Chapter 3 - The Ambush in the Green Room
“What do you mean, my father is on his way in here?” I asked, staring at the General in disbelief.
“Security just radioed,” Kane said smoothly, hanging up the phone. “Mr. Raymond Hartwell flashed a VIP media pass provided by the local news affiliate and demanded backstage access to congratulate his daughter personally before the ceremony. He’s currently escorted by two public affairs officers and a camera crew.”
My mind raced. Fifteen years of silence, broken not by an apology or a phone call, but by a camera lens and a fabricated lie.
“He thinks he can waltz into a military installation, perform for the local news, and wrap himself in my flag,” I said, a cold, hard resolve settling over my bones.
“And what do you want to do, Colonel?” Kane asked, stepping aside to reveal the heavy oak door leading directly out to the backstage green room. “Do you want me to have military police escort him off the base for trespassing? Or do you want to handle this yourself?”
A memory flashed through my mind—the sound of my mother’s voice whispering, “Sometimes keeping a family together means swallowing your pride.”
For fifteen years, I had lived by the exact opposite philosophy. I had built my life on the truth that you don't swallow your pride for men who demand your submission. You make them choke on it.
“Let him in, General,” I said quietly. “Let him bring his cameras.”
Five minutes later, the green room door swung open.
Raymond Hartwell strode into the room like he owned the building. He was wearing his thousand-dollar navy blazer, his silver hair neatly combed, a dazzling, patriarchal smile plastered across his face. Trailing right behind him was a local news reporter holding a live microphone and a cameraman walking backward, capturing every manufactured second of the reunion.
“Rebecca!” my father boomed, throwing his arms wide open as if we were a pair of loving father and daughter meeting after a brief, harmless separation. “My girl! Look at you!”
He moved in for an embrace, expecting me to fall into his arms for the cameras.
I didn't move an inch. I stood at rigid attention, my hands clasped behind my back, staring at him with eyes as cold as a Siberian winter.
Raymond stopped short just two feet away from me, his arms awkwardly suspended in mid-air. The smile on his face twitched, faltering for a fraction of a second before he quickly recovered, chuckling nervously for the benefit of the camera behind him.
“Still playing the soldier even off-duty, eh?” Raymond laughed, turning to the reporter. “That’s my Rebecca. Always so disciplined. From the time she was a little girl running around the construction sites in Iowa, I knew she had the drive to reach the very top.”
The reporter smiled warmly. “Mr. Hartwell, you must be overflowing with pride today. Fifteen years of watching her rise through the ranks...”
“Fifteen years,” Raymond echoed, his voice dropping into a rich, theatrical baritone designed to pull heartstrings across television screens nationwide. “It hasn't been easy, I won't lie. Supporting a daughter through the grueling trenches of the United States Army... sending care packages, cheering her on from home, reminding her of the values we instilled in her... it’s been a journey of unconditional love.”
I listened to him weave the fantasy, watching the smooth, practiced cadence of a man who had spent decades selling concrete, steel, and lies to anyone willing to buy.
The reporter turned to me. “Colonel Hartwell, your father has been telling us all morning how deeply he supported your decision to enlist from day one. What does it mean to have him standing beside you on the biggest day of your career?”
The camera swung around, pointing directly at my face.
The room went dead silent. Even the cameraman held his breath, sensing the subtle, electric shift in the air.
I looked at the lens. Then I looked past the camera, straight into my father’s aging, confident eyes.
May you like
“My father,” I said clearly, my voice ringing with absolute, unyielding precision, “is a very talented liar.”
---
