My brother, a police officer, arrested me during Sunday dinner, right in front of our family. “You’re under arrest for impersonating a military officer and theft of government property,” my own brother snarled as he slammed my face onto the cold marble floor of our grandmother’s dining room, his knee digging into my back. As he snapped the handcuffs onto my wrists, the door suddenly burst open. A four-star general and his men marched in. “Lieutenant!” he roared. “Step away from the general right now.”

The small talk didn’t last. Halfway through the meal, Mark cleared his throat.

“So, Jordan,” he said carefully, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Still doing that… consulting gig?”

His voice was casual, but I felt the shift in the room. The way all heads tilted slightly toward me, waiting.

“Still at it,” I said, cutting my beef. “Same contracts, different problems.”

He chuckled once. A dry, humorless sound. “Strange. I looked up your company last week. Couldn’t find a single record of it. Not a website, not a phone number, not even a LinkedIn profile. You’d think a professional consultant would at least have a business card.”

Someone snorted quietly. Maybe cousin Megan. Grandma Margaret stiffened but didn’t speak.

I forced a polite smile. “Some clients prefer discretion.”

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