The living room lights were low, the only glow coming from the wide television screen and the occasional flash of lightning beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rain streaked the glass in long silver lines. The three of them sat on the deep sectional: Victoria curled in the far corner with a cashmere throw across her legs, Marcus in the middle, Elena on his other side, close enough that the heat of his thigh bled through the thin fabric of her lounge pants.

The movie was something Victoria had chosen—quiet dialogue, long shots of rainy European streets, the kind of film that asked for patience. Elena barely registered the plot. Her body...