Chapter 2 - The Dress Whites
The ladies' dressing room on the lower level of the ballroom complex smelled faintly of lavender soap, fresh starch, and high-end hairspray. I stood before the polished full-length mirror, meticulously aligning the ribbons, medals, and insignia on my service blouse.
Every pin told a story. The Defense Meritorious Service Medal. The Joint Service Commendation. The gold surface warfare insignia gleaming proudly above my breast pocket. And, anchoring it all together on the cuffs of my sleeves, the four thick gold braids of a full Captain.
For years, I had kept these uniforms locked away in garment bags at the back of our spare closet, slipping into them only when reporting to secure installations or deploying overseas, before changing back into civilian clothes before returning home to Owen’s suburban house. Margaret had never seen me in uniform. To her, military women were either secretaries or nurses; a female line officer commanding multi-million-dollar operations simply did not compute in her archaic, upper-crust worldview.
A light knock tapped against the dressing room door. The door swung open, and Lieutenant Commander Sarah Vance—my executive officer and second-in-command for the gala planning committee—stepped inside, holding a heavy leather folio.
"Captain Ellison," Sarah said, snapping a crisp, flawless salute. "The command staff is arriving. Rear Admiral Henderson and General Vance are already in the VIP reception hall. Everything is green across the board."
"Thank you, Sarah," I replied, returning the salute with effortless precision as I adjusted my combination cap on my head. "How is the guest seating looking?"
"Secured, ma'am," Sarah grinned, a mischievous sparkle dancing in her eyes. "Though I did notice your mother-in-law’s table placement. She’s currently seated at Table Twelve—right next to the service doors and directly behind the ice sculpture. She’s already complaining to the maître d’ about the draft."
I smiled faintly, buttoning my white choker collar. "Let her complain. Tonight is going to be full of surprises for Margaret."
"Word has leaked through the command channel about who actually planned this entire operational setup, Captain," Sarah added, lowering her voice slightly. "Half the flag officers in attendance are looking forward to meeting the mastermind behind the logistics. They’re expecting a briefing from you right after the opening remarks."
"Good," I murmured, checking my reflection one last time. "Let's go show them what administrative work really looks like."
We walked out of the dressing room and down the grand staircase that curved gracefully into the main reception hall. As my boots clicked rhythmically against the marble steps—click, click, click—the ambient chatter of the lower foyer began to fade.
Several junior officers stopped mid-conversation, snapped to attention, and rendered sharp hand salutes as I descended into the light. I returned each salute crisply, my posture rigid, my eyes fixed straight ahead.
Across the room, standing near the bar with a glass of champagne in her hand, Margaret Ellison was holding court with a group of wealthy civilian friends she had dragged along. She was in the middle of telling an animated story about how her son Owen was practically running the entire naval logistics network single-handedly, when her eyes drifted toward the grand staircase.
May you like
She stopped talking mid-sentence.
Her jaw slackened. The glass of champagne tilted dangerously in her manicured fingers. She stared up at the staircase, watching as the gold-braided Captain descending the steps turned her head, locked eyes with her across the crowded room, and offered a cool, razor-sharp smile.
