“Can you see me, Lucian? Can you see the world I’ve kept waiting for you?”

The voice was a sharp, crystalline chime that cut through the low hum of the recovery suite. It was a voice that belonged to marble floors and champagne flutes, polished to a high, defensive gloss.

Lucian Aldridge didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His world was currently a kaleidoscope of jagged, white-hot needles. Every time he blinked, the light from the overhead surgical lamps felt like a physical weight pressing against his freshly reconstructed retinas. The room smelled of high-grade antiseptic and something else—something heavy, cloying, and expensive. It was the scent of tuberose and musk, a...