Chapter 834
Melanie was trapped in a cage of shifting loyalties and public expectation. She looked desperately toward Blair, her silent plea for help, but even Blair avoided her gaze, unwilling to be dragged down with her.
Caroline met Melanie’s terrified, hate-filled eyes and offered a small, cold, utterly silent smile.
She walked from her position in the front rank, moving down the line until she stood beside the paralyzed Melanie. She leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper meant only for her.
“Your turn.”
Melanie’s body trembled, a violent shudder of fear and impotent fury.
Sloane took a deep, steadying breath, visibly reining in her temper. She was a professional. She had been handed a new script, and she would play her part.
Her cold gaze fell upon Melanie.
“Corporal Thorne,” she said, her voice flat and devoid of its earlier amusement. “Front and center.”
Trapped, humiliated, and utterly alone, Melanie Thorne took a single, leaden step forward to accept the “honor” her greatest enemy had so graciously bestowed upon her.
Melanie’s boots felt like they were cast in lead. Each step out of the formation and into the open space of the training field was an act of profound humiliation. She was walking to her own execution, and the executioner had been chosen by the one person she hated most in the world.
She stopped, ten feet of dusty ground separating her from Sloane Hawke. She felt less like a soldier and more like a sacrificial lamb. The silence of the assembled squad pressed in on her, a physical weight of expectation and pity.
She risked a glance back at the formation, her eyes finding Caroline. The hatred in her gaze was a palpable force, hot enough to burn. She wanted to tear her apart.
Caroline met the look with a placid, almost beatific calm. She gave a small, polite nod, as if she genuinely believed Melanie was the best woman for the job.
That look, that infuriating, condescending mask of innocence, was the final straw. A surge of pure, white-hot rage burned through Melanie’s fear. The terror was still there, a cold stone in her gut, but for a moment, the anger was hotter.
Sloane, however, seemed to have lost all interest in the proceedings. Her face was a blank canvas, but her eyes held a deep, impatient boredom. She was looking at Melanie, but she wasn’t really seeing her.
“I hate wasting time,” Sloane said, her voice flat. “I’ll give you the first shot. Come on.”
The words were a calculated insult. It wasn’t an offer of sportsmanship; it was a declaration of overwhelming superiority. It implied that nothing Melanie could do would possibly matter.