Chapter 2 - The Gift Table
The Riverstone ballroom was a masterclass in modern opulence. Gold-leaf chairs gleamed under crystal chandeliers that looked like frozen waterfalls. Investors, tech founders, and local politicians milled about in clusters, their tailored suits and silk gowns catching the amber lighting. Everyone was drinking champagne, everyone was smiling with their teeth, and everyone seemed to be waiting for the guest of honor to work her way through the room.
I stayed near the perimeter, keeping my steps measured and deliberate. Years of military bearing made it impossible for me to slouch, but in the white satin dress, I felt profoundly out of place. To these people, I was an anomaly—a ghost from a family tree they only knew through glossy PR profiles.
"Savannah?"
I turned.
My mother, Eleanor Blake, stood beside a towering pyramid of champagne glasses. She wore an emerald silk pantsuit that cost more than my first car, her blonde hair pulled back into a flawless, aerodynamic chignon. Her eyes swept over me—not with warmth, not with the tearful reunion I’d secretly, foolishly hoped for, but with a clinical, appraising quickness. Like a CEO inspecting a minor inventory discrepancy.
"You came," Eleanor said, her voice dropping into that smooth, modulated tone she used for charity galas and board meetings. "And you actually wore something decent. For a moment, I was worried you’d show up in your uniform."
"Good evening, Mom," I said quietly, keeping my voice level. "It’s good to see you too."
Eleanor offered a tight, professional smile, patting my shoulder with a hand that smelled faintly of expensive sandalwood. "Of course it is. Fallon is thrilled you made the trip. It looks wonderful for the family narrative—having her sister fly in all the way from Hawaii. Just... try to blend in tonight, darling. Don’t make any pointed comments about your father’s old company, and for heaven’s sake, don't talk about the military unless someone specifically asks. People here are celebrating tech innovation, not logistics."
Before I could reply, a wave of applause rippled through the center of the room.
Fallon had emerged from the VIP lounge.
She looked stunning. There was no other word for it. Her black designer gown was architectural, hugging her frame with sharp, minimalist lines that commanded the room without screaming for attention. Her dark hair fell in glossy, perfect waves over her shoulders. She held a glass of sparkling water, surrounded by three venture capitalists who were hanging on her every syllable like disciples at an altar.
As she scanned the room, her eyes locked onto mine.
For a fraction of a second, the practiced warmth in her expression flickered—replaced by something sharp, calculating, and cold. Then, she excused herself from the investors and glided across the polished marble floor toward us.
"Mom, look who made it," Fallon said, her voice carrying just enough to attract the approving glances of nearby executives. "My little sister. Flew all the way from the islands."
"I see," Eleanor said smoothly, raising her champagne flute. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"Wonderful," Fallon echoed. Her eyes weren't smiling. They were scanning my dress, my hair, the subtle tension in my posture. "You look... different out of uniform, Savannah. Almost civilian."
"I am a civilian tonight," I said, holding my ground. I reached into my clutch and pulled out the silver-framed photograph, extending it toward her. "Happy Pioneer of the Year, Fallon. I found this in Honolulu. Thought you might like it."
Fallon looked down at the photograph.
It was the polaroid of us on the Boulder beach—sunburned, laughing, barefoot, before our parents’ divorce, before the corporate takeovers, before winning became the only currency that mattered in our household.
She stared at it for two long, agonizing seconds.
Then, without taking the frame from my hands, she reached out, touched the glass with a manicured fingernail, and placed it down on a nearby gift table next to a stack of promotional brochures, exactly like a customer returning a defective item to a department store counter.
"Cute," Fallon murmured, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned in close. "Did you buy that at a thrift shop on your way to the airport? Truly touching, Savannah."
My jaw tightened. "It’s from our childhood, Fallon. Before we forgot how to talk to each other."
Her smile tightened into a vicious line. The warmth in her eyes vanished entirely, leaving only the hard, unyielding ambition that had built her empire—and demolished our family.
"Try not to make a scene tonight, Savannah," she hissed softly, her breath warm against my ear. "We both know you have a history of throwing tantrums when you don't get the spotlight."
I stared straight into her eyes, refusing to blink. "A history of what? Not worshipping you correctly?"
"You're still jealous," she whispered, her voice laced with venom. "Joining the military didn't magically make you important. You're still just the girl who couldn't keep up."
That one almost made me laugh. The absurdity of it—after six months of coordinating supply chains under pressure, leading personnel, and earning the respect of people who actually bled—was staggering.
"I didn't join to become more important than you," I said quietly. "I joined to get away from you."
May you like
Her face changed. Not dramatically—Fallon was far too practiced for that. But the mask slipped. The pristine veneer cracked, exposing the frantic, fragile insecurity beneath.
And before I could take another breath, her fist lashed out.
