The flash of the cameras was a physical assault. It turned the tinted windows of the limousine into a strobe light show, blinding and chaotic.

The car glided to a halt in front of The Pierre Hotel. The driver opened the rear door, and the noise of the Upper East Side-shouting photographers, honking taxis, excited onlookers-rushed in.

Kamden exited first. He buttoned his tuxedo jacket with a single, fluid motion. He didn't look at the cameras. He turned back to the car and extended his hand.

Helena took it. She emerged from the dark interior, and the crowd actually gasped.

She was wearing emerald green. The custom gown clung to her frame, the silk cascading down like liquid money. It was bold, it was regal, and it was armor.

Kamden's fingers tightened around hers. He pulled her close to his side, his body acting as a shield against the flashing lights. They walked the red carpet not as husband and wife, but as a unified front. The Emerson-Griffith alliance. Unbreakable. As they passed a server with a tray of champagne, Helena gave an imperceptible shake of her head, her gaze unwavering.

At the top of the stairs, Jasper Stone was waiting. The designer looked frantic, tugging at the cuffs of his velvet blazer.

"You're late," Jasper hissed, leaning in to air-kiss Helena's cheek.

"Fashionably," Helena replied smoothly.

Jasper didn't smile. He grabbed Kamden's elbow, pulling him a fraction of an inch away from the photographers. "Listen to me. There's a wild card inside."

Kamden frowned. "I don't like surprises, Jasper."

"Neither do I. But the board approved a last-minute platinum donor. He's... distinct. And he's backed by Vincent Capital. They've been making moves so aggressive that even your grandfather is being cautious. The name is Cason Vincent."

Kamden paused. The name bounced around his head, familiar but unplaceable. Like a song he had heard once in a nightmare. "Should I care?"

"You'll see," was all Jasper said.

Helena stepped closer, her arm brushing Kamden's. "We're blocking the entrance, Kamden."

He nodded, shaking off the unease. He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her through the massive double doors.

The ballroom was a sea of diamonds and black ties. The air smelled of expensive perfume and lilies. As Kamden and Helena stepped onto the balcony overlooking the dance floor, the room went strangely quiet.

It started near the bar and rippled outward. Conversations died. Heads turned. People parted ways, creating a wide, unintentional aisle down the center of the room.

At the end of that aisle stood a man.

He was holding a champagne flute. He was wearing a tuxedo that mirrored Kamden's almost exactly. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair swept back from a high forehead.

Kamden stopped walking. His heart slammed against his ribs.

It was like looking into a distorted mirror.

The man turned slowly. His face... it was Kamden's face. But sharper. Crueler. The jawline was the same, the nose the same, but the eyes were different. Where Kamden's were often guarded and tired, this man's eyes were alive with a predatory amusement.

Beside him stood Morgana Vane, a socialite known for her venom. She was smirking, looking between the two men like she had just lit a fuse.

Cason Vincent raised his glass in a mocking toast.

Kamden's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He felt a cold sweat prickle the back of his neck. It wasn't just a resemblance. It was a violation.

Helena stood frozen beside him. She wasn't looking at Kamden. She was staring at Cason. Her face was perfectly blank, the "Iron Lady" mask fully engaged, but the pulse point in her neck was hammering.

"Who is that?" Kamden asked. His voice sounded calm, but it felt like gravel in his throat.

Jasper stepped up beside them, his voice tight. "That's Cason Vincent. Vincent Capital."

Kamden looked at Helena. He needed her to look at him. He needed her to roll her eyes and dismiss this clown.

But Helena didn't look at him. She kept her eyes locked on Cason, her body rigid.

"Helena?" Kamden prompted.

She finally blinked. She turned to him, but her eyes were opaque. "Ignore him, Kamden. He's just looking for attention."

But as Cason began to walk toward them, cutting through the crowd like a shark through water, Kamden knew it was more than attention. It was a hunt.

Cason Vincent moved with an arrogance that sucked the air out of the room. Morgana Vane clung to his arm, her eyes darting between the guests to ensure everyone was witnessing this collision.

Kamden shifted his stance. He moved his left foot back, angling his body to place himself slightly in front of Helena. A primal instinct. Protect.

Helena observed Cason's gait. It was precise. Calculated. He walked like a man who knew exactly where the landmines were buried because he had planted them himself.

They stopped three feet away. Close enough to smell the scotch on Cason's breath. Close enough to see the dilated pupils in Morgana's eyes.

Cason smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. It was a baring of teeth.

Morgana let out a small, theatrical gasp. Her heel caught-or pretended to catch-on the thick plush of the carpet.

"Oh!" she cried out.

She lunged forward. Her trajectory was perfectly aimed. She was falling straight toward Kamden's chest. It was the oldest trick in the book. The stumble. The catch. The physical contact that established intimacy.

Time seemed to slow down for Kamden. He saw the calculation in Morgana's eyes. He saw the smirk on Cason's face, waiting for Kamden to play the hero.

