Chapter 2The Generals Debt Is Paid

After work, Charlotte’s black SUV was idling in front of the building, just like always. We drove in a heavy, suffocating silence. I knew she’d seen the transfer announcement.

I opened my mouth to explain, but she cut me off before I could speak.

"Brody leaves for the Ridge next month," she said, her voice clipped. "A few of the old team are getting drinks tonight. Since you’re the one who took his spot at HQ, it’s only right that you show up."

I didn't argue. I followed her into the private room of a high-end steakhouse downtown.

Brody was the center of attention, his eyes still puffy. Someone vacated the seat next to him when Charlotte walked in, and she took it naturally, as if that was where she belonged. I didn't care. I found an empty chair near the door.

The moment we sat, Brody raised a glass. "Charlotte, you’ve looked after me for years. This one's for you."

Out of habit, I reached out to stop her. "She’s got a sensitive stomach, she shouldn't be drinking—"

In my past life, I went to every one of these dinners just to be her designated driver and her shield against the alcohol she couldn't handle.

But this time, Charlotte didn't even look at me. She picked up the glass and drained it in one go.

Brody laughed, a little spark returning to his eyes. "See? I knew she could handle it."

Someone down the table smirked. "Major Montgomery, I think you just don't know the General as well as you think. Whether she drinks or not depends entirely on who she’s drinking with."

A ripple of knowing laughter went around the table. Charlotte didn't contradict them.

The conversation quickly shifted to their shared history—basic training together, weekends away during the Academy, inside jokes I could never understand. They were building a world I had no part in.

I ate my meal in silence. In my previous life, I would have fought so hard to wedge myself into the conversation, forgetting that to them, I was nothing more than an unwanted guest.

When dinner ended, someone suggested a movie. Charlotte finally looked at me, but her expression was cold. "Take an Uber home, Nate. I’m going with them."

By the time I got back to the officers' quarters, my phone was buzzing. It was Mrs. Gable, the mother of a fallen soldier I’d been helping. Her daughter’s housing benefits had been stalled for months due to red tape. I’d spent all week getting the paperwork in order.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Gable," I said into the phone. "I’ve got the file. I’ll walk it through Finance tomorrow morning."

I went to my home office to grab the blue folder, but it was gone.

Charlotte didn't return until nine-thirty. The moment she walked in, I asked, "Have you seen the Gable file? The housing materials?"

She hung her hat up, her tone indifferent. "I gave them to Brody."

I froze. "What?"

"I spoke to your Chief. I told him to transfer the case to Brody. He needs the credit."

I felt a surge of cold fury. I headed for the door. "No. I’m getting it back."

Charlotte blocked my path, her brow knitting into a familiar look of annoyance. "It’s a housing dispute, Nate. A few hundred dollars in back pay. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

"I gave my word to Mrs. Gable."

"Brody is heading to the border soon. He needs a high-profile win for his year-end evaluation. This case is a perfect example of veteran advocacy."

I was about to tell her that I was the one going to the border, not Brody, when her phone chimed.

It was a text from Brody. He had questions about the file. Charlotte turned and walked into the office, her voice softening into a tone she never used with me.

"Look at Article 28 of the Benefits Code... Yeah, start there. Compare it to that case in the Western Command last year. I’ll send you the link."

I stood in the hallway, paralyzed.

I remembered when I first started in the Political Department. I’d gone to her—a General—to ask for advice on a complex family dispute. She hadn't even looked up from her laptop.

"It’s a policy issue, Nate. Can't you look up the regulations yourself?"

"I did, but the wartime disability standard is—"

"I don't have time. I have a live-fire exercise tomorrow."

I had stayed up for three nights straight to figure it out on my own. When I finally won the case, I told her, hoping for a shred of pride. She had just given me a distracted "Mhm."

I used to think she was just too busy. That my work was too small for her. Now I knew the truth. She just didn't want to waste her time on me.

The conversation in the office went on for over an hour. I walked back to the bedroom and felt my phone vibrate. It was a photo from Sarah, one of Charlotte’s colleagues.

The photo was taken in the dark of a movie theater. Brody was holding Charlotte’s hand. She wasn't pulling away.

The text underneath read: Some things can’t be stolen, Nate. Give it up.

I looked at the photo and let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. I scrolled up through my chat history with Sarah. It was a pathetic record of my own desperation.

“Hey Sarah, it’s Charlotte’s birthday. Any idea what she’s been wanting lately?”

“You mentioned your kid likes model planes—I found a limited edition one, I’ll drop it off...”

Every message was a bribe, a plea for a crumb of information that might make Charlotte love me. Every reply from her was polite, short, and clinical.

I had been so small.

I clicked on Sarah’s profile and hit Delete. I turned off the light and lay down. For the first time since the "rebirth," I didn't feel the phantom pain of cancer or the crushing weight of anxiety. I fell into the deepest sleep I’d had in years.