“Lucian, old man, I have to ask—did you send the original Vivian to a convent in the Alps? Because this one is a damn saint!”

The laughter that followed was as sharp and expensive as the crystal flutes being raised in the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. We were at the center of a swirling vortex of Manhattan’s elite—the Winter Gala for the Aldridge Foundation. The air was thick with the scent of gardenias, floor-length silk, and the quiet, lethal hum of billionaire gossip.

I stood at Lucian’s side, my hand tucked firmly into the crook of his elbow. I was wearing a gown of midnight-blue velvet that felt...