Ryder’s sobs still echoed off the glass and steel of the penthouse when Isobel eased him down onto the couch. His shoulders bowed like a bull rider who’d finally hit the dirt and couldn’t get back up. She stayed beside him, steady, her hand a quiet weight on his back, her fingers brushing the damp curls from his forehead.

When at last his breathing came slower—still ragged, but not breaking—Isobel rose and crossed to where her phone lay. Her hands trembled, but her voice carried calm ...