"Mr. Harrington," the officer said, his voice carrying the crisp, unmistakable command presence of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question, "I suggest you leave this room before you embarrass this family further."
Richard blinked, visibly startled by being addressed so directly by a man he likely considered simply one of the evening's uniformed decorations rather than someone with any standing to speak to him this way. "Excuse me? Do you have any idea who you're addressing?"
"I know exactly who I'm addressing," the officer replied evenly. "A man who has spent this entire evening standing silently while his own daughter is mocked for scars she earned saving the lives of two of my sailors during an engagement most people in this room couldn't begin to understand."
The ballroom had gone significantly quieter now, nearby conversations trailing off as more guests turned to follow the unfolding confrontation. Vivian's earlier confident mockery had faltered into visible uncertainty, her hand still hovering near the fabric of Eleanor's gown.
The officer turned then, fully, toward Eleanor, and in the sudden hush of the ballroom, executed a crisp, formal salute — the kind reserved for the highest respect within their shared service.