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.

Jasper found Kamden at the bar. Kamden was staring into his empty glass like it held the secrets of the universe.

Jasper signaled the bartender for a sparkling water. "He looks like you, Kam. It's uncanny. I'll give you that."

Kamden glared at his friend. "He doesn't just look like me, Jasper."

He turned on his stool, pointing a finger toward the center of the room where Cason was still laughing. "Look at him. The way he stands. The way he holds his drink. He acts like he owns the place. Like he owns... her."

Jasper sighed, trying to defuse the bomb. "A rival? For Helena? Please. You know Helena. She doesn't do drama."

"Helena chose you," Jasper affirmed, placing a hand on Kamden's shoulder.

Kamden slammed his glass down on the mahogany bar. The sound cracked like a gunshot. "Did she? Or did she settle for the copy?"

Jasper silenced. The raw insecurity in Kamden's voice was terrifying. This wasn't business jealousy. This was a man questioning his entire existence.

Across the room, Cason caught Kamden's eye. He raised his glass again. A silent, mocking toast.

Kamden felt a violent urge to cross the room and smash his fist into that mirror face. He wanted to break the reflection.

He realized he was losing control. His breathing was shallow.

"I need to step out," Kamden muttered.

"Kam, wait-"

"I said I need a minute!"

He walked toward the terrace doors, moving away from Helena, away from the crowd. He feared his jealousy would turn into an ugly scene in front of her. He couldn't let her see him like this. Weak. Broken.

Dana Zhu saw him leave. She nudged Jasper. "Go after him?"

Jasper shook his head. "Give him five minutes. He needs to cool off."

Kamden pushed open the heavy glass doors. The cold night air hit his face, shocking his system.

He walked to the stone railing. He gripped it until his knuckles turned white. Below him, Central Park was a dark void.

He pulled out his phone. His lock screen was a photo of Penny. Her tiny face, sleeping.

Is she even mine?

The intrusive thought struck him like lightning.

He hated himself for thinking it. It was vile. It was disgusting. But Cason's face... it was the same DNA.

"Damn it!"

Kamden punched the stone wall.

Skin split. Blood bloomed on his knuckles. The physical pain was sharp, grounding. It distracted him from the rot in his chest.

He breathed heavily, staring at the blood.

Behind him, footsteps crunched on the gravel.

He turned, hope flaring in his chest. Helena?

But the shadow was too large. Too broad.