They say you can't come back from the dead. I'm about to prove them wrong. My reflection stares back at me from the gilded mirror of the Ashford Estate powder room. Dark hair instead of blonde. Green contacts hiding my natural blue. Cheekbones sharpened by three years of hunger for revenge. I'm not Emma Hartley anymore. Emma Hartley drowned three years ago when her car plunged off Crimson Bridge. At least, that's what the newspapers said. That's what the closed-casket funeral confirmed. That's what the Ashford family wanted everyone to believe. Tonight, I'm Sera Blake. Art consultant. Nobody. Ghost. I smooth down my black dress and step into the hallway. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows across marble floors. The charity gala is in full swing downstairs. Champagne. Diamonds. Lies. The Ashford family throws the best parties in the city. They should. They've had generations of practice hiding their sins behind expensive wine and fake smiles. My heels click against the floor as I descend the grand staircase. Every step brings me closer to the people who tried to erase me. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. I survived for this moment. The ballroom opens before me like a mouth full of teeth. Men in tuxedos. Women dripping in jewels. The elite of society, gathered to celebrate their own generosity. To pat themselves on their backs while the rest of the world burns. And there he is. Dominic Ashford stands near the bar, laughing at something a silver-haired man just said. He looks exactly the same. Tall. Handsome. Perfect. The man I was supposed to marry. The man who might have killed me. My chest tightens. Three years of planning. Three years of becoming someone else. Three years of clawing my way back from the grave. I grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter. The bubbles burn my throat. "You look lost," a voice says behind me. I turn slowly, carefully arranging my face into polite curiosity. The man before me isn't Dominic. He's younger. Darker. Dangerous in a way Dominic never was. Black hair falls across his forehead. His eyes are the color of smoke, and they're looking at me like he can see straight through my disguise. Callum Ashford. The spare heir. The problem child. The one I never expected. "I'm exactly where I need to be," I say, keeping my voice steady. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Are you?" Something in his tone makes my skin prickle. But I hold his gaze. I didn't come this far to flinch. "Enjoying the party?" I ask. "I hate these things," he says, stepping closer. Too close. "Everyone pretending to be someone they're not." My heart hammers against my ribs. Does he know? "Then why come?" I ask. "Family obligation," he says. His eyes never leave my face. "And sometimes, the most interesting things happen when you least expect them." Before I can respond, someone calls his name. He glances away, and I use the moment to breathe. "We'll talk later, Sera Blake," he says, turning back to me. He knows my fake name. Of course he does. I'm on the guest list. But the way he says it makes me wonder what else he knows. I watch him walk away, disappearing into the crowd of designer gowns and practiced smiles. This was supposed to be simple. Get in. Gather evidence. Expose the truth. But nothing about tonight feels simple anymore.