Two weeks after the humiliation at Everly's birthday party, I still felt the phantom impression of that stamp on my cheek. The social media storm had barely subsided—my marked face splashed across gossip sites, with headlines like 'Meat Market: Ray Heir Brands Girlfriend at Society Gala.' I'd scrubbed my skin raw that night, but some marks aren't visible to the eye.

The Harrison Foundation Charity Gala should have been my chance to reclaim some dignity. I wore a midnight blue gown that concealed more than it revealed, a silent rebellion against Adrian's preference for showcasing me like a trophy. The Metropolitan Museum's sculpture garden glittered with fairy lights and crystal, New York's elite mingling beneath the stars.

"Serena, darling," Adrian appeared at my elbow, two champagne flutes in hand. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You've been avoiding the head table all evening."

"I needed some air," I replied, noticing Everly watching us from across the terrace. She wore white again—an unspoken violation of gala etiquette where only the hostess wore white. Her eyes narrowed as Adrian handed me the glass.

"I can't drink this," I said quietly, pushing it back toward him. "You know I'm allergic."

Adrian's jaw tightened. "It's just one toast. The Harrisons specifically requested everyone participate."

"Adrian, my allergy is severe. My EpiPen is in the car—"

"Is there a problem?" Everly materialized beside us, her voice honeyed with false concern. Several guests turned to watch, including Marcus Chen, who I recognized as Leo Harrison's business partner.

"Serena's being difficult about the toast," Adrian muttered.

Everly's lips formed a perfect pout. "But the Harrisons have been so generous supporting your father's medical research. It would be terribly rude to refuse their champagne toast. Everyone's waiting."

I scanned the garden. Nobody was waiting. Most guests were engaged in their own conversations, oblivious to our drama in the corner.

"I have a medical condition," I explained, feeling ridiculous having to justify my own safety. "Alcohol triggers anaphylaxis. I could die."

"Oh, please." Everly rolled her eyes. "One sip won't kill you. Stop being so dramatic for attention."

Adrian's expression hardened as he thrust the glass toward me again. "Just take a small sip for the photos. The Harrisons are important clients."

I stared at him, searching for any sign of the man who once promised he'd never let me suffer even the slightest harm. Instead, I saw only cold determination to please Everly.

"Adrian," I whispered, "please don't do this."

"For God's sake, Serena!" He grabbed my wrist, forcing the glass to my lips. "Stop embarrassing me."

The champagne splashed against my closed mouth. I tried to turn away, but his grip tightened. A few drops slipped past my lips before I could stop them.

"There," he said, releasing me with a satisfied smile toward Everly. "That wasn't so hard."

The first symptoms hit within seconds—the tingling in my lips, the tightness in my throat. Panic flooded my system as I recognized the familiar progression.

"Adrian," I gasped, my voice already changing, "I need my EpiPen. Now."

He frowned, finally noticing my rapidly reddening skin. "Are you serious right now?"

"Can't... breathe..." The room began to spin as my airways constricted. I clutched at my throat, the champagne flute shattering on the marble floor. Guests turned at the sound, murmurs of concern rippling through the crowd.

As my knees buckled, I heard Everly cry out—not for me, but for herself.

"Oh God, Adrian! My appendix! The pain is unbearable!"

Through my rapidly narrowing vision, I saw Adrian's attention immediately shift to Everly as she doubled over dramatically. Someone shouted for a doctor. Strong arms caught me before I hit the ground, but they weren't Adrian's.

"Someone call 911! She's in anaphylactic shock!" A woman's voice—Dr. Sarah Mitchell, I realized dimly.

The last thing I saw before consciousness slipped away was Adrian rushing Everly toward the exit, her face buried in his shoulder, while camera flashes captured my collapse for tomorrow's tabloids.

I woke to the steady beep of monitors and the sterile smell of hospital antiseptic. My throat felt raw, my body leaden. Blinking against harsh fluorescent lights, I gradually became aware of the IV in my arm, the oxygen cannula in my nose.

The room was empty. No flowers. No cards. No Adrian.

With trembling fingers, I reached for my phone on the bedside table. Three missed calls from my mother. None from Adrian. When I opened Instagram, the explanation appeared in the first post: Adrian at Mount Sinai Hospital across town, tenderly holding Everly's hand as she reclined in a hospital bed, his caption reading: 'Some emergencies put everything in perspective. Nothing matters more than being there when it counts. #AlwaysAndForever'

The hashtag he'd once reserved for me.

