Before the echo faded, a massive figure moved from the front row. General Marcus Sterling — retired four-star, patriarch of the Sterling empire — crossed the ballroom floor.

He didn’t walk. He advanced with the unstoppable momentum of a main battle tank.

He reached the alcove in seconds and took one look at my shoulder, the torn uniform, the blood on the floor.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t panic. He reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief, and dropped to one knee beside his son.

Without a word to the stunned crowd, the four-star general pressed the silk directly into my shoulder wound and leaned his weight on it.

I hissed a sharp breath through my teeth.