The Manhattan skyline was a jagged ribcage of light, but from the leather interior of Lucian’s idling SUV, it looked like a firing squad. He sat in the backseat, the engine’s low hum the only pulse in the cabin. He wasn’t at the Aldridge estate. He wasn’t at the Pierre, attending the charity gala Vivian had been screeching about for three days.

He was parked in the shadows of a quiet, tree-lined street in Brooklyn Heights, staring at a second-story window where a single, warm lamp was burning.

He felt like a criminal. A voyeur. A man who had regained his sight only to become a stalker of his own...