Three Years Later.

The New York skyline glittered like a jewelry box spilled onto black velvet. It was the first Monday in May. The Starlight Charity Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The air was electric. The humidity of the day had broken, leaving a crisp, cool night perfect for high fashion and higher stakes.

Julian Sterling stepped out of a black limousine. The cameras flashed instantly, a wall of blinding white light.

He looked sharper than he had three years ago. His jawline was harder, his eyes colder. He wore a bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo that fit him like armor.

Elena Rose hung on his arm. She was wearing a dress that was trying too hard—a sheer, sequined number that left little to the imagination. It was expensive, but on her, it looked cheap.

"Julian! Julian! Over here!" The photographers screamed.

"Where is the ex-wife?" one reporter shouted, bold and rude.

Julian's expression didn't flicker. He ignored the question. He had spent three years ignoring questions about Serena. She had vanished. Not a single paparazzi photo. Not a single credit card transaction. Even his private investigators had hit a wall. It was as if the earth had swallowed her whole.

Technically, she wasn't his "ex" wife. The divorce papers were still sitting in his safe, signed by her, unsigned by him. A petty power play he had never relinquished.

"Ignore them, baby," Elena purred, squeezing his bicep. Her nails dug in through the fabric. "They're just jealous."

Julian felt a familiar wave of exhaustion. He unhooked her hand gently but firmly.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the chaotic crowd. Even the photographers lowered their cameras for a split second.

A car had pulled up. Not a limo. A vintage Rolls Royce Phantom, painted a deep, midnight blue. It was a car that whispered old money.

The door opened.

A leg extended.

It was long. Slender. Toned muscle wrapped in smooth, glowing skin.

A woman stepped out.

The flashbulbs went insane. The noise was deafening, like a swarm of mechanical locusts.

She was tall. She wore an emerald green gown that seemed to be made of liquid silk. It was a tight, mermaid cut that restricted her stride to an elegant glide, with a high slit that teased the imagination. The color made her skin look like alabaster.

Her hair was a dark, rich mahogany, styled in classic Hollywood waves that cascaded over one shoulder.

She turned to the crowd. Her face was... breathtaking. High cheekbones, full lips painted a deep berry red, and eyes that were a startling, piercing gray.

She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She just stood there, radiating a kind of cold, majestic power that made Elena look like a toddler playing dress-up.

A man stepped out from the other side of the car. It was Sebastian Cole. Julian's business rival. The owner of Cole Pharmaceuticals.

Sebastian walked around the car and offered the woman his arm. She took it, her movements fluid and graceful.

"Who is she?" The whisper rippled through the crowd.

"Is that a model?"

"Is that Sebastian's fiancée?"

Julian stood at the top of the stairs, looking down. He felt paralyzed. His heart skipped a beat, then double-timed.

He didn't know that face. Not really. It was too sharp, too perfect.

But the eyes.

He knew those eyes.

They haunted him.

"Who is that?" Elena hissed, her voice laced with instant jealousy.

"I don't know," Julian murmured. He couldn't look away. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over him, but he pushed it down. It was impossible. The woman he knew was soft, broken, and plain. This woman was steel and diamonds.

The woman and Sebastian began to ascend the stairs. As they got closer, the woman looked up.

Her gray eyes locked onto Julian's.

For a second, time dilated. The noise of the crowd faded.

Julian expected to see admiration. Lust. The way women usually looked at him.

Instead, he saw nothing.

Her eyes were empty of warmth. They looked at him the way one looks at a piece of furniture. Dismissive. Bored.

She broke eye contact without flinching and turned her attention to Sebastian, laughing at something he whispered. The sound of her laugh was low, throaty, and musical.

Julian felt a physical pang of rejection so sharp it nearly winded him.

"Let's go inside," he said abruptly, turning his back on the vision in green.

Inside the Met, the Great Hall had been transformed into a garden of white roses. Waiters circulated with champagne. The air smelled of expensive perfume and money.

Serena Vance took a glass of champagne. She didn't drink it. She just held it by the stem, turning it in the light.

"You're stopping traffic," Sebastian murmured in her ear. "I think Julian stopped breathing."

"Let him suffocate," Serena said. Her voice was calm, but her pulse was racing. Seeing him again... it was harder than she thought. Not because she loved him. But because the anger was still so fresh.

"He suspects something," Sebastian noted. "He was staring."

"He's staring because he's a narcissist and I'm the only thing in the room he doesn't own," Serena corrected. "He doesn't recognize me. He never really looked at me when we were married."

She scanned the room. She saw the faces of the women who used to mock her at the country club. Mrs. Van Der Woodsen. The Thorpe sisters.

They were all staring at her now, whispering, dying to know who the new "It Girl" was.

"Serena!" A shrill voice.

