That was where Lena Mercer stood.
She wasn’t trying to be noticed. In fact, everything about her suggested the opposite. Her jacket was worn, the leather softened by years of use, and her posture was relaxed but controlled, like someone who knew exactly how much space she took up and never exceeded it. But there was one detail—one small, gleaming detail—that drew attention faster than anything else could have.
A Navy SEAL Trident pin.
It sat on the left side of her chest, not flashy, not exaggerated, just… there. Solid. Intentional.
At first, people only glanced. Then they looked again. And then the whispers began, quiet but sharp, like the first cracks in glass before it shatters.
“That can’t be real.”
“No way she earned that.”
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