PART 2
The party was held in my father’s backyard in Westchester.
White lights hung between oak trees.
Servers carried lobster sliders, crab cakes, and tiny beef Wellingtons that looked too expensive to chew.
Fiona stood in the center of it all beside her fiancé, Donovan Reed.
He was quiet.
Sharp-eyed.
Old money.
The kind of man whose family could smell scandal before dessert.
My father, Arthur Pierce, lifted his glass proudly.
“Fiona is one of the finest precision shooters in the military,” he said. “Elite. Absolutely elite.”
Fiona lowered her eyes like humility had briefly possessed her body.
Then she angled her shoulder so the badge caught the light.
Perfect smile.
Perfect posture.
Perfect lie.
I stood near the bar in dark jeans, a gray button-down, and boots that had seen more mud than anyone at that party had seen on a golf course.
Nobody asked about my service.
In the Pierce family, Fiona was the golden daughter.
I was just Jocelyn.
The boring older sister with “one of those supply jobs.”
Then Fiona looked at me and smiled.
May you like
“Oh, Jocelyn handles boxes and socks,” she said. “Somebody has to support the real operators.”
And that was when Donovan stopped smiling.
