The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 732

Chapter 732 Stand–In 
Verity’s voice broke through the wind, shaky but loud. “I… I will protect her!” 
On that small, freckled face sat a resolve far bigger than her seven short years. 
The old man barked a laugh that bounced off the steel hull. “Whitethorns–all liars,” he spat. Before Dawn could react, he snatched Verity by the back of her hoodie, strode onto the deck, and thrust her half–body over the railing. 
One loosened finger, and the ocean would claim her. 
“Now,” he murmured, leaning over the spray, “will you still protect her?” 
Dawn’s own knees threatened to give. Even grown–ups would buckle at that drop, and she was only a child. 
Verity shook, white as sea–foam, yet her answer came back clear: “I… I will protect her!” 
A flicker–almost pity–crossed the old man’s eyes. “A Whitethorn child. What a waste,” he whispered. “I despise your bloodline, so death is all you’ll get.” 
“No!” Dawn burst out as the thugs dragged her onto the deck. “He’s not Dawn–I am!” 
“You… you’re lying!” Verity cried, panic sharpening her voice. “I’m Dawn–you’re Verity!” 
It felt backward, but Dawn held the old man’s gaze. “I’m not lying,” she said, heart hammering. The one thing she understood was that he hated Whitethorns–and that meant claiming the name painted a target on her, not on Verity. 
Pieces snapped together: they were after Miss Whitethorn, not two random kids. 
Calling herself Dawn was lethal; being Verity was safe. 
So that was why Verity had begged for the name swap from the start–not from fear, but to shield her. 
Nothing else explained why she clung to the lie even now, half–dangling above black water. 
Dawn’s lungs burned; she could not let Verity be tossed away for her sake. 
“I am Dawn Whitethorn!” she shouted, voice cracking but fierce. “My father is Julius, my mother is Quinn, and my uncle is Caleb Bridger. My grandparents are—” 
He listened as the girl stood straight and let a stream of names roll off her tongue. Each syllable hit him like a pebble against glass, deliberate, unhurried, impossible to doubt. 
How could she remember so much? He had never seen half the people she listed, yet she pronounced every branch of the bloodline as though she had dined with them yesterday. 
He recalled a passing remark from Dr. Gavin Huxley–one reading of the Whitethorn genealogy, and the child had taken it all in, not a single name misplaced. 
Gavin had sounded almost proud then, calling her mind “unnatural, frightening in its precision.” The old man had laughed at the exaggeration, yet standing here he tasted how true it was. 
Now, when she uttered one more name, something snagged inside his chest. His breath stopped, as though the room had stolen the air before he could claim it. 
That name belonged to the woman he had once promised to wed, the same won joaquin later called wife, the same woman who lay in a grave no spring had managed to soften. 
And those eyes–the narrow amber slant the family called phoenix eyes–stared back at him from the child’s face, alive, accusing, undeniably Whitethorn. 
There could be no mistake. The girl was the true daughter of the house, rightful in blood, in gaze, in the effortless way she carried its history. 
And that made her, as surely as sunrise, part of the tally he kept of those who had wronged him. 
“Are you not afraid to die?” The question slipped out before he had time to mask the his throat. 
The little one nodded, honesty shining like dew. “I am, but I won’t let my friend tumble into the sea.” 
Her answer cracked open a corridor in his mind, and through it glided the memory of a bright figure hurrying toward him years ago. 
“I will marry Joaquin. If I do, he’ll leave you alone.” The remembered voice carried both fear and reckless tenderness. 
“You told me he was terrifying,” the younger version of himself had protested. “Won’t a life with such a man hurt you?” 
“It will,” she had answered, “but I brought this curse on myself. I’ll bear it alone.” 
A silent cry tore across the memory, too quick to catch, too sharp to ignore.. 
Of course the child before him was her grand–daughter, the next fragile link in that ill–fated line. 
That was why every tilt of the girl’s chin, every spark in her eyes, pulled the older woman’s silhouette out of the shadows. 
“If I die before Miss Qiao, I’ll have them cut off my hand, turn it into a specimen, and send it to her.” The sentence rolled through the dark like a cold wave. 
Another vow followed, drenched in desperate devotion. “Quinn, if one day I l walk beside you, never betray you–would your heart move toward mine the 
“Quinnie, I love you!” The echo landed like a fist to his ribs. 
ly you, 
“Why did you lie to me? You swore you’d be safe… Why?” The last word stretched, thin as burning paper. 
Voices tangled and faded, leaving only the hiss of unfinished sentences. 
They were his own words–yet he could not place the hour, the room, the life in which he had spoken them. 
Familiarity brushed his skin; dread followed, prickly and relentless. 
It felt as though he were sinking into black water, the chorus of voices pressing down from every side. 
Some belonged to him, some to Quinn, some to strangers he could not name, yet all merged into one relentless tide. 
The weight of it flattened his lungs; he clawed for air that refused to come. 
Then, without warning, the darkness cracked like thinning ice, and light–harsh, welcome, blinding–spilled in. 
Blurred images fluttered behind Julius’s closed eyelids–Quinn’s laughter on their balcony, her fingers threading through his hair, the two of them stealing a midnight kiss beside the nursery window. 
He floated toward those moments as though warmth itself lived there, hoarding every color, every breath, terrified the light might tear away if he loosened his grip. 
Yet sweetness dripped into a deep, dull ache, the taste of her name turning sharp enough to scratch his throat from the inside. 
He felt the cruel arithmetic–love multiplied until, when subtracted, despair exploded, leaving nothing but the echo of emptiness. 
The visions snapped into focus: Quinn, wrapped in a scarlet evening gown, standing beneath chandeliers, looking straight at him and saying, “Julius, five years ago you understood why I must search–because you loved our daughter as fiercely as I do.” 
Was that disappointment flickering in her eyes? 
Disappointment in him? 
Panic lunged through his chest; he had to wake up, had to stop her from rus alone.