When Shriya was sixteen, she begged not to attend the military academy.
It wasn't rebellion. It wasn't weakness.
It was exhaustion so deep it had settled into her bones.
She had been raised inside discipline long before she understood what freedom meant. Before she learned how to dream, she learned how to stand straight. Before she learned what she loved, she learned what was expected. Every Robertson before her had worn a uniform. Every hallway she grew up in echoed with medals, commendations, framed oaths. Even their laughter carried structure.
Dinner conversations were never casual. They were strategy. Rank. Deployment. Sacrifice spoken like currency. Her brothers had trained beside her, sparred with her, pushed her until her hands bled and her lungs burned. She had kept up. More than kept up. She had proven—again and again—that she belonged.
That was the cruelest part.
Because when the time came to choose, when the academy papers were placed in front of her, something inside her went quiet.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Just… silence.
Her mother noticed before anyone else.
She saw the way Shriya lingered at windows instead of training grounds. The way she stared at the sea as if it might carry her somewhere unnamed. She saw through the fake injuries, the rehearsed limps. They weren't attempts to escape pain—they were attempts to escape inevitability.
For the first time since marrying into the Robertson lineage, her mother chose her daughter over tradition.
She went to Steven Robertson.
Convincing him was not easy.
Steven was a man carved from duty. He believed legacy was not something you chose—it was something you carried, whether it crushed you or not. To him, the academy was not a decision. It was inheritance. It was blood.
Still, he listened.
Not because he agreed—but because it was his wife asking. And because, buried beneath decades of command and discipline, there was still a father who remembered holding a small girl who laughed too loudly and ran too fast.
In the end, he agreed.
But only under one condition.
If Shriya would not become a soldier, then she would become a soldier's wife.
She was to get engaged.
Silas Miller had grown up beside her.
Their families served together, trained together, bled under the same flags. Childhood meant shared dinners in mess halls, shared drills, shared futures assumed before either of them understood what those futures cost. Silas had always been there—steady, observant, quiet.
Somewhere along the way, his admiration turned into something else.
Something patient.
Something possessive.
Something that waited.
Shriya never noticed.
When Silas told his father, Nelson Miller, the proposal was delivered formally. Clean. Respectful. Inevitable. Steven Robertson did not refuse. The Millers were old allies. Close friends.
But Steven added a condition of his own.
Silas Miller would have to reach the rank of Colonel before he could marry his daughter.
The Millers protested. Such a rank could take decades. Careers were lost chasing it.
Steven did not bend.
"If he cannot protect her," Steven said calmly, "then he cannot have her."
What Steven never said aloud was the truth.
He did not want his daughter married into the Miller family. Their reputation followed them like a shadow—too much power, too much influence, too many doors that opened without explanation. Steven believed the condition would make them withdraw.
It did not.
Shriya—young, trusting, desperate for freedom—agreed.
She told herself it was temporary. That Silas would cancel it. That time would dull the edges. That life would find a way around promises made by frightened adults.
She left the island.
She lived.
She built a life carefully, always aware of the promise hovering behind her like a loaded weapon. She avoided serious relationships. Kept people at a distance. If the worst came, she told herself, she would endure it.
Then she met MK.
And everything unraveled.
MK was not obligation.
MK was not expectation.
MK was choice.
For the first time, love felt like something she stepped toward, not something she was pushed into.
Shriya had hoped Silas would take decades. That rank would come slowly. That by the time he reached Colonel, the world would have softened, expectations loosened, arrangements forgotten.
But now—
Now he stood in front of her.
Colonel Silas Miller.
His uniform was pristine. His nameplate gleamed. The weight of his achievement pressed into the room.
The smile he gave her struck like a blow.
Behind him, whispers bloomed. Among families like theirs, news did not travel—it detonated. Eyes followed her. Measured her. Calculated futures she did not consent to.
She glanced at her parents. At her brothers.
I'm sorry, she thought. It seems I'll be the one to stain our honor.
The celebration stretched for days. One of the largest military gatherings in decades. The island—built as a fortified base—housed them easily. Families from every branch arrived. Army. Navy. Marines. Air Force. Fire Command.
Competitions followed. Marksmanship. Endurance. Combat drills. Strategy simulations. Pride against pride. Legacy against legacy.
On the second day, Shriya found Silas alone.
"Silas," she called softly. "Can we talk?"
He excused himself easily. Among equals, formality dissolved.
"What's wrong?" he asked, smiling. "You look even more beautiful than I remember."
They hadn't seen each other in three years.
She inhaled. "Silas… about the engagement. I can't marry you."
The grin faltered—but only slightly.
"Why?"
"Because," she said carefully, "we've been friends all our lives. And that's all we'll ever be."
"But your father said—"
"I know," she interrupted. "But let's be honest. We don't love each other. They can't force that."
"I love you, Shriya."
The words were steady. Not desperate. Not uncertain.
"I've loved you since we were kids. I trained harder because of you. I pushed myself for that rank."
Her chest tightened. "And I'm sorry. But I don't love you. If we marry, we'll both be miserable."
Silas exhaled slowly.
"So you want me to cancel the engagement."
"Yes."
Something in his face changed.
"I can't."
Her instincts screamed.
"We're getting married."
The boy she grew up with vanished. What stood before her was someone colder.
Someone who understood power far better than affection.
"If you don't," she said quietly, stepping back, "I will."
She turned and walked away.
And for the first time in her life, Shriya understood—
Duty was no longer her greatest enemy.
Power was.