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Angela Summers had always believed that marrying Gideon Holt had used up every ounce of luck she would ever get. He was young and accomplished, aloof and patrician, already a unit commander—the brightest figure anywhere on base. To her, marrying the man she loved felt like plucking the cold moon right out of the sky with her bare hands, and the thought alone sent little bubbles of happiness through her thorax all day long. So she treated him well—so well it bordered on self-abasement. She rose before dawn to make his breakfast, pressed his uniform until it held a crease like a blade, and when training wore him down, she simmered broth after broth to build him back up. She told herself that if she was good enough and loved him hard enough, sooner or later she would warm that winter-locked ticker. Everything held until one evening when the sky opened and rain hammered the base. Word had it his unit was hosting a mixer at the rec hall. Worried he would be drenched, she grabbed an umbrella and went to walk him home. The place crackled with energy. She had barely reached the door when the cheers rolled out into the hallway. “Captain Holt! Come up and say a few words!” “Yeah, Captain! Tell us what it’s like to marry the one you love. Give us a few pointers!” “Everybody, a round of applause—Captain Holt!” Angela lingered at the threshold, a shy, hopeful smile tugging at her lips as the noise swelled inside. What would he say? They must have nudged him onto the stage. His voice came through the mic—cool, steady, achingly familiar—and every syllable hit like an ice pick, freezing her in place. “I don’t know what it’s like to marry the one you love.” The room quieted a beat. He paused, then went on in an even, merciless tone. “Because the woman I married is not someone I love.” The smile on Angela’s face went stiff. The umbrella slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a flat snap. “So,” he continued, as if delivering a training report, “I can only speak to marrying someo
