The Aldridge estate had never felt more like a mausoleum. The floor-to-ceiling windows that Lucian had once fought to see through were now draped in heavy, charcoal velvet, blocking out the intrusive New York spring. The silence wasn’t the peaceful quiet of a home; it was the suffocating stillness of a tomb.

Emelia Aldridge sat in the morning room, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the collar of her silk blouse. Across from her, a silver tray of tea sat untouched, the steam long gone. She looked older—the sharp, predatory edge of her features softened by a frantic, flickering hollow in her eyes.

“He hasn’t come out for three days,...