As night fell, the Hawthorne Foundation’s annual charity gala bloomed to life in the grand ballroom of the city’s most opulent hotel.

I stood alone near the edge of the ballroom, a quiet observer of the glittering spectacle. Massive crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a diamond-like glow, illuminating business magnates who mingled with champagne flutes in hand, each face a perfectly composed social mask.

I wore a simple yet elegant midnight-blue gown, a sliver of quiet darkness amid the sea of sequined and glittering designs. As a few socialites drifted past, their whispers caught my ear.

"Avalon's all by herself..."

"Hasn't Preston arrived? The nerve."

"I heard their engagement is just around the corner..."

I lifted my champagne flute, my face impassive, and took a delicate sip. In my past life, I’d have been anxiously smoothing the fabric of my skirt, my eyes glued to the entrance, waiting for Preston.

But tonight, I was just waiting for the show to begin.

Preston finally made his entrance, his bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo making him look sharper and more handsome than ever.

But only I knew the corrupted heart that beat beneath that flawless facade.

Sloane was on his arm, draped in a dramatic scarlet gown.

A perfect match, I thought dryly, taking another sip of wine.

A ripple of hushed whispers spread through the room. Tradition dictated he should have entered with his fiancée—with me.

"Oh, Avalon's over there," Sloane said, feigning surprise as if she’d only just spotted me. "Preston, shouldn't you go say hello?"

Preston shot a strange look in my direction before waving a dismissive hand. "She's fine. Avalon has always been fiercely independent."

A few of the younger heirs nearby let out soft, knowing chuckles.

I remained exactly where I was, my expression a careful blank.

My stillness seemed to irritate him, and his brow furrowed in annoyance.

The music swelled, and Preston led Sloane to the center of the dance floor. They moved as one, their steps elegant and flawlessly synchronized, as if they'd been born partners. The crowd instinctively parted, their gazes drawn to the captivating pair.

"Avalon, aren't you even a little mad?"

I turned to find Piper, the youngest Hawthorne daughter, at my elbow. She was in a flirty pink mini-dress, her face alight with an undisguised hunger for drama.

"Why would I be?" I asked.

"Your fiancé is dancing with another woman, and he was late..." Piper's eyes searched mine, hungry for a reaction. "Everyone is watching."

"Then let them watch," I said, my voice calm.

Piper, deflated by my lack of response, pouted and flounced away.

When the music faded, Preston and Sloane made their way toward me. A playful, cruel smile touched Preston's lips.

"You seem remarkably calm, Avalon," he said, stopping before me. "I was expecting fireworks."

"Why would you?"

My composure seemed to unnerve him, and a flicker of anger flashed in his eyes.

"You're right. You'll be a Hawthorne soon enough," he said, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. "This is for you."

Inside, nestled on a bed of silk, lay a pair of platinum cufflinks, exquisitely engraved with the Hawthorne family crest—a one-of-a-kind design by Cartier.

"This is..."

"A family tradition," Preston announced, his voice just loud enough to draw the attention of those nearby. "These cufflinks are a gift for the future matriarch of the Hawthorne Group. The style is a bit classic, I know, but I'm sure you'll grow to like them."

I stared at the cufflinks. A bitter memory surfaced: in my past life, Preston had given me the very same gift, and I had been moved to tears. I’d only learned later he had casually plucked them from his vast collection of trinkets.

"Oh, how beautiful!" Sloane exclaimed, reaching out a hand. "Those cufflinks are exquisite. The design… it's a masterpiece!" Her fingertips grazed the platinum, her eyes shimmering with unconcealed desire.

"You like them?" Preston asked Sloane, his voice instantly softening.

"I… of course I love them, but they belong to Avalon..." Sloane bit her lip, playing the perfect tragic heroine, denied her heart’s desire.

Preston looked from my stoic face to Sloane's performance and then smiled.

"Well, if Sloane likes them this much..." he said, plucking the box from my hand, "then I suppose they suit you better."

He proceeded to fasten one cufflink to the sleeve of Sloane’s scarlet gown and the other to his own cuff. The message was as clear as a declaration of war.

Audible gasps went through the onlookers.

"Did he just give his fiancée's gift to another woman?"

"Look at Avalon's face..."

"How utterly humiliating..."

The scene from my past life replayed in my mind: the tears, the panicked flight from the ballroom, the days of mockery that followed.

But this time, I just watched in silence.

"Avalon, aren't you going to say anything?" Preston goaded, his eyes daring me to crack.

"They suit her," I said.

Preston’s smirk froze. This was not going according to his script.

"I'm feeling a bit tired. I think I'll be leaving," I said, turning to go.

"Stop," Preston's voice was suddenly cold. "You're just going to leave?"

I stopped and turned back to him.

"What else is there to do?"

"Do you have any idea how disrespectful you're being?" he snarled, striding toward me, his face a thundercloud. "You should be grateful I'm even willing to marry you, not giving me this attitude."

"Grateful?" I laughed, a short, sharp sound. "For what?"

"For the chance to marry into the Hawthorne family!" Preston's voice rose. "Who else do you think would want you?"

The crowd held its breath, all eyes on us.

"You think those other men sniffing around were serious?" Preston pressed on. "Marcus? He just wanted your family's design contracts. William? He wouldn't look twice at you. As for the others..."

He paused, a venomous look in his eyes.

"Like my worthless brother, Sterling. You're not naive enough to think he's a viable option, are you?"

