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.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Conrad announced, his voice booming. "I think it is time."

He snapped his fingers. Sterling stepped forward, holding a black velvet box.

Damian took the box. He turned to Elise.

The room hushed.

"Elise," Damian said. He went down on one knee.

Gasps echoed around the room. The Devil of Wall Street, kneeling?

He opened the box.

Inside rested The Vincent Star. A flawless, 30-carat, brilliant-cut pink diamond, surrounded by a constellation of smaller white diamonds. It wasn't just a ring; it was a statement of ownership, a glittering weight of power. It was gaudy. It was massive. It was worth more than the hotel they were standing in.

In her past life, Elise had laughed at it. She had called it a "dog collar."

Now, she saw it for what it was. A promise. A shield.

"Be mine," Damian said. "Officially. Irrevocably."

Elise extended her left hand. "I am yours, Damian."

He slid the ring onto her finger. It was heavy. It felt like an anchor.

He stood up and kissed her. It was a chaste kiss for the audience, but his lips were hot and demanding.

The band struck up a waltz.

"Dance with me," he commanded.

He swept her onto the floor. His hand splayed across the open back of her dress, skin on skin.

They spun. The world blurred into streaks of gold and light.

But Elise couldn't focus. Her eyes kept darting to the kitchen doors.

The lookalike was gone. But seeing him had unsettled her, a reminder of the snake she had just cut out of her life.

"Who are you looking for?"

Damian's voice was a whip crack near her ear.

Elise snapped her head back. Damian's eyes were dark. The jealousy was back, simmering under the surface.

"No one," she said.

His hand on her waist tightened painfully. He pulled her flush against him. She could feel the hard lines of his body.

"Don't lie to me, Elise. You're scanning the room. Is he here?"

"No," she said. "I'm just... overwhelmed. The music. The ring."

Damian stopped dancing. They were in the middle of the floor.

"If I find out you're planning to meet him," he whispered, "I will break his legs. And then I will lock you in the tower until you forget his name."

"Damian," she said softly. "Look at me. I'm wearing your ring."

A waiter passed by with a tray of red wine.

Someone bumped him.

The tray tipped.

A glass of Cabernet cascaded down the front of Damian's pristine white tuxedo shirt.

The red stain bloomed like a gunshot wound.

The music stopped.

Damian looked down at the stain. His breath hitched. His control, already frayed by jealousy, snapped.

The waiter dropped the tray. Crash. "Oh god! Sir! I'm so sorry!"

Damian's face went white, then purple. A vein in his forehead bulged. The uncontrolled, public nature of the filth sent a shockwave through his system.

He raised a hand, his fingers curled into a fist. He was going to strike the waiter.

"Dami!"

Elise stepped in front of him. She grabbed his raised hand with both of hers.

"Look at me," she commanded.

Damian's eyes were wild, unfocused. "Filth. It's filthy."

"It's just wine," Elise said calmly. She reached into his pocket and pulled out his silk handkerchief.

She dabbed at the stain on his lapel. Her movements were slow, rhythmic.

"Breathe," she said. "In. Out. It's just a shirt. We can burn it later."

Damian stared at her hands. He focused on her fingers moving over the fabric.

His breathing slowed. The murderous rage drained out of him, leaving him trembling.

"Get him out of my sight," Damian rasped to Sterling.

Sterling dragged the terrified waiter away.

Elise took Damian's arm. "Come on. Let's go upstairs. You have a spare suit in the suite."

"Yes," Damian said. He sounded exhausted. "Change."

They walked out of the ballroom.

As they reached the elevator, Elise saw a shadow move near the garden entrance. It was the same man from before, the investigator. He was signaling to Jill, who was trying to look inconspicuous near the exit.

Elise's eyes narrowed.

She rode the elevator up with Damian. She helped him take off the ruined jacket.

"I need to powder my nose," she said. "I'll meet you back down there."

Damian was in the bathroom, scrubbing his hands. "Hurry back."

Elise walked out of the suite.

She didn't go to the bathroom. She kicked off her heels, picked them up, and ran toward the service stairs.

Down to the garden.

It was time to take out the trash.