My husband changed the locks on our mansion while I was at my mother’s funeral, texting me: “You took too long to grieve. Pack your things from the porch.” When I arrived, my clothes were stuffed into garbage bags next to his new girlfriend’s luxury car.

The executives chuckled, a low murmur of appreciation rippling through the room. As the meeting adjourned and the men filed out, leaving me alone in the quiet hum of power, I returned to my desk.

Before I could sit down, the red console on my secure private line began to flash. The caller ID displayed a heavily encrypted, highly classified sequence of numbers originating from the Department of Defense in Arlington.

I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the cool plastic of the receiver. A small, dangerous smile played on my lips as I lifted it to my ear