8:00 PM. The Carter Mansion.

The living room of the Carter estate was usually a place of quiet, old-money dignity. Tonight, it felt like a cage.

Mr. Carter poured himself a brandy, his hand shaking slightly as the crystal decanter clinked against the glass. He turned to face his wife, who was pacing the Persian rug, her hands clasped so tightly together her knuckles were white.

“Elizabeth, please,” Richard said, his voice weary. “I just got off the phone with her. She sounded devastated. You can’t just lock the CEO of the company out of the ICU. Think about how it looks.”

Mrs. Carter stopped pacing. She whipped around, her...