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.

They moved deeper into the ballroom, but the mood was shattered. The orchestra began to play a waltz, a light, airy tune that felt grotesque against the pounding of Kamden's heart.

He kept glancing back. Across the room, Cason was holding court. He was charming a group of investors, laughing, throwing his head back.

Kamden's internal monologue began to spiral.

He looks like me. But he's freer. He's happier.

He looked at Helena. She was walking beside him, but she felt miles away.

London.

The rumors he had ignored for years came rushing back. Helena Griffith, the piano prodigy, disappearing to the UK. Coming back broken.

Was it him? Kamden thought. Did she love him? Is that why she settled for me? Because I have his face?

The thought was a parasite. It burrowed into his brain and laid eggs.

"Am I just a replacement?" he muttered, unaware he had spoken aloud.

Helena stopped. She felt Kamden's grip on her arm tighten to the point of pain. She gently pulled away.

"I need some air," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "And food. With Penny..." She let the sentence hang, the demands of a new mother a convenient shield.

It was a lie. Or half a lie. She couldn't stand the way he was looking at her-like he was waiting for her to confess a sin she hadn't committed.

"Go," Kamden said stiffly. He let her go.

As she walked away, he felt abandoned. It reinforced every insecurity he had ever buried under his expensive suits.

Helena walked to the hors d'oeuvres station. Her hands were shaking. She picked up a canapé with her right hand. Her left hand throbbed. A phantom pain.

She leaned against a marble pillar, hidden from the main crowd. She closed her eyes and exhaled a shaky breath.

Flashback.

A hospital room. The smell of antiseptic. Cason standing at the foot of her bed, looking at her bandaged hand. "Was it worth it, Helena? Saving him? He doesn't even know."

She opened her eyes. The pain in her hand was real.

Back in the center of the room, a waiter passed Kamden with a tray. Kamden grabbed a glass. It was double scotch.

He downed it in one swallow. The alcohol burned his throat, hitting his empty stomach like gasoline.

He looked around. People were whispering. They were looking at him, then looking at Cason.

They know, Kamden thought. The paranoia set in. Everyone knows but me.

He needed to confront this. He couldn't just stand here and be the polite, ignorant husband.