I returned the salute with crisp, deliberate precision. “As you were, gentlemen,” I commanded.
The SEALs sat down as one, moving with lethal grace, leaving only my father standing at the podium, completely isolated and exposed. He looked physically ill. His face had drained of all color, his lips trembling violently as his gaze darted from the seated SEALs back to me. The crystal champagne flute that had been resting on the podium slipped from his numb fingers, shattering into a hundred glittering pieces on the hardwood stage. The sound of breaking glass echoed sharply through the dead-silent hall.
Marcus, who had just managed to stagger into the back of the auditorium after our physical altercation, looked like he was about to pass out. He was clutching the mahogany doorframe, his chest heaving, his arrogant smirk entirely obliterated. For the first time in his pampered, spotlight-chasing life, he realized how insignificant he truly was in the grand scheme of the military.
