He spent three years bragging about his fake military career, until he threw a punch at his stepdaughter without realizing she was Delta Force.

Marcus’s smile vanished instantly. His brow furrowed, his jaw clenching tightly as he felt the quiet rejection reverberate across the lawn in front of his friends and neighbors.

"What did you say?" Marcus demanded, taking three heavy, aggressive strides toward her, crossing the brick patio.

"I said no, Marcus," Jessica repeated smoothly, her arms coming to rest naturally at her sides. Her balance shifted subtly—a microscopic adjustment of her center of gravity that allowed her feet to root firmly into the patio stone.

Marcus stopped less than four feet away from her. His tall, heavy frame dwarfed her, casting a dark shadow over her olive tank top under the fading sun.

"Afraid?" Marcus sneered, leaning in close, his breath smelling heavily of beer and grilled meat. "Afraid you'll mess up that nice hair? Or maybe you're realizing those little gym workouts don't mean a thing in the real world."

"Marcus. Stop," Jessica said, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. It was not a plea; it was a clear, tactical warning.

A fifty-two-year-old blonde woman in a navy summer blouse hurried across the grass toward them. It was Jessica’s mother, her face pale with anxiety. She had spent years walking on eggshells around Marcus's explosive ego.

"Marcus, please. Leave her alone," her mother pleaded, putting a trembling hand on his broad shoulder. "It’s just a family party."

Marcus brushed his wife’s hand away without even looking at her, his eyes locked onto Jessica’s calm, unreadable face.

He turned his head slightly, raising his voice so everyone in the yard could hear him loud and clear.