My mother-in-law, Celeste Harrington, knew exactly what she was doing.

She knew I had one formal dress to my name. She’d cornered me into two choices: hide upstairs in defeat, or walk into that glittering ballroom exactly as I was.

When we came down to the lobby, the sabotage continued. The ballroom manager, a nervous man sweating through his tuxedo, physically blocked the mahogany doors.

“I apologize, Mr. Harrington, but your… guest does not meet the dress code mandated by the host. I can’t let her in.”

I expected Caleb to argue. I expected him to yell. Instead a terrifying stillness came over his features. He didn’t look at the manager. He pulled a heavy, encrypted black phone from his inner jacket pocket and dialed a sequence of numbers.

“Protocol Zero. Authorization Harrington-Alpha,” Caleb said quietly. “Connect me to the chief executive of Shadowbox — priority line.”

The manager scoffed and crossed his arms. Ten seconds later his earpiece crackled. All the color drained from his face, leaving him looking like a freshly poured wax figure.

He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to Caleb in terror.

“R-right away, sir,” the manager stammered into his lapel mic. He stepped aside, bowing his head so low I thought he’d snap his spine. “Please, allow me to escort you both to the center table.”

That was how I ended up in the middle of the ballroom, a sea of bespoke silver gowns and tailored tuxedos parting for the woman in combat boots.

Celeste Harrington stood on the main stage, a microphone in her manicured hand, diamonds glittering at her throat like ice. Every inch of her was arranged for the charity magazines.

Her eyes, cold and sharp as obsidian, slid from my heavy boots to my service medals.

She tapped the mic. Feedback screeched through the room.