Dior closed her fingers around the jade.

My chest went cold. That pendant was the only piece of my grandmother I had left in this world.

"Give that back," I said.

I lunged forward, reaching for Dior’s hand.

I never touched her. Gregory moved faster.

His palm slammed flat against the center of my chest. He didn't just block me. He shoved me back with full force.

My heels caught on the cheap fabric of my hem. My balance snapped. My arms flailed out, catching nothing but empty air.

Behind me stood the centerpiece of the ballroom—a seven-tier champagne tower made of two hundred crystal flutes.

I crashed straight into it.

The sound was deafening. It sounded like an explosion. Heavy crystal shattered in a violent wave. Hundreds of glasses collapsed around me, raining down in sharp, heavy fragments.

I hit the polished marble floor on my back. My breath left my lungs in a painful gasp.

The wet spray of champagne drenched my hair and soaked through the ugly beige dress. Then came the pain. It hit all at once, sharp and burning.

I tried to push myself up. My palms pressed down directly into jagged piles of broken glass.

Shards sliced deep into my skin. Sliced into my palms. Sliced along my forearms.

Blood welled up instantly, bright and thick, mixing with the spilled alcohol on the floor. It stung so bad it made my vision blur.

The entire ballroom went dead silent.

Music had stopped. The jazz quartet froze. Two hundred of Manhattan’s elite stood frozen in their diamonds and tuxedos, staring down at me.

Nobody stepped forward. Nobody asked if I was okay. A few women pulled their designer skirts back so the champagne wouldn't touch their hems.

Gregory stood over me. He adjusted his cufflink with a flick of his thumb. His face showed nothing. No pity. No remorse. Just cold annoyance.

Beside him, Dior hid a tiny, satisfied smirk behind her manicured hand. She stroked the green stone in her palm.

I turned my head toward the head table.

Madeleine Austin sat there. For two years, I had baked lemon pound cake from scratch for her every single Sunday. I had massaged her swollen feet when her arthritis flared. I had treated her like my own flesh and blood.

Madeleine met my gaze. Her eyes were completely flat.

Slowly, deliberately, she picked up her crystal flute from the linen cloth. She took a tiny sip. Then she set it down and turned her face away, leaning in to whisper a comment to the socialite sitting beside her.

She acted as if I were a spilled drink a waiter would sweep away.

Something inside me broke. It wasn't my heart. It was every lie I had told myself for seven long years.

I pulled my hands out of the glass.

I dragged myself backward across the floor, away from Gregory, until my back hit the base of a marble pillar near the edge of the room. I sat there in the shadows, shaking violently.

A small silver tray lay overturned on a side table nearby. On it was a stack of paper cocktail napkins.

I reached up with trembling fingers and grabbed a handful.

I pressed the thin paper against my left palm. The cut ran deep across the lifeline. Blood soaked through the white napkin immediately, turning it dark, wet crimson. The paper disintegrated in seconds. I grabbed another and pressed harder.

I didn't cry.

My eyes were dry. My throat was tight as a fist. I felt an eerie, hollow stillness take over my bones.

I didn't look at Gregory. I didn't look at Dior. I didn't look at the crowd whispering around the wreckage.

I just watched the red seep through the napkin. I counted my breaths.

*One. Two. Three.*

I had to survive tonight. My mother was waiting at Mount Sinai. I had to stay alive.

Then, the murmurs in the room changed.

The whispers turned low and hurried. People shifted. The crowd parted like water.

A pair of polished black leather shoes stopped two feet in front of me.

I slowly lifted my head.

A man stood above me. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a bespoke charcoal suit that made every other tuxedo in the room look cheap. His jaw was cut like granite, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable.

Kaisen Edwards.

The reclusive CEO of Edwards International. A man whose name alone made the Austin family look like small-town landlords.

He didn't look at Gregory. He didn't look at the broken glass or the curious faces watching from the center of the hall. His gaze stayed entirely on me.

Without a word, Kaisen crouched down.

His tailored trousers touched the wet marble, but he didn't care. He reached out and gently closed his fingers around my left wrist.

His touch was warm. Firm. Incredibly steady.

The moment his skin touched mine, the violent shaking in my hands began to slow.

With his free hand, Kaisen reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a crisp, folded silk pocket square.

He peeled away the bloody, ruined paper napkins from my palm. He didn't flinch at the sight of the deep cut. With calm, practiced precision, he wrapped the clean silk around my hand, pulling it tight enough to stop the bleeding.

He tied the ends into a neat knot. It was quick and effortless, like he had bandaged wounds a hundred times before.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

His voice was deep, quiet, and steady as an anchor in a storm.

"Yes," I whispered. My voice sounded rough.

Kaisen placed one hand beneath my elbow and offered his other palm.

I gripped his fingers and let him pull me up. My legs wobbled on the slick floor, but his grip held me firmly in place.

Once I was on my feet, he didn't let go.

He stood right in front of me, shielding me from the stares of the entire ballroom. He didn't say anything else.

He just looked into my eyes, seeing every crack, every cut, and every piece of the woman I was about to become.