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It is the early nineties, and I am stationed abroad with my husband, Edward Linfield, a rising star in the State Department. It is supposed to be a quiet post until the country implodes into a violent civil war. The evacuation is chaos. When the last chopper is ready to lift off, Edward, as the diplomat overseeing the withdrawal, holds the final seat. He stands between me and a civilian geologist, a woman he has been working with. His gaze never once meets mine as he presses the boarding pass into her hand. "Her mind holds maps of strategic mineral deposits vital to national security," he says. "You're my wife. You of all people should understand what's at stake." And just like that, I am left behind in the war-torn ruins of a foreign land. Three months later, a tattered newspaper from home celebrates Edward's heroism. Beside the text is a photo of him and the geologist, locked in a triumphant post-rescue embrace. As for me, I am saved by the sworn adversary of the local rebels when a piece of shrapnel grazes my head. Five years pass. Peace talks are convened to re-establish diplomatic ties. Edward watches the pen slip from his grasp as I walk in, taking my seat across the table as the official envoy for the foreign government.