She barely made it on time.

The dress? Not her style.
The heels? Definitely not her style.
The whole damn event? A joke.

But she had to be there.

The military wanted TF141 displayed—polished up, paraded in front of international officials like prized weapons, not actual people.

So she spent hours trying to find something decent that wouldn’t cost a fortune.

By the time she got her hands on the right dress, heels, and just enough makeup to keep the higher-ups off her back, she was running late.

She arrived the only way she knew how—on her motorcycle.

Pulled off to the side, parked out of view, yanked off her riding jacket, kicked off her boots—then stared at the heels.

Then at her feet.

Then back at the heels.

She was about to look like an absolute idiot trying to walk in these.

Still—she had no choice now.

She slipped them on, stood carefully, and took her first step.

Immediate failure.

The heels tilted weirdly beneath her weight, forcing her to catch herself against the bike.

She exhaled, steadying, adjusting—trying again.

Another step—still awkward.

She scowled.

This was ridiculous.

She spent her life surviving, training, fighting—she shouldn’t be struggling with walking, of all things.

But the more she forced it, the worse it got.

A few minutes in, she still looked completely unnatural—stiff, forced, wrong.

She sighed sharply.

Straightened her shoulders.

Took a breath—then walked.

Slow. Steady. Confident.

By the time she approached the building, she had it down.

Didn’t mean she liked it.

Didn’t mean she wanted to do this again.

But at least she wouldn’t embarrass herself the second she walked in.

---

The military had polished it to perfection—smooth surfaces, stiff conversation, gold-trimmed arrogance on full display.

TF141 was here as proof.

Not as soldiers. Not as people.

As tools.

They knew that. All of them knew that.

None of them liked it.

At least the alcohol was decent.

Then—

She walked in.

And suddenly, the team was paying attention.

The dress was perfectly tailored, black, off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved, reaching down to her ankles, subtle yet undeniably striking.

Her time in the field, in training, had shaped her—lean, muscular, strong, built from survival, but shaped well.

Now?

Now that strength was polished, refined, hidden just enough beneath the fabric.

Her scars, her tattoos? Covered.

Her hair curled in loose waves.

Minimal makeup—just enough to meet the military’s ridiculous standards.

The heels added height, but she carried herself like a soldier, not some carefully trained officer’s wife.

And at her throat?

The pearl necklace.

A keepsake.

A piece of someone she lost—someone she never let go of.

Price exhaled sharply, already exhausted from this revelation.

"Christ, kid."

Nikolai sighed into his drink. "Don’t much like this."

Ghost knew what was coming. "Gonna be a problem tonight."

Soap grinned. "Aye, lass, gotta say—you clean up way too good."

Gaz smirked. "Damn, you look expensive."

Krueger, Nikto, Kamarov, Horace?

Their eyes sharpened immediately—not as teammates, not as soldiers, but as overprotective brothers, watching every gaze that lingered too long, every official that turned too interested, every whisper that carried too far.

But Price and Nikolai?

They weren’t just watching.

They were not happy.

Not because she didn’t belong—she did.

Not because she looked bad—she didn’t.

But because too many people were going to notice.

And they didn’t like that one bit.