The Grand Ballroom at The Plaza Hotel smelled of lilies and old money.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the guests below. The elite of Manhattan stood in clusters, sipping champagne and murmuring.

Damian stood alone near a pillar. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. His tuxedo was sharp, tailored to perfection, but his posture was rigid.

"She's not coming, Damian," Conrad Vincent said, walking up to his grandson. The old man leaned on a cane, his face a map of disapproval. "The girl is unstable. You're making a fool of this family by waiting for her."

"She'll be here," Damian said. His voice was tight.

"She's probably high in a gutter somewhere with that painter," Conrad scoffed.

Across the room, Arthur Nelson looked at his watch and wiped sweat from his forehead. Jill stood next to him, looking sympathetic.

"I'm so sorry, Uncle Arthur," Jill said loudly enough for the nearby guests to hear. "I tried to call her. She just... hung up. You know how she gets when she's having an episode."

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. Poor Arthur. Saddled with that disaster of a daughter.

Damian's grip on his glass tightened. If she didn't show... if she had run...

The heavy double doors at the entrance swung open.

The room went quiet.

Elise Nelson stood in the doorway.

She was flanked by Donavan, but no one was looking at him.

The emerald velvet dress caught the light, shimmering with every movement. Her black hair cascaded over one shoulder. Her head was held high, her chin tilted at an angle of absolute arrogance.

She didn't look like a disaster. She looked like a weapon.

She stepped into the room. The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea.

Jill dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against her china plate.

Arthur Nelson gasped. For a second, he thought he was seeing his late wife.

Elise walked straight toward Damian. She didn't look at the guests. She didn't look at her father. She only had eyes for him.

Damian felt the air leave his lungs. He had seen the photo Sterling sent, but the reality was visceral. She was stunning. And she was walking toward him.

Elise stopped in front of him. She smiled-a small, private smile that didn't reach the rest of the room.

"Sorry I'm late, Dami," she said, her voice smooth like honey. "Traffic was murder."

She reached out and took his arm.

Damian looked down at her hand on his sleeve. He covered it with his own. His thumb stroked her knuckles.

"You're not late," he said, his voice rough. He looked up, challenging the room with a glare. "We haven't started."

Jill recovered from her shock. She marched over, her face a mask of concern.

"Elise! Oh my god, you actually came. And you're wearing... velvet? In June? That's certainly a choice."

Elise turned to her. She looked Jill up and down.

"And you're wearing white, Jill," Elise said. "Trying to communicate your innocence? It's a bit on the nose, don't you think?"

A few guests snickered. Jill's smile faltered.

"I was just worried," Jill said. "We all were. We thought you might have... relapsed."

"Relapsed into what?" Elise asked innocently. "Good taste? Clearly, it's not contagious. You should try to catch it sometime."

Damian let out a short, sharp laugh. He looked at Elise with a mixture of shock and delight.

Irma Hayes, Jill's mother, bustled forward. She was a large woman in a dress that was too tight.

"Elise!" she barked. "Show some respect to your cousin! She has been organizing this dinner for weeks while you were out partying!"

Elise opened her mouth, but Damian stepped forward. He placed his body between Elise and Irma.

"I kept her," Damian said coldly. "She was with me. Do you have a problem with my schedule, Mrs. Hayes?"

Irma's mouth snapped shut. She shrank back under Damian's glare.

"No... no, of course not, Mr. Vincent."

Damian looked down at Elise. "Hungry?"

"Starving," she said.

He led her to the head table. As she sat down, she felt Conrad Vincent's eyes on her. The old man was studying her like a bug under a microscope.

She met his gaze and nodded politely.

Conrad didn't smile. But he didn't look away either.

The game was on.

Dinner was a battlefield disguised as a meal.

Silverware clinked against fine china. Waiters moved like ghosts, refilling wine glasses.

Elise sat next to Damian. His leg was pressed against hers under the table. The contact was grounding.

Jill sat opposite them, next to Conrad. She was working the old man, laughing at his jokes, pouring his tea.

"Grandpa Conrad," Jill cooed. "You must tell us about your collection. I heard you acquired a new piece?"

"Indeed," Conrad said. "A Ming vase."

"Fascinating," Jill said. She glanced at Elise. "Elise, didn't you break a vase once? At the museum field trip?"

Elise cut her steak. "I was seven, Jill. And it was a replica."

"Still," Jill sighed. "You were always so... clumsy. Remember when you tried to learn piano? The teacher quit after two lessons because you drew on the keys with Sharpie."

Arthur Nelson groaned. "Jill, please. Not at the table."

"I'm just reminiscing, Uncle Arthur," Jill said. "It's funny now. Elise was always more interested in... other things. Like boys."

Eleanor Vincent, Damian's mother, looked at Elise over her glasses. "Speaking of interests, Elise. What are your plans now? Are you going back to that... fashion school?"

Elise put down her fork. She wiped her mouth with the linen napkin.

"Actually, Mrs. Vincent," Elise said. "I'm re-applying to Juilliard."

Silence.

Absolute, dead silence.

Then, Jill snorted. She covered her mouth, but the laugh escaped.

"Juilliard?" Jill choked out. "For what? Janitorial services?"

Even Arthur looked pained. "Elise... honey... let's be realistic."

"I'm serious," Elise said. "Violin performance."

Conrad slammed his hand on the table. "Enough! This is a mockery. The girl has no talent. We all know it. Why do you indulge this delusion, Damian?"

Damian stiffened. He opened his mouth to defend her, but Elise squeezed his hand under the table. She drew a circle on his palm with her finger.

Trust me.