Kamden didn't move forward.

He took a sharp, deliberate step back.

He raised his forearm, rigid as an iron bar, not to catch her, but to block her from falling onto Helena.

Morgana, finding no chest to cling to, flailed. Her arms grabbed at empty air.

Thud.

She crashed onto the floor. It wasn't a graceful swoon. It was a hard, awkward impact of knees and elbows hitting the ground.

The sound echoed in the silent ballroom. A ripple of shocked whispers hissed through the crowd.

Morgana looked up, her face a mask of humiliation and fury. Her hair was in her eyes.

Kamden didn't look down. He didn't offer a hand. He stared straight at Cason. "Your date seems to be having trouble with gravity."

Helena looked down at Morgana. Her expression was cool, detached, like she was observing a spilled drink that the staff would clean up.

Cason didn't move to help Morgana immediately. He chuckled. It was a dark, low sound. "Clumsy things, aren't they? High heels."

From the sidelines, Dana Zhu had to press her hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh. Jasper Stone covered his smile with a cough.

Morgana scrambled to her feet, her face burning a deep, ugly red. She brushed furiously at her dress. "You could have caught me!" she hissed at Kamden.

Kamden dusted off his sleeve as if her proximity alone had soiled him. "My hands were occupied."

He reached out and took Helena's hand again.

Helena finally spoke. Her voice was polite, melodic, and dripping with condescension. "Do you need a medic, Morgana? Or perhaps a lesson in walking?"

Morgana glared, her mouth opening to snap back.

But Cason stepped forward. "Enough, Morgana."

He spoke. And the room seemed to vibrate. His voice... it was a deep baritone. Rich. Resonant.

It sounded exactly like Kamden's.

Cason extended a hand toward Kamden. The fingers were long, the nails manicured. "Cason Vincent. A pleasure to finally meet the... legend."

Kamden stared at the hand. He didn't take it. Up close, the resemblance was terrifying. The curve of the ear. The shape of the eyebrows. It was biological. It was undeniable.

"I don't shake hands with men who use women as projectiles," Kamden said.

Cason retracted his hand smoothly, unfazed. He turned his gaze to Helena.

The air shifted. Cason's eyes darkened. The amusement vanished, replaced by an intensity that bordered on obsession. He looked at her not as a stranger, but as a possession he had misplaced.

"And Mrs. Emerson," Cason said softly. "London misses you."

The word London hit Kamden like a physical blow to the gut. His head snapped toward Helena.

London. The gap in her resume. The year she vanished. The year she told him she'd had a minor car accident, the one that had supposedly ended her concert career. The one he never questioned.

Helena met Cason's gaze. She didn't flinch. "New York is home now, Mr. Vincent." Her tone was ice, brittle and sharp.

Cason stepped closer, invading her personal zone. He leaned in, just an inch too close. "Is it? Some pasts are hard to outrun, Helena. No matter how fast the car is."

Kamden stepped between them, breaking the eye contact. He was taller than Cason by maybe half an inch, and he used it. "State your business, or leave."

Cason smirked. He glanced at Morgana, who had recovered enough to look haughty again. "Just expanding my portfolio, Kamden. Morgana here is my... guide to the city."

"Business associate," Morgana corrected sharply, clinging to Cason's arm again.

Cason tapped his wrist. He was wearing a watch.

It wasn't a modern Rolex. It was a vintage pocket watch converted into a wristwatch. Gold. Ornate.

Kamden's eyes narrowed. It looked disturbingly familiar, almost identical to the ornate piece his grandfather, Silas Emerson, cherished-a family heirloom he hadn't laid eyes on in years.

Helena saw it too. Her stomach twisted, not with recognition of the object, but with a cold dread as she watched the color drain from Kamden's face. She didn't know the watch, but she knew that look. It was the look of a man seeing a ghost from a past even she wasn't privy to.

Cason saw Kamden looking. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She has a type, doesn't she? Men with... potential."

The implication hung in the air like smoke. I was the original. You are the copy.

Kamden's fists clenched at his sides. The veins in his neck stood out. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to rearrange that familiar face until it looked like a stranger's.

Jasper stepped in, clapping his hands loudly. "Wonderful! Introductions made. Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Emerson has a speech to prepare for."

Cason bowed mockingly. "We'll catch up later, brother."

He didn't say brother like a sibling. He said it like a slur.

Cason turned and led Morgana away into the crowd.

Kamden stood rooted to the spot. He turned to Helena. His eyes were searching, desperate. "London?" he asked. "Did you know him in London?"

Helena looked at his bowtie. She reached up and adjusted it, her fingers cold against his neck. She couldn't meet his eyes. If she looked at him, she would crumble.

"Everyone knows everyone in London, Kam," she said vaguely. "He's just trying to get under your skin."

"He succeeded," Kamden rasped.