Back inside, Helena was selecting a lemon tart from the buffet. She wasn't hungry, but she needed to do something with her hands.

She sensed a presence before she heard it. The air grew heavy with cloying perfume.

Morgana Vane slid up next to her, holding a glass of red wine dangerously close to Helena's dress.

"Eating your feelings, Helena?" Morgana sneered.

Helena didn't look up. She inspected the tart. "Fueling, Morgana. Some of us have responsibilities that don't involve clinging to men for relevance."

Morgana laughed. It was a brittle sound, like glass breaking. "Responsibilities? Like keeping your husband from finding out the truth?"

Helena froze mid-bite. She placed the tart back on the plate.

She turned slowly to face Morgana. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

Morgana stepped closer, emboldened by the wine and Cason's earlier confidence. "Don't I? Cason told me everything. London. The accident. The sacrifice."

Helena's eyes turned to absolute ice. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her face remained stone.

"Cason lies," Helena said softly. "And you are a fool for listening."

Morgana sneered, her lips curling back. "You don't belong here, Helena. You act like royalty, but we all know." She dropped her gaze to Helena's left hand. "You aren't good stock. Broken goods."

The insult hung in the air. Broken goods. A direct attack on her injury, on her worth as a woman and a mother.

Helena placed her plate down on the table with deliberate calm. She straightened to her full height. She was an inch taller than Morgana, but in that moment, she looked ten feet tall.

"My 'stock' built this city, Morgana," Helena said, her voice carrying a lethal quietness. "Yours just rents space in it."

It was a devastating verbal slap. Simple. Accurate. Cruel.

Morgana's face flushed an ugly, blotchy red. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Guests nearby stopped talking. The silence spread. They sensed blood in the water.

Dana Zhu was rushing over, spotting the tension from across the room.

Morgana, losing control, raised her voice. "You think you're so superior!"

Helena turned to walk away. She was done with this.

This dismissal triggered Morgana's ultimate weapon. She couldn't win the battle of wits, so she decided to burn the building down.

Morgana inhaled to shout.

Helena sensed the escalation. She stopped and looked back, challenging her. Do it. Make a fool of yourself.

"He's just a substitute, isn't he?!"

Morgana's scream cut through the gala chatter like a knife through silk.

The orchestra faltered and stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. Every head in the ballroom turned toward the buffet table.

Morgana pointed a shaking, accusing finger at Helena.

"You're using Kamden to replace Cason! We all know about London! We know who you really loved!"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. It wasn't just a rumor anymore. It was a public indictment.

Helena stood motionless. Her face was a mask of indifference, but inside, her stomach was twisting into knots. She knew reacting gave the rumor power. She had to be the statue. The Iron Lady.

Nearby, Mr. Sterling, a board member known for his lunchtime martinis, leaned to his neighbor. "Always knew the Ice Queen had a dirty secret," he muttered loudly enough to be heard. "Explains why she's so cold to the boy."

Cason Vincent emerged from the crowd. He looked like the victor. He moved toward Helena, acting the "savior," shaking his head at Morgana.

"Morgana, that's enough," Cason said, feigning chivalry. He reached for Helena's arm. "Let me get you out of here, Helena."

He was going to touch her. He was going to claim her in front of everyone.

Before his fingers could graze her skin, a hand clamped onto Cason's wrist.

It was Kamden.

He had returned from the terrace. His eyes were dark voids. His right hand was by his side, knuckles raw and bloody, hidden in the folds of his jacket. But his left hand was gripping Cason with crushing force.

He shoved Cason back. It wasn't a gentleman's push. It was a violent, forceful rejection. Cason stumbled back a step, surprise flickering in his eyes.

Kamden turned on Mr. Sterling.

"Say that again," Kamden growled. The sound was lethal. Low. Animalistic.

Sterling paled. He took a step back, raising his hands. "Mr. Emerson, I-"

"One more word about my wife," Kamden said, "and you'll be begging for a job at a fast-food chain by morning."

Sterling retreated into the crowd, vanishing.

Kamden turned to Helena.

He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at Cason. He only saw her.

He reached out and gripped her hand. Her left hand. In his adrenaline-fueled rage, his grip was punishingly tight, right over the delicate, scarred bones. Helena's breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary wince flashing across her face before she could mask it. Kamden felt the slight tremor of her recoil. For a split second, a pang of regret shot through him-he knew about the old injury, the chronic pain. But the sight of Cason's smug expression and the echoes of Morgana's accusation instantly poisoned the moment. Through the red haze of his jealousy, he didn't see a wife in pain; he saw a woman with a secret, flinching away from his touch because she longed for another's.

He pulled her closer anyway, claiming her. But his grip was trembling.

Morgana watched, realizing she might have pushed too far, but the damage was done. The whisper network was already lighting up.

Cason adjusted his cuff, smiling. The seed wasn't just planted. It was blooming.