Alecia closed the sketchpad and wiped her hands on her jeans, still sitting at the edge of her small balcony that overlooked the dusky city skyline. The air was slightly cool—far from the suffocating hush of the DeLuca mansion. She cradled a ceramic mug filled with tea in her hands, the warmth radiating through the thin ceramic into her fingers.

She breathed in, tasting loneliness but also recognition: she’d made a choice. Only Kennedy knew. The abortion was clean, surgical, ...