“Try not to stir anything up tonight.”
The voice came from her left, low enough that it wouldn’t carry, but familiar enough to settle somewhere under her skin. She didn’t need to turn to know it was her older brother, Colonel Adrian Bennett. He stepped beside her a moment later, already half-smiling at a group of senior officers across the room, his attention divided in that effortless way he had mastered over the years.
“This isn’t one of your emergency wards,” he continued, adjusting his cuff as though the conversation were incidental. “People are here to celebrate leadership, not… improvisation.”
Nora let out a slow breath through her nose, her gaze remaining fixed on the room ahead. She had heard versions of this her entire life—phrased differently depending on the setting, but always carrying the same implication. That what she did mattered, but not quite in the same way. That she was essential, but not central. That she should know her place, even when she had earned the right to stand anywhere she chose.
“I’m not here to perform,” she replied quietly.
Adrian gave a soft, almost amused exhale. “Just remember—you’re medical corps. Support structure. Valuable, of course, but it’s not the same as command.”
There it was.
He didn’t say it cruelly, not outright. That was never his way. But the meaning sat plainly between them, polished and precise like everything else about the evening. He glanced briefly at the insignia on her chest—the one she had earned under fire, pulling wounded soldiers from a convoy that had gone up in flames before backup could arrive—and something like a smirk flickered across his expression.
