The Commander’s Wedding
I am Nola Flores, thirty-two years old, and I am a Commander in the United States Navy SEALs. I have been trained to endure freezing surf, sleep deprivation, and the kind of psychological pressure that breaks ordinary men. I’ve operated in hostile territories where one wrong move means death.
I’ve made split-second decisions that saved lives and ended others. But nothing in the BUD/S manual, nothing in all my years of combat training, prepared me for the silence of a historic Episcopal church in Virginia on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I stood in the vestibule, the heavy oak doors acting as the final barrier between me and my future.
My hands, which had never trembled while defusing explosives or calling in airstrikes, shook slightly as I gripped my bouquet—white roses and navy-blue hydrangeas, chosen to honor both tradition and my service. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and old floor wax, a smell that reminded me of my grandmother’s funeral when I was twelve, back when my family still included me in their grief. Through the crack in the door, I could see them—142 guests.
My gaze swept over the crowd, a tactical assessment I couldn’t turn off even now. Friendly forces. Potential threats.
Escape routes. My team from Coronado sat stoic in their chairs on the right side, their posture rigid even in civilian clothes. Lieutenant Chen, who’d pulled me out of the water during Hell Week when hypothermia nearly took me.
Petty Officer Rodriguez, who’d covered my six during that nightmare op in Somalia. Chief Warrant Officer Jackson, who’d told me I was “too small, too female, and too soft” during my first week, then later said I was the toughest operator he’d ever served with. My command staff from Naval Station Norfolk filled the middle rows—officers in their immaculate dress whites, the gold braid on their shoulders catching the afternoon light streaming through stained glass windows.
Admiral Hutchinson, who’d personally approved my promotion to Commander over the objections of three old-guard captains who thought women had no place in Special Operations. David’s family occupied the left side in force—parents, siblings, cousins, college friends, his entire life represented in navy suits and pastel dresses. His mother had insisted on helping with the planning, treating me like the daughter she’d always wanted.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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