It was Elena. She had dragged Julian over. She couldn't help herself. She had to mark her territory.

Julian looked reluctant, but his eyes were glued to Serena. He was studying her, searching for something he couldn't name.

"Hello, Sebastian," Julian said, his voice tight. He looked at Serena. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

Sebastian smiled, a shark-like grin. "Julian. Elena. This is my guest for the evening."

He paused for effect.

"Serena Vance, you can also call me Serena Kensington."

Julian froze.

The name hit him like a physical blow. Serena.

He stared at her. He looked for the fat. He looked for the rash. He looked for the fear.

None of it was there. And yet... the name.

"Kensington?" Julian repeated. "Relation to Lord Kensington?"

"His goddaughter," Serena said. Her voice was smooth, devoid of the stutter she used to have when he was near.

"Serena," Julian said again. He was testing the name on his tongue. It tasted like ash and regret.

"A common name," Serena said coolly. "But I believe we have something in common, Mr. Sterling. Or rather... someone."

She looked at Elena. Her gaze was surgical. It dissected Elena's insecurity in one glance.

"I love your dress," Serena lied. "It's so... brave."

Elena flushed red.

Julian didn't notice Elena. He was staring at Serena's eyes. They were the same gray. The exact same shade of gray as his ex-wife's.

But that was impossible. His ex-wife was a mess. This woman was a queen. And Kensington? The Vance family had no connection to the British aristocracy. It had to be a coincidence. A cruel, mocking coincidence.

"Have we met?" Julian asked. The question slipped out before he could stop it. He wasn't asking politely; he was probing.

Serena smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"I don't think so, Mr. Sterling. I would have remembered a man like you."

She turned to Sebastian. "I need some air. The desperation in this corner is a bit stifling."

She walked away, leaving Julian standing there, clutching his drink so hard the crystal stem was in danger of snapping.

Julian watched her walk away. The sway of her hips in that green silk was hypnotic.

"Serena," he whispered again.

"Stop saying her name," Elena snapped. "She's a bitch. Did you hear what she said about my dress?"

"She was right," Julian muttered, not looking at her. "It's tacky."

Elena gasped, but Julian was already moving. He felt a magnetic pull. He needed to be near her. He needed to figure out why his skin was prickling.

He wove through the crowd. He saw her standing near a marble pillar, alone for a moment. Sebastian had gone to the bar.

But she wasn't alone for long.

George, the biggest letch in the Hamptons, had spotted fresh meat. Julian saw William slide up to her, a predatory grin on his face.

Julian stopped about ten feet away, obscured by a large floral arrangement. He wanted to see what she would do. The old Serena would have cowered. She would have looked for an exit or waited for someone to save her.

George leaned in close. Too close. He placed a hand on the pillar, boxing her in.

"You're new," George slurred. He was already drunk. "I like new."

Serena didn't flinch. She took a sip of her champagne, her eyes bored. "And you're old. I don't like old."

George laughed, thinking she was flirting. He reached out to touch her waist.

Serena moved. It was a blur. A subtle shift of her weight, a slight twist of her torso. George's hand grabbed empty air.

"Touch me," Serena said, her voice dropping an octave, "and you will regret it."

It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of fact.

George blinked, confused. His ego took over. "Feisty. I bet you're fun in b—"

He reached for her again, this time aggressively.

Julian saw red. A dark, possessive rage surged through him. Before he even processed the decision, he was moving.

He crossed the distance in three strides. He grabbed the back of George's tuxedo collar and yanked him backward.

George stumbled, choking as his bowtie tightened.

"Back off, George," Julian growled. His voice was low, dangerous.

George straightened up, adjusting his jacket. He saw Julian's face and paled. "Julian. I was just... welcoming the lady."

"You were harassing her," Julian said. "If I see you near her again, I'll have security throw you onto Fifth Avenue. Do you understand?"

George nodded frantically and scurried away like a rat.

Julian turned to Serena. He expected gratitude. He expected her to swoon a little.

Serena was looking at him with an arched eyebrow. She looked amused.

"You should be more careful," Julian said, stepping into her personal space. He was breathing hard. "Men like that are vultures."

"I can handle myself," Serena said. She didn't step back. She held her ground.

Up close, the scent hit him.

Freesia.

It was faint, hidden under layers of expensive French perfume, but it was there. Freesia and vanilla.

Julian's breath hitched. That was Serena Vance's scent. She used to use a cheap body wash that smelled exactly like that.

His eyes widened. He scanned her face frantically. He looked for the scar on her cheek.

Smooth. Flawless. Not even a mark.

He looked at her hands. No wedding ring indentation.

"Who are you?" Julian asked. His voice was a whisper now, stripped of arrogance. "Tell me the truth."

Serena leaned in. She was close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin.

