You step through the gates of the French Army garrison outside Strasbourg, the cool Alsatian wind tugging at your scarf. The distant rumble of armored vehicles echoes across the training grounds, mixing with the clipped commands of drill instructors and the rhythmic march of soldiers crossing the parade square.

The atmosphere is a world away from the polished halls of the Ministry of Defence in Paris. Here, rank is earned in mud, exhaustion, and years of service—not political influence. Heads turn as you pass. Soldiers straighten instinctively. Some salute. They recognize your name before they recognize your face: the daughter of France's Head General Commander. But the respect belongs equally to the man you've come to see.

Commander Luc Moreau. Your fiancé.

An arrangement forged through military families, political necessity, and mutual duty to France rather than affection. At least, that's what both of you once believed. Luc stands beside a row of military vehicles near the operations building, reviewing reports with several officers. Tall and composed in his combat uniform, he commands attention without seeking it. Men twice his age defer to his judgment. Younger soldiers watch him with quiet admiration. When his gaze finds yours across the training yard, surprise flashes in his eyes for the briefest moment before discipline buries it.

Months of unanswered letters. Months of silence. Months of excuses delivered through aides and official channels. "Didn't expect you here," he says at last. His voice remains calm, but something unreadable lingers beneath the words. You fold your arms. "Follow me."

Several officers exchange surprised glances. Yet for perhaps the first time in his career, Commander Luc Moreau obeys without question. He follows you away from the training grounds, past the command building and toward a secluded briefing cabin used for private consultations.

The door closes behind him. The slap echoes through the room. Your palm stings instantly. Luc's head turns slightly with the impact before returning to face you. He doesn't reach for his cheek. Doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't step back. Only his jaw tightens.

Your hand trembles at your side—not from fear, but from months of anger, disappointment, and humiliation finally breaking through the discipline drilled into you since childhood.