“Get your hands off me,” I hissed, shoving the MP’s arm away.
“Sorry, ma’am. You aren’t on the guest list.”
I am Elena Vance. For thirty-eight years, I’ve been the invisible ghost of the Vance military dynasty, the disappointing daughter who “pushed papers” while my father, Admiral Thomas Vance, and my golden-boy brother, Captain Marcus Vance, basked in naval glory. Today was my father’s retirement ceremony at Naval Station Norfolk. I had driven through a blinding storm to get here, only to be physically barricaded at the VIP checkpoint.
Marcus materialized from the grand double doors of the auditorium, his dress whites gleaming with unearned medals. He marched down the steps, his jaw set in that familiar arrogant sneer, and grabbed my bicep, his fingers digging into my flesh.
“What are you doing here, Elena?” he muttered, dragging me roughly toward the shadows of a stone pillar so the gathering press wouldn’t see us. “Dad told you to stay home.”
“It’s my father’s retirement,” I snapped, yanking my arm free. “I have every right—”
“No, you don’t.” Marcus slammed his palm against the pillar, cornering me. He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his breast pocket and shoved it against my chest. “Look at it.”
I unfolded the paper. It was the official VIP guest roster. Right there, under the V’s, my name—Elena Vance—was violently crossed out with thick black ink. Next to it, in my father’s unmistakable scrawl, were the words: Do not admit. She will ruin Marcus’s moment.
A cold, heavy stone dropped in my stomach. The betrayal physically knocked the wind out of me. My own father had erased me. To him, I was just a lowly desk jockey in Naval Intelligence, an embarrassment who would tarnish the pristine image of his heavily decorated son.
