“You’re shaking, Vivian. Is the air in Westchester too thin for you tonight, or are you just realizing that every hospital in New York keeps a digital footprint?”

Lucian’s voice wasn’t a roar this time. It was a scalpel, peeling back the layers of my composure with surgical precision. The gala guests blurred into a smear of black silk and white diamonds as the terrace felt like it was tilting toward the Hudson.

“I… I told you, Lucian,” I stammered, the Mid-Atlantic accent fraying at the edges. “I use an alias. I don’t want the paparazzi tracing my charity work. You know how the tabloids are. They’d turn a sick...