Chapter 2: Rebellion in the Ranks

The starting point of a romance novel with a female lead is often the ending point of a male-lead novel.

If this were a male-oriented story, by the time I commanded a million-strong army, I’d be putting on another set of camo and prepping to take the White House.

But in a female-oriented novel, things just don’t work that way…

A million Northern Defense troops are nothing more than the backdrop for the tragic love triangle between me, President Carter, and Lillian Harper.

But now, everything is different.

From zero to one, I might not be as capable as the original Commander. But from one to ten, the Commander can’t hold a candle to me.

"Commander, the army’s assembled."

Deputy Commander Marcus Shaw stepped into the command tent, giving a sharp salute.

He looked like he could’ve walked off an NFL draft stage—broad-shouldered, jaw set, the kind of guy who called everyone ‘sir’ and meant it. He wore his uniform with the effortless pride of a born soldier, boots shined to a mirror finish, eyes sharp and calculating. His presence always filled the room, and he had that no-nonsense Midwest grit you only found west of the Mississippi.

I nodded. “Let’s go review the troops.”

Marcus frowned a little but kept quiet.

He hesitated, his brow furrowing like he was wrestling with something unsaid. The smell of cold coffee and boot polish hung in the air between us.

In the original novel, Marcus was the only one who dared urge the Commander to rebel.

"What man fears being single? Why risk it all for a woman, sir? Better to lead the army south, roll into the capital, and take the presidency."

He’d always had a blunt way of putting things—no sugarcoating, just plain talk. You could almost hear the Kansas in his voice.

"Lillian’s in the White House. If I’m late, that idiot president might hurt her. Don’t bring this up again."

But Marcus kept pushing.

He was never one to back down, not even in the face of a superior. It was both his greatest strength and most dangerous flaw.

In the end, the original commander was so furious he had Marcus court-martialed and stripped of rank.

Marcus held a grudge, hooked up with foreign agents, and became the biggest villain in the book.

Some men break, some bend, and some—like Marcus—just get sharper with every blow.

…

At the tent entrance, Marcus hesitated, then said, “You should still be careful, sir.”

His voice was low, almost gentle—a rare moment of vulnerability from a man made of steel and stubbornness. The wind whipped at the canvas, and I caught a glimpse of soldiers outside, breath fogging in the early light.

I grinned. “With a million Northern Defense troops at my back, what can Carter possibly do to me?”

My smile wasn’t just bravado. I felt the surge of power, the heady rush of knowing I had an entire army ready to follow my lead. For a split second, I saw something flicker in his eyes—fear, maybe, or hope. Hard to tell with Marcus.

“I have a plan that’ll help you achieve greatness.”

“Let’s hear it.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice like a football coach drawing up a secret play before the big game.

“Back when the country was in chaos, the people suffered and the nation was on the brink of collapse.”

“Fortunately, you raised troops up north, sheltered refugees, fought for ten years, rebuilt the land—everyone in America owes you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Marcus had a way of speaking that made even old war wounds ache, and I could almost feel the weight of those years pressing on my shoulders.

“Why not announce to the world that the President has kidnapped Miss Harper, so everyone knows he’s in the wrong? Then, when you march on D.C., no one will object.”

“Especially since Miss Harper has helped so many soldiers and officers. If word gets out, it’ll fire up the troops.”

Having said this, Marcus stepped aside, looking at me hopefully.

There was something almost boyish in his posture—a rare glimpse of hope in a man who’d seen too much. The air between us crackled with possibility.

My own eyes brightened. I clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Excellent. I’ll leave this to you.”

My hand lingered for a moment—a silent promise, a tacit show of trust. In that instant, we were more than commander and subordinate; we were brothers-in-arms facing the storm together.

Marcus beamed and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

He snapped to attention, boots thudding on the plywood floor, then spun on his heel and strode out to rally the troops. As the tent flap fell behind him, I felt the weight of history shifting.