My sister believed my Navy uniform would spoil the image of her royal-style wedding. So she removed me from the guest list, posed happily for the cameras, and acted as if I had never existed.

The ribbons on my chest. The insignia. The scars on my knuckles—the same scars Rachel used to say made my hands look ugly.

“I read about you,” he murmured.

Rachel grabbed his arm.

“No,” she said quickly. “No, you read what I gave you. What I told you. It was me you loved.”

Alexander pulled his arm away.

The movement was small.

Rachel noticed anyway.

Her continue reading …