ONE
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
The door shut behind them with a quiet click. No slamming. No yelling. Just that soft, suburban finality that made her skin crawl.
Shannon stepped into the foyer barefoot, the tile cool against her heels. Her black dress—the same one from the hospital, still wrinkled and still stained, clung to her in places that made her want to rip it off. She moved on autopilot, brushing past the console table where her mother used to keep fresh flowers and sticky notes with gentle reminders. Now it held a military shadow box and a flag folded so tight, it looked like it couldn’t breathe either.
Her father, Mike Johnson, Air Force veteran and COO of Chase Security International, locked the door like he expected something on the other side to break in. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t trust her voice or her hands not to shake.
He cleared his throat. “Do you want some water?” That was the first thing he said.
NotAre you okay?NotTalk to me.Water.
“No,” she said, voice flat. “I want to sleep. And then I want to forget this night ever happened.”
He stood awkwardly by the coat rack, his suit jacket slung over one arm, shirt still untucked from rushing from the Pentagon. His tie was half off, hair a mess. He looked like a man who’d dressed for war and arrived too late to fight.
“Shan,” he tried again, stepping forward. “What happened tonight?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she snapped, turning toward the stairs. The silence stretched. Then cracked.
“You’re grounded.”
She stopped cold and spun around. “What?”
Her father didn’t flinch. “School, practice, home. That’s it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“You seriously think this was my fault?” Her voice climbed without warning, fast and sharp. “Because I went to a birthday party?”
“You weren’t supposed to be drinking.”
“I wasn’t drunk, Dad. I was drugged.”
His jaw locked. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do. Because instead of asking how I’m feeling or what I need, you’re pulling the parent-of-the-year routine and grounding me like I snuck out and crashed the car.”
“You don’t get it,” he said, voice tight. “You’re seventeen. You were in a situation.”
“A situation?” She laughed—cold, brittle. “Call it what it was. A guy tried to assault me.”
Her dad took a sharp breath through his nose. “You could’ve died.”
“And that’s somehow my responsibility?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Her voice trembled as she pushed against the pressure in her chest. “You weren’t there when they called. You were locked in a SCIF talking about war games while your daughter was being loaded into an ambulance.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” she said. “What’s not fair is you punishing me for something that happened to me.”
