“How much, Celeste? Just give me the number so we can end this pathetic melodrama.”

The voice was like a shard of ice cutting through the warm, quiet stillness of the hospital room. Emelia Aldridge stood in the doorway, the clinical white lights reflecting off her perfectly tailored silk suit and the sharp, unforgiving lines of her face. She didn’t look like a mother visiting a sick son; she looked like an auditor arriving to inspect a failing asset.

Celeste didn’t let go of Lucian’s hand. In fact, she tightened her grip, her thumb tracing the pulse point on his wrist that was finally, mercifully, steady. She looked up at...