Mrs. Cross’s Welcome Gift

The Cross Residence greeted visitors with a whisper of technology—its doors sliding open with a soft hiss, unveiling a foyer that felt more like an art gallery than a home.

Holographic tiles shimmered across the floor, casting faint ripples of light with every step, as if the ground itself were alive with digital currents.

Talia Cross stood beside a sleek, obsidian desk, her blonde hair spilling over a teal gown that hugged her frame. Her face was a study in contrasts—sharp cheekbones softened by an almost otherworldly grace.

'So this is Admiral Aldric Cross's wife,' Lena thought as she stepped inside, 'and she's not exactly rolling out the welcome mat.'

"Morning, Mrs. Cross," Lena said, offering a quick, awkward bow.

Talia's eyes swept over her, cool and piercing. "Step closer, dear," she replied, her voice smooth but laced with a faint edge.

Lena obeyed, the floor pulsing beneath her worn boots. Her plain brown dress and tattered shawl did little to mask her frail frame or the pallor that clung to her like moonlit snow.

Dark hair framed her face, her eyes sharp despite her fragile appearance.

Inside, Talia's mind churned. Aldric's latest jab—a stray he's foisted on me to twist the knife.

Their marriage was a hollow shell, a public facade with no warmth behind it. Adopting this girl without a word had been the final straw, a deliberate slap she wouldn't forgive.

Lena sensed the hostility simmering beneath Talia's poised exterior.

Fantastic, she thought. Stuck in the middle of their mess. From the fragmented memories she'd pieced together, Aldric had been a ghost—sending credits but never showing up. Whatever feud this was, it predated her arrival.

Talia, meanwhile, was already plotting. 'I'll make her stay just miserable enough,' she decided. 'A little nudge here, a push there—Aldric will regret this when he finally crawls back.'

"Time to meet your brothers," Talia said abruptly, her smile thin. She nodded toward the far end of the room.

Draven Cross emerged from the shadows, his fleet uniform pristine, glasses glinting faintly in the light.

"Draven," he introduced himself with a curt nod, then turned to Talia. "Violet's off sparring with some hotshot pilot I pulled from the fleet. Keeps her busy."

Talia's lips quirked. "She's still chasing the Military Academy of Gungnir?"

"Stubborn as ever," Draven replied, a mix of pride and annoyance in his tone. "I keep telling her MAG's outdated—the Academy of Leonidas is the real fight now, especially with the Alliance stirring. She won't listen."

Lena stood there, ignored as they traded barbs. Then Talia's gaze snapped back to her, sharp and sudden.

"Ever thought about your future, kid?" Talia asked, her tone light but pointed. "Or are you just drifting?"

Lena faltered. "I—"

"Perfect," Talia interrupted. "The Cross family has a legacy—every generation serves. You're behind, but we'll fix that. Draven, any openings at Gungnir? Put her name down."

Lena turned, blinking. "The military academy?"

"Tradition demands it," Talia replied, her lips curling into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Draven straightened up. "Hold up, Mom. That's a hard sell. Her vitals barely register above civilian baseline—ALLIANCE's gonna chew her up."

Talia's gaze didn't waver. "Then she'll toughen up."

Draven frowned, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. He could guess her game plan: dump the frail newbie into the grinder, let the academy sort her out, and keep the family's pristine image intact.

Problem was, ALLIANCE's enrollment window was slamming shut, and squeezing Lena in now meant burning favors he didn't want to waste. The Cross name—tied to their father, the admiral—carried weight, sure, but Lena? She wasn't worth the hassle.

And Violet, his firecracker of a sister, sharing a dorm with THIS outsider? That was a supernova waiting to happen.

He coughed lightly, testing the waters. "Maybe we should rethink this—"

"No," Talia snapped, her smile sharpening. "It's settled."

Draven sighed, fishing a sleek comm-pad from his jacket. "Fine. I'll ping the admissions crew. Pull some strings."

Lena watched the exchange, her pulse steady despite the chaos of her thoughts. Military academy, huh? Non-combat track, probably—command or analytics, since she'd never pass the frontline physical.

Draven would have to grease some palms to bypass her lack of creds; no prior schooling, no family training, just a blank slate with a pulse.

Lucky for her, he was already on it, muttering into his device while Talia loomed like a satisfied overseer.

Lena exhaled quietly. This was better than playing wallflower in this sterile compound. She'd survived worse than drills and dorms—apocalypse-grade worse.

The academy could be her ticket to carving out a place in this star-spanning mess.

Talia might've meant it as a jab, a way to punish her fragile frame, but fate had a funny way of flipping spite into opportunity.

Talia's eyes flicked back to her, expectant, waiting for tears or tantrums. Lena gave her nothing—just a calm nod. "Works for me."

Talia's brow twitched, but she recovered fast. "Good. Oh, and one more thing: I've set up a welcome bash tomorrow night. You're expected."

Lena's stomach did a lazy flip. A party? She'd rather debug a nav-core than mingle with Imperial Nexus high rollers. But Talia's tone was steel, and arguing seemed like a waste of breath.

"Sure," she said, shrugging. "I'll show."

Talia's smile widened, predatory. "Smart girl. It's your chance to network."

As Talia swept out, her heels clicking against the polished floor, Draven pocketed his comm-pad and shot Lena a look—half pity, half curiosity. "You're really okay with this?"

Lena met his stare, a glint of steel in her own. "Yeah. It's a start."

He snorted softly. "Some start. Buckle up, newbie."

She grinned, already mapping her next move. Academy, gala, whatever—this was her shot, and she wasn't blinking.