"What’s up, lonely people? The King of Manhattan has arrived!"

The voice detonated through the foyer like a flashbang in a cathedral. It was high-frequency, manic, and coated in a layer of trust-fund arrogance that grated against the heavy, Gothic silence of the Aldridge estate. I nearly fumbled the silver tray I was white-knuckling.

Strolling through the grand double doors was a man who looked like he’d been airlifted directly from a Vogue Hommes shoot in the Hamptons. Sandro Aldridge. Lucian’s younger cousin—the family’s resident black sheep, a professional playboy, and according to Emelia’s dossier, the only person alive who didn't treat Lucian like a detonator with a broken timer....