"Talent is subjective, Grandpa," Elise said calmly. "But dedication isn't."

"Dedication?" Conrad scoffed. "You've never finished a thing in your life."

The waiters cleared the plates. Dessert was served.

"Well," Jill said, standing up. "Since we're talking about talent and appreciation... I have a gift for you, Grandpa Conrad. For your birthday next week."

She signaled an assistant. A wooden box was brought forward.

Jill opened it with a flourish.

Inside sat a jade cicada. It was ancient, the stone milky and green.

"Song Dynasty," Jill announced. "It symbolizes rebirth and immortality. I won it at Christie's last week."

Conrad's eyes lit up. He reached out and touched the jade. "Magnificent. Truly magnificent, Jill. You have a good eye."

Elise smirked internally. That cicada was beautiful, but she knew for a fact it was paid for using an emergency line of credit from the Nelson family's art foundation-a fund Jill wasn't authorized to touch. Another nail for her cousin's coffin.

"Thank you," Jill beamed. She looked at Elise. "It cost a fortune, but family is worth it."

Irma leaned forward. "And what did you bring, Elise? Surely you didn't come empty-handed to your future grandfather-in-law's celebration?"

All eyes turned to Elise.

She had no bag. No box. Nothing.

Damian shifted. "I have a gift from both of us-"

"No, Dami," Elise interrupted. She stood up. She smoothed the velvet of her dress.

"I didn't bring a material gift," Elise said. "Jade can be bought. Anyone with a checkbook can buy jade."

She looked at Jill. "I brought something that can't be bought."

"Air?" Jill sneered.

"A memory," Elise said.

She turned and walked toward the small stage at the end of the ballroom, where a grand piano sat silent.

Elise walked to the Steinway. Her heels clicked rhythmically on the parquet floor.

The whispers started again.

"Is she going to play Chopsticks?"

"This is going to be a train wreck."

Elise ignored them. She reached the piano. She didn't sit down.

She turned back to the table. She extended a hand toward Damian.

"Dami," she called out. "Can I borrow you for five minutes?"

Damian stared at her. He looked confused.

"Trust me," she mouthed.

Damian stood up. He buttoned his jacket and walked to the stage. He climbed the steps and stood next to her.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"The attic," she whispered back. "Rainy days. Csárdás."

Damian's eyes widened.

When they were children-before the teenage years, before the rebellion-they used to hide in the attic of the Nelson estate. Damian had taught her piano. But she had preferred the old violin she found in a trunk.

They had learned one song together. A difficult, fast-paced Hungarian folk dance. It was their secret.

"You remember?" he asked.

"Every note," she said.

She reached behind the piano bench and picked up a violin case that had been hidden there earlier-she had tipped the band leader $500 to stow it.

She opened the case. It was a Guarneri copy. Not priceless, but good.

She lifted the violin to her chin. She tightened the bow.

Her posture shifted. Her back straightened. Her chin clamped down. In that second, the "party girl" vanished. A musician appeared.

Damian sat at the piano. He placed his hands on the keys. He looked at her.

She nodded.

Damian struck the first chord. A heavy, dramatic D minor.

Elise drew the bow across the strings.

The sound was rich, deep, and mournful. The Largo section of Monti's Csárdás.

The room went silent. Not the silence of awkwardness, but the silence of shock.

Elise's fingers danced on the fingerboard. Her vibrato was wide and passionate. She wasn't just playing notes; she was pulling emotion out of the wood.

She looked at Conrad as she played. The melody was sad, full of longing.

Conrad's mouth opened slightly. His hand gripped his cane. His late wife used to hum this tune.

Then, the tempo changed.

Damian hit the keys harder, picking up the pace.

Allegro vivace.

Elise's bow flew. The music became a frenzy of speed and precision. Her fingers were a blur.

Damian matched her perfectly. He watched her, his eyes burning with intensity. They moved as one organism. He anticipated her rubato; she leaned into his crescendos.

It was electric. It was intimate. It was sex set to music.

Jill's face went slack. She looked like she had been slapped.

Arthur Nelson was standing up, his napkin clutched to his chest. Tears streamed down his face. "My god," he whispered. "She's... she's incredible."

The music built to its climax. Faster. Higher.

Elise threw her head back, her hair flying. Damian pounded the final chords.

They hit the last note together. A sharp, triumphant staccato.

Elise lifted her bow.

Silence hung in the air for three seconds.

Then, Conrad Vincent started to clap.

It was a slow, heavy clap. Then Arthur joined in. Then the whole room erupted.

Elise lowered the violin. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving. She looked at Damian. He was looking at her like he wanted to devour her right there on the piano bench.

She smiled at him. A real smile.

She walked to the edge of the stage, holding Damian's hand.

"Happy Birthday, Grandpa," she said into the microphone. "Jade is cold. Music is life. This is for you."

Conrad stood up. He walked over to them. He ignored Jill completely.

"I didn't know," Conrad said, his voice gruff. "Why did you hide this?"

"I didn't want to share it," Elise said, looking at Damian. "It was ours."

Damian squeezed her hand so hard it hurt.

Elise glanced at the crowd. She saw Jill, pale and trembling with rage.

She smirked.

Then, her gaze drifted to the waiters standing by the kitchen doors.

One of them was staring at her. He had a cap pulled low. He had the same lanky build as Eddie, the same posture. For a terrifying second, her heart skipped a beat, convinced it was him, that he hadn't gone to the airport.

It wasn't a waiter.

It was a man Jill had hired, a low-level private investigator meant to catch her in a compromising position later. But from this distance, under the dim lights, the resemblance was a ghost punching her in the gut.