She danced once, briefly, with the bride’s father. She laughed once, genuinely, when someone told a terrible joke. She stepped outside at one point and breathed in the cool night, listening to distant traffic.
Her motorcycle waited under the streetlight, quiet and steady.
Behind her, inside the venue, someone whispered, “That’s her. The one who brought down Johnson.”
Victoria didn’t turn around.
She didn’t need the reputation.
She needed the county to understand something basic:
Power doesn’t prove someone deserves respect.
Being human does.
And the next time a woman in a hoodie rolled up to a checkpoint, Victoria wanted the officers on duty to think less about who she might be…
…and more about who they were choosing to become.
