The stiff, high collar of my blouse bit into my neck, a familiar, grounding pressure. I stood before the full-length mirror in the staging room, my hands moving with practiced, rhythmic precision over the brass buttons of my Dress Blues. The fabric was immaculate, the creases sharp enough to draw blood. I was twenty-six weeks pregnant, and the subtle outward curve of my stomach beneath the tailored wool was a heavy, beautiful reminder of my dual existence. I was a protector of the nation, and I was a bringer of life. A sharp kick fluttered against my ribs. I placed a hand over the spot, taking a slow, steadying breath that smelled faintly of brass polish and starched cotton.
We were at the Quantico Marine Corps Base in Virginia, the very beating heart of military tradition. Outside these walls, high-ranking officers and dignitaries were gathering under the cavernous, vaulted ceilings of the main auditorium. They were here for me. Today, I was to be pinned as a Staff Sergeant.
The door unlatched with a sharp click. Eleanor Sterling walked in.
Her designer heels struck the linoleum like a countdown to a detonation. She brought the scent of expensive, cold orchids and old money into the room, instantly souring the air. She didn’t look at my face. Her pale, icy eyes immediately dropped to the red stripes stitched onto my sleeves, her lips curling into a microscopic sneer.
“You look quite the part, Maya,” Eleanor said, her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that coated the back of my throat like syrup. “It’s amazing what a tailor can do for… someone of your background. But let’s not forget, when the lights go down, David still needs a wife who knows how to run a household, not just bark orders at privates.”
My jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath my skin. Through the mirror, I met her gaze. My expression was a perfectly constructed mask of military discipline, forged over years of grueling pressure. “I don’t bark orders, Eleanor. I lead Marines. And today, I’m being recognized for it.”
