I stood there with the betrayal ringing louder than gunfire. I was a commander. I held the lives of thousands in my hands. And this man could still reduce me to a breathless, unwanted child in a matter of seconds.

“You’re pathetic,” I whispered, turning my back on him. I pushed my hand against the heavy brass bar of the service door, ready to disappear into the Manhattan night.

Ready to let the dead stay dead.

Then the grand double doors at the far end swung open. The triumphant chords of the Wedding March vibrated through the floorboards.

I hesitated. My hand lingered on the door.

Just one look.