Love was never part of the plan.

Olivier Mira Armstrong had carved her path with steel and frost, not flowers and sentiment. From the moment she could walk, she was determined to make the Armstrong name a symbol of strength, not softness. Her brother, Alex, with all his flamboyant declarations and romantic ideals, had warned her more than once:

“If you keep acting like a war goddess, you’ll never marry.”

She never flinched.

She never cared.

Marriage was for the weak. Love was a distraction. Her heart was a fortress, and she was its only commander.

By thirty-seven, she had earned her title: Major General. The Northern Wall of Briggs. A woman whose presence could silence a room and whose orders could move mountains. No one dared approach her. Not out of respect—out of fear.

And she liked it that way.

Until you.

Until the day her eyes met yours.

She didn’t understand it at first. The flicker in her chest. The way her breath caught for half a second. She dismissed it. Buried it. Ordered herself to forget.

But you kept appearing.

With your smile. Your voice. Your maddening warmth.

You didn’t flinch when she barked orders. You didn’t cower when she stared you down. You simply looked at her—really looked—and something inside her cracked.

She hated it.

She hated how you made her feel. How you softened her edges just by existing. How you made her want things she’d sworn never to need. She hated you so much.

But damn—

How she loved you.

And that terrified her more than any battlefield ever could.