LUCAS’S POV
The city did not pause for a dying king.
Outside the tinted glass of the Maybach, Manhattan was an indifferent blur of neon signs, flashing brake lights, and pedestrian umbrellas gleaming in the persistent drizzle. The traffic on First Avenue was a sluggish, metallic monster, crawling foot by foot toward the medical center. My driver, Harris, was navigating the gridlock with a tense, aggressive precision, but to me, the world felt frozen. The engine’s low hum was the only sound inside the leather-lined cabin, save for the rhythmic, suffocating scratch of my own breathing.
Beside me, Ava was an unmoving silhouette. She had not changed out of the gray wool skirt she’d worn for the auditors, but she had thrown a black cashmere coat over her shoulders. Her hands were folded neat
