I never told my family I had become a four-star Major General. To them, I was just a “low-ranking soldier,” while my CEO sister was the golden child. At her wedding, my mother forced me to stand aside, sneering, “Servants don’t belong at the family table.” When I tried to sit, my sister frowned—and my father slapped me hard. “You’re embarrassing the family. Get out.” Then the groom’s father stepped forward, took the microphone, and said coldly, “This wedding is canceled.”

I saw a face I recognized. It was Liam. He was wearing a simple suit, looking healthy, looking happy. He smiled and gave me a discreet thumbs up. He had started his own architectural firm, away from his father’s money, away from the toxicity of the social climber circle. He was free.

I heard rumors about my family, of course. Intelligence reaches my desk whether I ask for it or not.

Jessica’s company folded within a month of the wedding. She was sued by three different vendors. She was currently living in a studio apartment in New Jersey, working as a receptionist.

My parents had sold the estate. The bankruptcy was messy. They told anyone who would listen in their new, smaller social circles that their daughter was an “ungrateful warmonger” who abandoned them. They played the victims perfectly.

I didn’t correct the record. I didn’t care.

I raised my hand to touch the spot on my cheek where my father had hit me a year ago. It didn’t hurt anymore. The bruise had faded within days, but the lesson had lasted.

The slap had woken me up. It reminded me that I didn’t need a seat at their table. I had my own table. And at my table, honor is the only currency accepted.

I looked out at the troops standing in formation—thousands of young men and women who would follow me into hell if I asked them to. They were my family.

I saluted the flag, my hand steady, my eyes clear.