Olivia Mitchell didn\u2019t belong there\u2014at least not in the eyes of the others. She\u2019d rolled into the NATO training camp in a beat-up pickup truck, its paint chipped, its tires caked with mud from some back road. Nobody would have guessed she came from one of the wealthiest families in the country, raised in a world of private tutors and gated estates.<\/p>\n
Olivia didn\u2019t carry that world with her. No designer labels, no polished nails\u2014just a plain face and clothes that looked like they\u2019d been washed a hundred times. Her boots were scuffed, her backpack held together by a single stubborn strap. But it wasn\u2019t just her look that set her apart. It was her stillness, the way she stood with her hands in her pockets, watching the chaos of the camp, like she was waiting for a signal only she could hear.<\/p>\n
The first day was a gauntlet. Captain Harrow, the head instructor, was a mountain of a man with a voice that could stop a riot. He paced the yard, sizing up the cadets, his eyes locking on Olivia.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou!\u201d he barked, pointing a finger. \u201cWhat\u2019s your deal? Supply crew get lost?\u201d<\/p>\n
The group snickered. A girl named Tara, with a sharp blonde ponytail and a smile that didn\u2019t reach her eyes, whispered to the cadet next to her, \u201cBet she\u2019s here to check a box. Gender quota, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
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