My grandfather d/ie/d with full military honors, my parents inherited the estate and the money, and all I got was one envelope and my father’s cold little laugh—until I landed in London with a one-way ticket, stepped into the rain outside Heathrow, and saw a uniformed driver holding a sign with my name like my grandfather had sent me on one last mission nobody in my family saw coming.

“Are you actually going to use that ticket, or should I just throw it in the trash for you?” he asked with a mocking chuckle.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” I replied firmly, meeting his gaze until he was the one to look away.

He laughed again, shaking his head.

“Don’t come crying to us when your pockets are empty in a foreign city, because London is far too expensive for a girl with no trust fund.”

The next day, I stood at the airport gate where the attendant looked at my ticket and her eyes widened in surprise.

“Ms. Rhodes, you’ve been moved to the executive suite, courtesy of the British Diplomatic Corps,” she told me with a respectful nod.

I boarded the plane in a daze, wondering how a retired American general had such pull with a foreign government. When the wheels finally touched the rain slicked tarmac of Heathrow, I walked through the arrivals gate and stopped in my tracks.

A man in a sharp black suit held a sign that read LT. JOSEPHINE RHODES, and as soon as our eyes met, he snapped into a crisp British salute.

“Ma’am, I am Commander George Harrison, and I have orders to escort you directly to the Palace,” he said, his accent as polished as his shoes.