The hospital room was dimly lit, bathed in the low hum of machines and the steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. In the middle of the sterile white room lay Serena Kingston—still, pale, and heartbreakingly fragile. Tubes ran from her nose and arms, machines breathing for her, measuring the faint flickers of life still pulsing beneath her skin. Her flame coloured hair was spread across the pillow like a shadow, her face too tranquil, if such a thing was possible, as if asleep in a place far from here.

Louis Delano sat at her bedside, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His...