My sister uninvited me to her wedding because my scars were “ugly.” “You’ll scare the rich guests,” she said. Mom agreed, “Just stay in the kitchen and wash dishes.” My brother refused to attend without me. “She’s a hero!” he yelled. They didn’t realize the “rich guest” was the Senator I saved overseas. When he saw me washing dishes, the room went silent…

Chapter 3: The Leak

Linda shoved us back into the kitchen and slammed the door, leaning her back against it as if she could physically hold back the truth.

“Stay inside,” she breathed, her chest heaving. “Do not come out until the speeches are over.” She smoothed her hair, plastered a fake smile on her face, and slipped back out to the party.

Inside the kitchen, the atmosphere had shifted. The staff watched us with wide eyes. Mike picked up a sponge and started scrubbing a roasting pan, his jaw set so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly, picking up another glass.

“Shut up, Cassie,” he said, not unkindly. “Just… shut up.”

I leaned against the stainless steel counter, closing my eyes. Through the gap in the service door, I could hear the muffled sounds of the reception. The clinking of crystal. The low hum of expensive conversation.

I moved closer to the crack in the door, needing to see him. Senator Sterling.

I saw him standing near the ice sculpture. He looked older than I remembered. His hair was silver now, and he walked with a slight cane—a remnant of the shrapnel that had taken part of his hip. The same explosion that had taken my face.

Jessica was hanging on his arm, laughing at something he hadn’t said. She was charming him, or trying to.

“You have a lovely home,” I heard Sterling say. His voice was deep, gravelly. He didn’t sound like a politician; he sounded tired. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking over the heads of the wealthy donors and socialites. He was looking for someone. “I was told your family has a history of service. Do you have a sibling who served?”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Jessica stiffened. I saw her grip on her champagne glass tighten. “Oh, yes. Cassandra. Sadly, she… she has some mental struggles. PTSD, you know? It’s very tragic. She’s quite unstable.”

Sterling frowned. “Is she here?”

“No,” Jessica lied smoothly, her face the picture of sisterly concern. “She couldn’t be here today. She’s in a facility. A special home. It’s for the best. She can be… volatile.”

“I see,” Sterling said, his face darkening with evident disappointment. He swirled his wine, losing interest in the room. “That is unfortunate. I was hoping to meet her. I served with a woman from this town years ago. The bravest soldier I ever met. I owe her a debt I can never repay.”

“Well,” Linda swooped in, linking her arm through the Senator’s. “We prefer to focus on the happy couple! More champagne, Senator? The 1998 vintage is exquisite.”

Back in the kitchen, disaster struck.

A pipe under the industrial sink, rattling from the pressure of the high-volume usage, suddenly burst.

A jet of hot, greasy water sprayed across the room, hitting the floor with a wet slap. The drains, already clogged with food scraps, backed up instantly. Grey, murky water began to pool around our feet.

“Damn it!” the head chef shouted. “The main valve! We need to shut off the water!”

“Where is it?” Mike yelled, dropping the pan.

“In the hallway closet!” the chef screamed, pointing to the service door. “Near the ballroom entrance! Hurry, before it floods the dining room!”

Panic seized me. The hallway. The Senator.

“I’ll go,” Mike said, but he slipped on the wet tile, going down hard on his knee.

“Stay down!” I shouted, my training kicking in. Assess. Adapt. Overcome. I didn’t think about my face. I didn’t think about the dress code. I thought about the mission.

I shoved the kitchen doors open, bursting out into the hallway. I was wet, my apron stained with grease, my hair plastered to my forehead, accentuating the scars on my cheek.

I sprinted toward the utility closet, my flats squeaking on the polished floor. I wrenched the closet door open and cranked the rusted valve wheel with both hands, muscles screaming. The hissing of the water stopped.

I exhaled, leaning my forehead against the cool doorframe.

Then, the ballroom doors swung open.

Senator Sterling stepped out, phone in hand, looking for a quiet place to take a call.

He stopped.

I looked up.

We were five feet apart. The music from the ballroom spilled out, a cheerful jazz standard that felt grotesque in the silence between us.

He saw the wet apron. He saw the grease stains. And then, he looked at my face. He didn’t flinch. His eyes locked onto the burn patterns—the specific, jagged geography of a blast he had been at the center of.

He froze, his phone slipping from his fingers and hitting the carpet with a dull thud.