The Gala moved into the dinner portion. The Temple of Dendur was bathed in soft, ambient light.
Julian was seated at Table 1, the prime spot. Elena was next to him, sulking and picking at her salad.
Serena was at Table 2, directly adjacent. She was facing him. Every time he looked up, she was there, engaging in polite conversation with a French diplomat. She spoke fluent French. Since when? Serena Vance barely passed high school Spanish.
The logic in his brain was warring with the instinct in his gut. Logic said: Impossible. She was sick. She was uneducated. She was timid. Gut said: That's her.
Mr. DuPont, a heavy-set investor in his sixties, stood up at Serena's table to make a toast. He was red-faced, sweating profusely.
"To the... to the..." DuPont stammered.
Suddenly, he clutched his chest. His eyes bulged. A horrible, guttural gasping sound escaped his lips.
He collapsed forward.
SMASH.
China shattered. Wine glasses toppled, staining the white tablecloth red like blood.
"George!" Mrs. DuPont screamed.
Panic erupted. Chairs scraped against the stone floor. People backed away, horrified.
"Is there a doctor?" someone shouted. "Call 911!"
Security guards froze, looking at each other. The room was a sea of useless, wealthy people in expensive clothes.
Julian stood up, his phone already in his hand. He was dialing 911.
But movement caught his eye.
Serena.
She didn't scream. She didn't back away.
She kicked off her high heels.
She looked at her tight emerald gown. It was too restrictive. She couldn't kneel. Without hesitation, she grabbed the fabric at the top of the existing slit and yanked it higher, tearing the delicate silk with a sharp rip to free her legs completely.
The sound was shocking in the hush of the room.
She moved instantly. She didn't hesitate like a socialite in a dress; she reacted like a trained responder. She slid onto her knees beside DuPont, ignoring the broken glass.
"On his back! Now!" she commanded the frozen waiter. Her voice was a whip crack.
They rolled the heavy man over.
Serena pressed two fingers to his carotid artery. Her face was a mask of intense concentration.
"No pulse," she announced. "Cardiac arrest."
She interlocked her hands, positioned herself over his chest, and began compressions.
One, two, three, four.
"Hard and fast," she muttered. "Come on."
Her elbows were locked. Her form was perfect. Every compression cracked a rib. The sound was sickening, but necessary.
"Get an AED!" she yelled without looking up. "And call a code!"
Julian lowered his phone. He stared at her. The woman who used to be afraid to order pizza over the phone was now commanding a room of billionaires.
"What is she doing?" Elena screeched. "She's going to kill him! Get her off him!"
Serena ignored her. She tilted DuPont's head back to check the airway.
"He's not getting air," she said. "Blockage. It's a bolus of food. The choking caused the arrest."
She straddled his thighs. She tried the Heimlich maneuver from the ground, shoving her fist under his ribcage.
Nothing.
DuPont's face was turning purple. Cyanosis.
"It's lodged too deep," Serena said. She looked up. Her eyes were wild but focused.
She looked directly at Julian.
"I need a sharp object!" she yelled. "Something narrow and sharp. Now!"
"She's crazy!" Elena yelled. "Security!"
Julian didn't listen to Elena. He reached into his tuxedo pocket. He pulled out his silver Montblanc pen.
He threw it to Serena.
She caught it in mid-air.
"Vodka!" she ordered the waiter. "Pour it on the pen!"
The waiter poured Grey Goose over the silver barrel.
"It's not sterile, but it will have to do," she muttered.
Serena unscrewed the cap. She threw the ink cartridge away. She was left with the hollow metal tube.
"She's going to stab him!" a woman screamed and fainted.
Serena positioned the pen over DuPont's throat, right at the hollow of the neck. The cricothyroid membrane.
She looked at Julian one last time. A silent communication passed between them. Trust me.
She raised her hand.
