“If you roll your eyes one more time, Vivian, I’ll ensure the board sees the footage of you mocking the very children this foundation was built to protect. And we both know how much you value your seat at the table.”

Lucian’s voice was as cold and clinical as a midwinter frost. He stood in the back of the armored Maybach, his tuxedo jacket buttoned tight, his eyes—those sharp, restored gray eyes—fixed on the window. Outside, the gleaming glass of midtown was fading into the gritty, brick-laden reality of the Bronx.

Vivian Lancaster let out a jagged huff, the sound of silk rustling as she shifted in her seat. She...