? This is a private family medical matter—”