I let the phone fall from my grasp, tears sliding silently down my face as I finally accepted the truth I'd been denying for months: Adrian Ray would always choose Everly Jensen—even if it meant watching me die.

I stared at the hospital ceiling, counting the tiny holes in each acoustic tile to distract myself from the hollow ache in my chest. The monitors beeped steadily beside me, a cold reminder that while my body was recovering, my heart remained shattered. No flowers. No Adrian. Just the lingering betrayal of watching him choose Everly—again—even as I fought for breath on that marble floor.

The door opened with a soft click, and my mother swept in, elegant as always in her cream Chanel suit. Victoria Hamilton never appeared disheveled, even in crisis. Her eyes, however, betrayed what her posture did not—fury barely contained beneath her composed exterior.

"Darling," she said, setting her Hermès bag on the visitor's chair and taking my hand. Her fingers were cool against my skin. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been betrayed by the man I loved for five years," I replied, my voice still raspy from intubation. "So, physically terrible, emotionally worse."

Mother's lips pressed into a thin line. "What Adrian did was unforgivable. The Hamilton name has been dragged through gossip columns because of his actions."

"I know you warned me about him," I whispered.

"I didn't come to say 'I told you so,'" she said, surprising me. She reached into her bag and pulled out a leather portfolio bound with a blue ribbon. "I came with a solution."

I raised an eyebrow. "A solution?"

"Leo Harrison has returned from London," she said, watching my face carefully. "He's approached your father and me with a proposal. An arranged marriage, as was once discussed between our families years ago."

"Leo Harrison?" The name stirred something in my memory—a tall, quiet man with intense eyes who'd disappeared to London around the time I'd met Adrian. "The real estate developer?"

Mother nodded, untying the ribbon. "He's been in London these past five years, building his empire... and apparently, thinking of you."

She opened the portfolio, and I gasped. Inside were detailed sketches of wedding venues, dress designs, flower arrangements—all annotated with my preferences. Blue hydrangeas, not white. Bateau neckline, never strapless. Santorini-inspired color schemes with whites and blues.

"He created all of this... for me?" I whispered, turning pages to find more sketches, fabric swatches, even a floor plan for a honeymoon villa overlooking the Mediterranean.

"Leo told us he's loved you from afar for five years," Mother said softly. "He left for London when you chose Adrian, but he never stopped planning for the possibility that someday, you might be his."

I traced a finger over a sketch of a sapphire engagement ring—my birthstone, not a diamond. Something Adrian never remembered despite my hints.

"This is... overwhelming," I admitted.

"It's a chance to heal, Serena," Mother said. "With someone who has proven his devotion before you've even given him a chance. Consider it."

She left the portfolio on my lap, kissing my forehead before departing. I spent hours examining each page, each detail that proved someone had been paying attention to my dreams while Adrian had been trampling them.

The next morning, I woke to find a man sitting beside my bed—not Adrian, whose absence still stung despite everything, but a stranger with familiar eyes. Leo Harrison wore a simple gray suit, his dark hair slightly tousled, as if he'd run his hands through it nervously before entering.

"Ms. Hamilton," he said, his voice deeper than I remembered. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"You're the man who's been designing my wedding for five years," I replied, unsure whether to be flattered or unnerved.

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "When you put it that way, it sounds rather presumptuous of me."

"It is," I agreed, but found myself smiling back.

Leo didn't bring flowers—a relief after years of Adrian's predictable roses. Instead, he placed a small blue velvet box on my bedside table.

"Not a ring," he assured me, seeing my expression. "That would be rushing things, even for someone who's planned as far ahead as I have."

I opened the box to find a delicate sapphire bracelet, the stones arranged in a pattern that immediately reminded me of Santorini's iconic blue domes against white buildings.

"How did you know?" I whispered.

"Five years ago, at the Carmichael gala, you spoke for ten minutes about wanting to see Santorini's sunset," Leo said quietly. "I've remembered every word."

As he fastened the bracelet around my wrist, his fingers warm against my pulse point, I realized what true attention felt like—and how long I'd been starving for it.