"I told you," she said, her voice mocking him. "I'm Serena Kensington."

"You smell like her," he accused, his composure cracking.

"Like who? Your ex-wife?" She tilted her head. "Maybe you're just projecting, Mr. Sterling. Guilt has a way of playing tricks on the senses."

She pulled back.

"Thank you for the rescue, though," she said dryly. "Even if it was unnecessary."

She turned and walked away, joining Sebastian who was returning with drinks. She laughed at something Sebastian said, placing a hand on his chest.

Julian felt a sharp pain in his chest. Jealousy. Hot, irrational jealousy.

He watched them. He realized he was furious. Not because William had touched her. But because Sebastian was making her laugh.

And because she smelled like the wife he had thrown away.

A waiter dropped a tray of glasses nearby. CRASH.

The sound snapped Julian out of his trance. He was shaking.

He looked at his hand. He had clenched his fist so hard his nails had cut into his palm.

"It can't be her," he muttered to the empty air. "She was weak. This woman is dangerous."

The Gala moved into the dinner portion. The Temple of Dendur was bathed in soft, ambient light.

Julian was seated at Table 1, the prime spot. Elena was next to him, sulking and picking at her salad.

Serena was at Table 2, directly adjacent. She was facing him. Every time he looked up, she was there, engaging in polite conversation with a French diplomat. She spoke fluent French. Since when? Serena Vance barely passed high school Spanish.

The logic in his brain was warring with the instinct in his gut. Logic said: Impossible. She was sick. She was uneducated. She was timid. Gut said: That's her.

Mr. DuPont, a heavy-set investor in his sixties, stood up at Serena's table to make a toast. He was red-faced, sweating profusely.

"To the... to the..." DuPont stammered.

Suddenly, he clutched his chest. His eyes bulged. A horrible, guttural gasping sound escaped his lips.

He collapsed forward.

SMASH.

China shattered. Wine glasses toppled, staining the white tablecloth red like blood.

"George!" Mrs. DuPont screamed.

Panic erupted. Chairs scraped against the stone floor. People backed away, horrified.

"Is there a doctor?" someone shouted. "Call 911!"

Security guards froze, looking at each other. The room was a sea of useless, wealthy people in expensive clothes.

Julian stood up, his phone already in his hand. He was dialing 911.

But movement caught his eye.

Serena.

She didn't scream. She didn't back away.

She kicked off her high heels.

She looked at her tight emerald gown. It was too restrictive. She couldn't kneel. Without hesitation, she grabbed the fabric at the top of the existing slit and yanked it higher, tearing the delicate silk with a sharp rip to free her legs completely.

The sound was shocking in the hush of the room.

She moved instantly. She didn't hesitate like a socialite in a dress; she reacted like a trained responder. She slid onto her knees beside DuPont, ignoring the broken glass.

"On his back! Now!" she commanded the frozen waiter. Her voice was a whip crack.

They rolled the heavy man over.

Serena pressed two fingers to his carotid artery. Her face was a mask of intense concentration.

"No pulse," she announced. "Cardiac arrest."

She interlocked her hands, positioned herself over his chest, and began compressions.

One, two, three, four.

"Hard and fast," she muttered. "Come on."

Her elbows were locked. Her form was perfect. Every compression cracked a rib. The sound was sickening, but necessary.

"Get an AED!" she yelled without looking up. "And call a code!"

Julian lowered his phone. He stared at her. The woman who used to be afraid to order pizza over the phone was now commanding a room of billionaires.

"What is she doing?" Elena screeched. "She's going to kill him! Get her off him!"

Serena ignored her. She tilted DuPont's head back to check the airway.

"He's not getting air," she said. "Blockage. It's a bolus of food. The choking caused the arrest."

She straddled his thighs. She tried the Heimlich maneuver from the ground, shoving her fist under his ribcage.

Nothing.

DuPont's face was turning purple. Cyanosis.

"It's lodged too deep," Serena said. She looked up. Her eyes were wild but focused.

She looked directly at Julian.

"I need a sharp object!" she yelled. "Something narrow and sharp. Now!"

"She's crazy!" Elena yelled. "Security!"

Julian didn't listen to Elena. He reached into his tuxedo pocket. He pulled out his silver Montblanc pen.

He threw it to Serena.

She caught it in mid-air.

"Vodka!" she ordered the waiter. "Pour it on the pen!"

The waiter poured Grey Goose over the silver barrel.

"It's not sterile, but it will have to do," she muttered.

Serena unscrewed the cap. She threw the ink cartridge away. She was left with the hollow metal tube.

"She's going to stab him!" a woman screamed and fainted.

Serena positioned the pen over DuPont's throat, right at the hollow of the neck. The cricothyroid membrane.

She looked at Julian one last time. A silent communication passed between them. Trust me.

She raised her hand.