Chapter 4

The "charity" gala was being held at a lavish downtown hotel. Sarah had insisted I come. It was our annual "Wounded Heroes" fundraiser, the crown jewel of her fraudulent enterprise. Appearing on stage, the tragic but brave veteran, was my yearly duty. This year, it felt different. I was no longer a prop. I was a hunter.

I stood beside her near the entrance, dressed in a suit that felt like a costume. She was radiant in a shimmering silver dress, playing the part of the devoted wife to perfection. She kept touching my arm, smiling up at me for the benefit of the wealthy donors who milled around us, sipping champagne.

"You're so quiet tonight, Liam," she murmured, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

"Just tired," I said, my voice flat.

She had prepared a gift for me, a "surprise" for the presentation later. It sat on a small table on the stage-a custom-made display case holding my medals, including the Navy Cross. It was meant to be a touching tribute. Now, it looked like a cage for my stolen honor. I looked at it with cold indifference.

Her eyes followed my gaze. "Don't you like it? I had it specially made."

"It's fine," I said.

The evening dragged on. Speeches were made. Money was pledged. I felt a grim satisfaction knowing that I had already contacted a forensic accountant, a former intelligence analyst I knew from my service. The wheels were in motion.

Then, just as Sarah was about to go on stage to present my "gift," the main doors of the ballroom burst open.

Captain Miller stood there, his face a mask of theatrical fury. He strode into the room, his voice booming, silencing the soft music and chatter.

"Sarah! How could you?"

A collective gasp went through the crowd. All eyes turned to him.

Sarah froze, her face draining of color. "Marcus, what are you doing?" she hissed.

"What am I doing?" he shouted, marching toward the stage. "I'm stopping this charade! I won't let you lie anymore!"

He pointed a dramatic finger at me. "This man... this hero... you've been living a lie with him! While you are married to ME!"

Panic erupted. People started murmuring, pulling out their phones. This was better than any reality show.

Sarah looked horrified. "Marcus, stop it! You're drunk!"

"I'm not drunk, I'm heartbroken!" he roared. He reached the stage and, in a fit of feigned rage, he swept his arm across the small table.

The custom display case flew through the air, crashing to the floor with a sickening sound of shattering glass and metal. My medals, the symbols of my sacrifice, of my brothers' sacrifice, scattered across the polished floor like cheap trinkets.

The Navy Cross, my highest honor, skittered under a table.

Something inside me snapped.

The carefully constructed wall of calm I had built around myself crumbled into dust. The roar of the ambush, the screams of my men, the searing pain in my leg-it all came rushing back, a tidal wave of trauma. The room spun, the shocked faces of the crowd blurring into a grotesque collage.

I dropped to my knees, not from a conscious decision, but because my body could no longer hold the weight of my life. I gasped for air, my hands clutching my head. The physical pain in my leg exploded, a white-hot agony that mirrored the shredding of my soul. I was back in the dust and blood, helpless, broken.

"You see?" Miller's voice cut through my haze. "You see what you've done to him? Your lies have broken him all over again!"

He was playing the victim, the righteous, wronged husband. And the crowd was buying it.

"That poor man," someone whispered from a nearby table. "She was cheating on a wounded hero?"

"With his commanding officer, no less," another voice chimed in, dripping with judgment. "How disgusting."

The narrative was set. I was the pitiful, mentally unstable victim. He was the hero. And Sarah... Sarah was the villain. But they were pointing their fingers at the wrong crime.

Sarah stared at me, then at Miller, then at the horrified faces in the crowd. Her perfect world was imploding in a very public, very humiliating way. All her careful planning, her social climbing, her web of lies-gone in an instant.

And in that critical moment, she made her choice.

She looked at me, crumpled on the floor, a pathetic spectacle. Then she looked at Miller, who stood tall and defiant, controlling the room. She walked off the stage, past me, without a single glance. She went to Miller's side.

"Let's go, Marcus," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "There's nothing for us here."

She chose him. In front of everyone, she chose the lie.

That final act of betrayal was a blow more devastating than any bullet. It was the confirmation of everything. The last, faint ember of hope that some part of her had loved me, that some part of our life was real, was extinguished. There was nothing left but ash.

As they turned to leave, a security guard, confused by the chaos, moved to intercept Miller. Miller, seeing his path blocked, shoved the guard aside. The guard stumbled backward, knocking into a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. The tray went flying, and a heavy ice bucket careened off its edge.

I was still on my knees, lost in the fog of my trauma. I never saw it coming.

The metal bucket hit the side of my head with a dull, sickening thud. The world went from a blurry, screaming mess to absolute blackness.

My last conscious thought was of the Navy Cross, lying tarnished and forgotten in the dark, under a table. Just like me.