There was always some woman crawling into his bed, yet he never cared to claim me.

At the post-deployment gala, my comrades prodded me about my love life. Roman Armstrong, the man who wouldn't even introduce me as his wife to his subordinates, leaned in with a smirk.

"Reporter Hunter," he drawled, his voice smooth as cold steel. "You’ve covered enough war zones. Haven’t you found anyone to spark your interest? Should I play matchmaker?"

In my previous life, I had been foolish. I had pulled out our marriage certificate on the spot. Sabrina Cole, his little "regimental sweetheart," had welled up with tears and fled the room. Roman hadn't said a word then, but he’d gone colder than the grave afterward.

I remembered the desert border, the scent of cordite and copper. I’d been pinned down in a crossfire, fighting for every breath, while Roman was back at the firing range, teaching Sabrina how to steady her aim. And when Sabrina eventually framed me for leaking classified intel, I’d called him, sobbing, begging for a chance to explain. He’d only offered one sentence: "Handle it according to military protocol."

That was the day I realized I wasn't a partner; I was just a piece of furniture he used to keep his family off his back.

In this life, I didn't reach for my files. I just smiled, cool and detached. "I’m already seeing someone. We’re signing the papers by the end of the month."

The room went dead silent.

Roman’s smirk vanished. The hand holding his drink tightened, his knuckles turning white as bleached bone. He opened his mouth, but Sabrina, sitting tucked neatly by his side, batted her doe eyes and cut him off.

"Oh, Reporter Hunter, you’ve been hiding him well! If they hadn't asked today, were you just going to keep us in the dark forever?"

I met her gaze, my voice steady. "No matter how well I hide him, I’m still the only one who holds the title."

In the past, I’d been naive enough to believe Sabrina was just an innocent bystander, oblivious to the secret of my marriage. It wasn't until I was lying in a field hospital, watching her strut in to gloat about Roman’s bias, that I understood she had known everything all along.

Sabrina’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Nearby, a colleague tried to smooth over the awkward tension.

"Getting married? No wonder you always decline our invites after a mission! What unit is he with? Someone who can keep up with our ace war correspondent must be a real heavyweight, right?"

I lifted my chin and gave them a faint, inscrutable smile. "I’ll introduce you all when the time is right."

Hardly a second later, a voice laced with amusement cut through the air.

"Is Reporter Hunter just making this up to save face? You’re pushing thirty, after all. If you don't have a man, people are going to start talking. Isn't that right, General?"

Sabrina tilted her head toward Roman, her expression dripping with faux-innocence.

I tightened my grip on my camera, my knuckles aching. I waited. Roman let out a low, flat, "Mhm."

Sabrina beamed, the victor’s spark bright in her eyes. I felt a surge of bitter self-loathing. I had been reborn, yet here I was, still waiting for him to change.

Just then, a crisp, calm voice rang out from the doorway:

"Pardon me, is Genevieve Hunter here? I’m here to pick her up."