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.