Preston scoffed. "He's an invalid who can barely walk. A drain on the family's resources. The man could wind up in the ICU at any given moment. You want to marry him and become a widow before the ink on your marriage certificate is dry?"

The ballroom fell so silent you could hear a pin drop.

Everyone waited to see how I would break.

Just as Preston's vicious words hung in the air, the grand ballroom doors swung open.

A lone figure entered. He wore an understated black suit, and his face was pale, each step seeming to require a monumental effort, as if it sapped his very strength.

When he glanced up, his face was gaunt and drawn.

Sterling.

His arrival sent a fresh wave of whispers through the hall.

"Look, it's the useless second son."

"I heard it's an ordeal for him just to attend these things..."

"Such a disgrace to the Hawthorne name."

Sterling seemed to hear none of it, his expression unreadable. His deep-set eyes scanned the room, finally coming to rest on me.

In that moment, I remembered Conrad’s advice: Child, timing is everything. Don’t reveal your hand until the moment is right.

I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to lash out.

"You're right, Preston," I said, my voice unnervingly calm. "Honestly, what other choice could I possibly have but you?"

The words stunned everyone, Preston included.

But in Sterling's eyes, I saw a flicker of unmistakable disappointment. He turned, preparing to leave.

"Wait," I called out. "Sterling. Since you're here, you should stay for a while."

He turned back, his gaze holding an emotion I couldn't quite decipher.

"I was just passing," he said, his voice quiet. "I apologize for the interruption."

With that, he turned and was gone, his silhouette disappearing through the doorway.

I watched him go, an indescribable ache settling in my chest.

"Well, now that the sideshow is over," Preston's voice cut through my thoughts, smug and victorious. "Shall we continue our dance?"

He extended a hand to Sloane, who accepted it with a shy, triumphant blush.

I watched them for a heartbeat, then turned and walked out of the ballroom.

In the car on the way home, Sloane sat opposite me, her fingers obsessively stroking the platinum cufflink.

"Avalon, you really don't mind?" she asked, her voice dripping with ill-concealed glee. "This cufflink is just so perfect. Preston said it's a Hawthorne family tradition..."

"It suits you," I replied flatly.

"You're not angry?" she pressed, surprised.

"Why should I be?" I asked, my gaze fixed on the blur of city lights. "You and Preston are a match made in heaven."

"We... we're only friends..." she murmured, feigning modesty.

"Are you?" I turned to look at her directly. "Then I hope your 'friendship' lasts an eternity."

Sloane flinched. That was definitely not the reaction she'd been hoping for.

The rest of the drive passed in silence.

Three days later was the annual shareholders' meeting.

It was one of the most critical dates on the Hawthorne Group's calendar. It was the day the chairman would announce major corporate decisions—including the formalization of my marriage.

I stood outside the grand conference hall, clad in a sharp white suit. As the fiancée of the presumed heir to the Hawthorne Group, my attendance was expected.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, skyscrapers clawed at the sky.

Conrad Hawthorne stood at the head of the conference table. He tapped the polished wood. "I have gathered all of you here today..."

The meeting unfolded smoothly, right up until Sloane made her entrance.

She was also in a white suit, the platinum cufflink on her sleeve flashing under the recessed lighting.

She walked directly to my side, a saccharine smile plastered on her face.

"Avalon, this is all so serious," she whispered.

"It is a shareholders' meeting," I replied, keeping my focus on Conrad.

"Look, the cufflink is even more brilliant in here," Sloane murmured, ostentatiously admiring her sleeve. "Preston has the most incredible taste."

I didn't respond.

"Actually..." she leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Preston told me he's always preferred me. If it weren't for this family arrangement..."

"Sloane," I finally turned to her, my voice low but firm. "The meeting is in progress. Be quiet."

"I know, I just wanted you to know..." she leaned in even closer, her voice a venomous hiss. "...you don't have to go through with this. If you really don't want Preston, I can..."

"You can what?"

"I can take your place," she whispered, triumph flaring in her eyes. "After all, we both know who he truly loves."

The moment the words left her mouth, she gave a sudden, theatrical lurch backward, stumbling as if she’d lost her balance and tumbling toward the marble staircase.

"Ah!"

Her shriek shattered the room's quiet focus. Every head snapped in our direction.

"Avalon pushed me!" Sloane cried from the bottom of the short flight of stairs, her face a mask of practiced terror. "She tried to push me down the stairs!"

I hadn't moved a muscle.

"I didn't touch her," I stated calmly.

But Sloane was already dissolving into sobs. "I just wanted to talk to her, and she... she shoved me! If I hadn't caught myself..."

"You're lying," I said, my voice like ice.

"Avalon!"

Preston's roar echoed from across the room. He rushed forward, and the sight of Sloane crumpled on the floor ignited a firestorm in his eyes.

"How dare you!"

"I didn't—" I began.

A powerful shove sent me flying backward. I slammed hard against the wall, a sharp, cracking pain exploding in my wrist as an involuntary gasp was torn from my throat.

"I won't let you hurt her again!" Preston roared, shielding Sloane with his body and glaring at me, his eyes burning with righteous fury. "Ever!"

The conference hall was utterly silent.

The shareholders sat frozen, watching the corporate meeting devolve into a soap opera.

I pushed myself off the cold wall, my body throbbing with pain. The scene was a nightmare echo from my past—the same accusation, the same blind rage, the same disbelief.

But this time, I refused to cry.