Chapter 4

Grant Architecture's tenth-anniversary gala was held in an arts center converted from the old General Post Office.

Beneath the glass dome stood architects, real estate investors, city planning officials, and magazine journalists.

Celia wore a silver-gray gown, deliberately staying close to Adrian's side.

"Everyone is watching us," she said softly. "I love the dress you had Matthew send over. If Elena were still here and saw how well the firm is doing, she'd be so proud of you."

Adrian held his glass and shifted half a step away from her.

Three years had taken their toll. He was much thinner, and the gentle composure that once defined his features had given way to something darker.

A thin black leather cord circled his left wrist, with the charred remnant of the necklace dangling from it.

Celia reached out to touch it. He shook her off coldly.

"Don't touch it."

"I was just worried about you drinking on an empty stomach."

"You have no right to mention her name, and you don't get to care for me in her place."

The ballroom doors opened.

Leon offered me his arm.

I took it and walked into the light in my heels.

The hall went quiet for a moment.

Leon rarely brought a date to public events, and my debut as Hart Heritage's new chief restoration architect was noteworthy enough on its own.

I ignored the stares around me, my gaze sweeping over the crowd and landing on Adrian.

When he saw my face, he only frowned.

That face was a complete stranger to him.

A waiter passed with champagne. I picked up a glass with my left hand, my index finger hooking over the rim out of habit, and tapped the glass edge twice with my fingertip.

The clear taps sounded in a pause in the music.

Adrian's glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

Glass shards scattered at Celia's feet. She gasped and stumbled back, but he didn't seem to hear.

His eyes were locked on my left hand.

Only one person tapped a glass rim in that rhythm — Elena, when she was working through a design, or when she was holding something back.

It was muscle memory from seven years of living together.

Adrian shoved past the people in front of him, even knocking aside an investor who had stepped up to greet him.

He reached me and seized my wrist, his grip so tight it felt like he was about to crush the bone.

"Elena?"

His voice was shaking violently. Shock filled his eyes first, then a wild, almost manic joy.

"You didn't die. You're alive."

The band stopped playing. Everyone turned to look.

I looked down at his hand on my wrist.

Three years ago, it was this same hand that had signed the donor consent form, earning me nothing more than a "You're so kind" from him.

Now, this wrist no longer belonged to a woman who would melt at a few sweet words from him.

Celia rushed over, clutching her skirt. "Adrian, she's not Elena. They don't even have the same face or the same voice. You've got the wrong person!"

"Shut up!"

When he turned, the fury in his eyes made her go white.

He looked at me again, his voice dropping to something close to a plea.

"I know you changed your face. I know you changed your name. It doesn't matter. Let me take you home. Punish me however you want, just don't disappear again."

I didn't struggle right away.

I raised my other hand and straightened the tie that had gone askew in his agitation.

Adrian froze. Even his breathing stopped for a moment.

A pitiful flicker of hope rose in his eyes.

Maybe he still believed that all he had to do was humble himself and I would come right back to where I'd been.

I straightened the knot, then pried his fingers off one by one and pulled my wrist free.

"Mr. Grant, you have the wrong person."

My smile was polite and distant.

"My name is Vera Laurent."

I stepped back to Leon's side.

"And please don't go around putting your hands on women you don't know."

Leon slid his arm around my waist, positioning himself between me and Adrian.

"She's my fiancee."

He looked at Adrian, his tone courteous but leaving him not a shred of dignity.

"Harassing my partner at your own gala. Not a good look."

Adrian's hand hung frozen in the air.

He watched Leon's hand resting on my waist, and the color drained from his face.

"Fiancee?"

He repeated the word in a murmur, as if it were harder to accept than a death notice.

I didn't answer. I took Leon's arm and walked right past him.

Behind me, I could hear reporters whispering.

Adrian stood beside the shattered glass, like a man who had finally realized the funeral was already over.