The rain did not let up. By midnight, it had transformed into a heavy, suffocating sheet that blurred the streetlights of Hawthorne Lane into smeared smears of yellow.

Mark slipped through the side service entrance, bribing a weary caterer with a crumpled ten-dollar bill to borrow a spare black vest and a white bow tie.

He pushed a heavy stainless-steel catering cart loaded with empty glassware, keeping his head down beneath the shadow of a towering marble pillar.

Through the gaps in the crowd, he saw her.

Elena stood in the center of the illuminated rotunda, surrounded by admirers. Arthur Vance stood a few paces behind her, holding a tablet like a dutiful lieutenant.

She looked untouchable. A queen in ivory silk, radiating a cold, radiant power that commanded the entire room without her ever having to raise her voice.

Mark felt a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline. He couldn't stay hidden anymore.

He ditched the catering cart, stepped out from behind the marble pillar, and cut straight through the crowd of socialites.

"Elena!"

The name cut through the polite murmurs of the gallery like a jagged blade.

The crowd gasped, parting instantly as people recognized the disgraced face from the morning papers. Whispers rippled through the room like wildfire: Isn’t that Mark Sterling? The fraudster? What is he doing here?

Elena turned slowly.

Her dark eyes locked onto his. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t call security. She simply raised one slender hand, signaling the guards to stand down.

Mark stopped three feet away from her, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot and desperate.

"You ruined me," Mark whispered, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and utter defeat. "You watched me build my career, you watched me work toward that promotion, and you let me walk right into the trap. Why?"