Ryder’s penthouse looked like something off the cover of a billionaire lifestyle magazine.

It was sleek, masculine cold in a way that felt intentional.

The walls were painted a deep charcoal, the floors a polished dark wood that reflected just enough light from the massive windows facing the city skyline.

There was a pool table in the far corner, untouched. Shelves lined one wall, filled with books that looked like they were chosen more for aesthetic than interest.

But the living ...