I walked into my family’s charity gala still wearing dusty field gear from a classified extraction. My sister grabbed my arm and hissed, “Take that filthy gear outside.” Then her fiancé handed me a folder and said, “Sign this before you make things worse.” It would have surrendered my mother’s restricted veterans’ fund. They thought exhaustion made me weak. They didn’t know federal agents were already watching the ballroom. – Full Article

The second was his watch.

Silver. Heavy. Far too expensive for a foundation consultant who made speeches about keeping administrative costs low.

“You need to leave,” Celia whispered.

“No.”

Her fingers tightened.

I had been grabbed by men who intended to kill me. But my sister’s grip hurt in a place no enemy had ever reached.

“You smell like smoke.”

“I probably do.”

“This is a charity gala.”

“I know what room I’m in.”

“Do you?” Her gaze flicked toward the donors watching their wine glasses. “Because right now, you look unstable.”

The word landed clean.

Prepared.