Stanley sat in his office, the faint hum of the city muffled by the thick glass windows. He had just finished tending to Zoey’s swollen, reddened hand, a casualty of carelessness with a desk drawer. As he closed the ointment cap, his phone buzzed against the desktop.

He reached for it, glanced at the screen, and frowned—a message from George. Of course, George’s disdain for Jasmine wasn’t news; the man practically wore it like a badge. With a sigh, Stanley put the phone ...