My Aunt Sneered: “No Medals? You’re Just A Desk Secretary.” I Sipped My Wine. “I Don’t Answer Phones.” She Laughed. “Oh? Then Who Are You?” I Said, “Oracle 9.” Her Son, A Navy Seal, Went Pale. “Mom… Stop Talking.

To my left was a sleek Mercedes SUV. To my right, a BMW convertible that probably cost more than my entire education. This was Arlington, Virginia, where status wasn’t just implied.

It was the very oxygen people breathed. I sat in the car for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. My knuckles were white.

I wasn’t preparing for a tactical extraction in a hostile zone, but God knows, walking into Aunt Marjorie’s house felt dangerously similar. I checked the rearview mirror. My face was tired.

Not the “I stayed up late watching Netflix” kind of tired, but the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from three days of managing a crisis in the South China Sea from a windowless bunker. I smoothed down my suit. It was a standard-issue gray pantsuit, practical, nondescript, and utterly devoid of style.

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