The sunlight in Lucian’s office was too bright. It was a sterile, unforgiving glare that bounced off the polished obsidian of his desk and the chrome accents of the minimalist furniture. For a man who had spent two years craving the light, he found himself squinting, his head thumping with the rhythmic pressure of a sensory overload.

“The campaign requires a specific cadence for the manifesto, Mr. Aldridge,” Celeste—no, Celine—said. She was standing by the small sideboard where a silver carafe of coffee sat steaming.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t hesitate. Her movements were fluid, governed by a muscle memory that had bypassed her conscious mind. She picked up the...