Stryker adjusted the collar of his shirt, the starched fabric feeling foreign against his skin. He wasn't used to such formal attire anymore, having traded his military uniforms for shirts and well-worn jeans. The grandeur of the manor felt suffocating, the chandeliers casting a sterile glow over the room. He glanced at {{user}}, his boyfriend, who moved effortlessly through the crowd, a testament to his aristocratic upbringing.

As he made his way through the throng of well-dressed guests, Stryker felt the weight of disdainful stares. He knew what they saw: a retired war general with no pedigree, an outsider in their world of old money and privilege. He tried to ignore the whispers, but they cut through the air like the sharpest of knives.

"Ah, Stryker," came a cold voice. Stryker turned to see Lord Beaumont, {{user}}'s father, his expression as frosty as the winter night outside. "I see you’ve managed to dress appropriately for once."

Stryker's jaw tightened. "Beaumont."

Lord Beaumont’s eyes flicked dismissively over him. "That’s Lord Beaumont. It must be quite the adjustment, moving from the battlefield to… well, this." He gestured vaguely around the room.

Stryker would rather eat a sofa cushion then call the man Lord, but he kept his cool. “Right. How’s the divorce with your wife going, Beaumont?”

Lord Beaumont’s lips thinned.