Chapter 1: Uniforms and Misunderstandings

The day the troops rolled back into Chicago, I finally ditched the army fatigues I'd worn for weeks and slipped into my own clothes—a pair of faded jeans and my favorite navy sweater. Weeks in uniform had turned me into someone I barely recognized—a soldier first, a daughter and sister somewhere far behind. Catching my reflection in the window, I felt a piece of home creep back in, making the city outside feel just a bit less foreign after all that time away. The chill off Lake Michigan cut through the late afternoon, sharp and bracing, and it felt good, like waking up after a long, hard dream.

Not three blocks from the armory, my nemesis spotted me. He leaned back against a rusted Ford, arms crossed, smirk cocked sideways. "Didn’t think you’d be rocking civvies again, Your Highness. Miss playing dress-up?"

I didn’t even blink. Stared straight at him, deadpan. "What are you talking about? I'm a woman."

Seriously? After all this, he still didn’t get it. God, men in this city never looked past their own nose.

He gaped, his jaw working. For a second, I thought he’d choke on his own gum. "Wait—you—you’re not a prince?"

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. This was classic Chicago, folks: never underestimate how clueless someone could be. "Are you serious right now? I'm a princess."

Still unconvinced, he started wandering around, cornering my squad mates one by one like a dog with a bone. You could practically see the gears grinding in his head as he waited for someone to back him up.

But the answers came, as predictable as the L train at rush hour.

"We’ve always known she’s the eldest princess."

"General, you really didn’t know?"

By the next morning, my nemesis had gone full drama: he showed up shirtless in the barracks courtyard, a birch switch slung over his shoulder like some old-school penitent, and tried to apologize for his mistake. He looked ridiculous, red-faced, ready for some ritual that belonged more in a small-town revival than the South Side.