The champagne flute feels like a weapon in my hand.

I'm standing in the Plaza Hotel ballroom, surrounded by Manhattan's elite, watching the man who destroyed my world laugh at some joke I can't hear. He's got his arm around a blonde wearing a ring that could feed a family for a year. They look perfect together. Golden. Untouchable.

He has no idea I'm here.

I adjust my catering uniform and force myself to breathe. In. Out. The silver tray in my other hand holds twelve glasses of Dom Pérignon, each one worth more than I used to make in a day back when I was someone else entirely.

"Excuse me, miss?" A woman in a gown that costs more than my rent snaps her fingers at me. Doesn't even look at my face. Just sees the uniform.

That's the thing about being invisible—it gives you power in unexpected ways.

I smile. Hand her a glass. Move through the crowd like a ghost at her own funeral.

Three years. It's been three years since Damien Cross looked at me like I mattered. Three years since he whispered promises against my skin in the dark. Three years since he took everything I loved and burned it to ashes.

And he doesn't even recognize me now.

I see him clearly. Damien Cross. Six-foot-two of tailored perfection in a Tom Ford tuxedo. Dark hair styled with that carefully crafted carelessness. Gray eyes that I used to think could see straight into my soul.

Turns out they were just cataloging my weaknesses.

He's thirty-two now. Still looks like he stepped out of a cologne ad. Still has that way of commanding a room without even trying. The man beside him practically bows while they talk.

That's his superpower. Making people desperate to please him.

I would know.

This is Damien's engagement party. He's marrying Victoria Sterling—daughter of some media mogul, perfect pedigree, perfect face, perfect everything. They've been engaged for six months.

I know because I've been watching. Waiting. Planning.

He still hasn't seen me.

I've changed, sure. Lost weight—the kind you lose when you're choosing between food and keeping the electricity on. Cut my hair. Stopped dressing like I belonged in boardrooms and started dressing like I'm grateful for any job I can get.

Because I am.

The catering company thinks my name is Aria Kent, not Aria Kane. Close enough to feel like myself, different enough that a background check won't immediately link me to the daughter of Marcus Kane. The man whose tech company collapsed in spectacular fashion three years ago.

The man who put a gun to his head in his study while I was at the grocery store.

My hand trembles. Just for a second. I steady it.

I'm closer now. Maybe fifteen feet away. Close enough to hear fragments of their conversation.

"—wedding planner is driving me insane," Victoria's saying. "She wants roses, but I told her peonies or I'm firing her."

"Whatever you want, darling." Damien's voice. Deep, smooth, like expensive whiskey. It used to make me melt. Now it makes my stomach turn.

A waiter approaches me. "Hey, new girl. They need more passed appetizers in the back."

I nod. Start to turn. Then Victoria's voice cuts through the noise.

"Oh, Damien, look! It's Richard Hastings. We should go say hello."

They move. Heading my direction.

I should walk away. Stick to the plan. Stay invisible until the moment's right.

But my feet won't move.

Ten feet. Eight. His cologne reaches me first—cedar and something darker, something that used to be intoxicating and now just smells like lies.

Six feet.

He's looking at Victoria, laughing. Not paying attention to the servers, the help, the invisible people who make his perfect life run smoothly.

Four feet.

I remember the last time I saw him. The morning before my father's company collapsed. "I love you," he'd said. "You know that, right? I love you, Aria."

I'd believed him.

Three hours later, my father's CFO called. The company was finished. Someone had leaked everything—security protocols, client lists, upcoming product launches. Everything I'd told Damien in pillow talk.

Two hours after that, I tried to call him. His number was disconnected.

He was gone. Just gone. Like we'd never existed.

Two feet.

My hand tightens on the champagne tray. The glasses tilt dangerously.

One foot.

And then—

His eyes meet mine.

For a second, there's nothing. No recognition. I'm just another server.

But then something flickers in those gray eyes. Confusion. His step falters.

"Damien?" Victoria touches his arm. "What's wrong?"

He's staring at me now. Really looking. I watch the moment it clicks. Watch his face go through surprise, disbelief, shock, something that might be guilt if he were capable of feeling it.

His lips form my name. "Aria?"

The champagne flutes start to slide. I'm not even doing it on purpose—my hands just stop working.

Time slows down.

I see Victoria turn, see her mouth open in surprise, see the moment she realizes something is very wrong.

The glasses tip. All twelve of them. Dom Pérignon—at three hundred dollars a bottle—cascades through the air in a glittering arc.

And lands all over Victoria Sterling's ice blue designer gown.

She shrieks. The entire ballroom goes silent. Every head turns.

I stand there, empty tray in hand, looking at the man who destroyed my life.

He's pale now. Actually pale.

"I'm so sorry," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. My voice is steady. Calm. "How clumsy of me."

But I'm looking at Damien when I say it.

We both know I'm not talking about the champagne.

His fiancée is sputtering, dripping, furious. People rush over with napkins. Someone's yelling for a manager.

I should run. Disappear into the crowd.

Instead, I lean in close—close enough that only Damien can hear me over the chaos.

"Hello, Damien," I whisper. "Did you miss me?"

Then I drop the tray.

The crash of metal hitting marble echoes through the ballroom like a gunshot.

And I walk away, leaving him standing there with his mouth open and his perfect engagement party in ruins.

Just like he left me three years ago.

Except this time?

This is just the beginning.