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.

"Stop her!" Elena screamed. "This is murder!"

Two security guards lunged forward to grab Serena.

Sebastian Cole stepped in their path. He was broad-shouldered, and he blocked them like a linebacker.

"Back off!" Sebastian roared. "Let her work!"

Serena didn't hesitate. She drove the metal tip of the pen into DuPont's throat.

Crunch.

Blood spurted. Mrs. DuPont wailed.

Serena didn't flinch. She twisted the pen casing, securing it in the trachea.

A faint sound of air moving through the tube reached her ears.

DuPont's chest rose. Then fell. Then rose again.

The purple hue began to fade from his face. His eyelids fluttered. He coughed, a wet, ragged sound.

Serena sat back on her heels. Her hands were covered in blood. Her dress was ruined. Her hair was falling out of its pins.

She looked magnificent.

Paramedics burst through the doors, carrying a stretcher and bags.

They rushed to the patient. The lead paramedic assessed the scene. He saw the pen in the neck. He checked the vitals.

"Who did this?" the paramedic asked, looking around, astonished.

Serena stood up. She grabbed a linen napkin and wiped the blood from her fingers. Her demeanor shifted instantly from action to clinical detachment.

"I did," she said calmly. "Airway obstruction. Heimlich failed. Emergency cricothyrotomy. He's stable but needs immediate transport."

The paramedic looked at her—a socialite in a ripped gown. "You got lucky, lady. Or you watch too much TV. That was risky."

Serena didn't correct him. She didn't flash a medical license. She just nodded. "Just get him to the hospital."

The room was dead silent.

Elena stepped forward, her face red with indignation. "See? Even the paramedic says she's crazy! She just got lucky!"

Sebastian stepped up beside Serena, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to boast about her credentials, but Serena shot him a warning glance. Silence.

Lord Kensington, the elderly man from the airport three years ago, stepped up to the microphone on the stage.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," his voice boomed, drawing attention away from the bloody floor.

"Please, give the paramedics room. And I would like to thank my goddaughter for her quick thinking."

He paused, looking at Julian.

"Serena Kensington has always had a steady hand."

Julian felt the ground shift beneath him. Kensington.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

The eyes. The height. The scent.

It had to be her. But the skills? The confidence? The Kensington connection? It didn't fit the narrative of the Serena Vance he knew. The Serena Vance he knew dropped out of community college. This woman performed field surgery with a pen.

Was it possible he never knew his wife at all? Or was this an imposter? A remarkably similar looking woman playing a game?

Serena looked directly at Julian. She lifted her chin. Her expression was a challenge. What are you going to do about it, Julian?

Elena looked like she was going to vomit. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Mrs. DuPont grabbed Serena's bloody hands, weeping in gratitude. "Thank you. Oh my god, thank you. You saved him."

The crowd erupted. Applause thundered through the hall. It was a standing ovation.

Serena turned her back on Julian to comfort Mrs. DuPont.

Julian tried to step forward. He wanted to grab her. He wanted to ask her how. Why.

But the crowd surged around her, a wall of admirers. He was pushed back.

He stood on the outside, looking in. For the first time in his life, Julian Sterling was the one who didn't matter.