The city lay stretched below Ryder’s penthouse like a restless sea of lights—billion-dollar skyline, polished glass and steel catching the last of the sunset. He’d once drawn power from this view, closed deals with the same ease he’d once ridden broncs. But tonight, standing in that high-rise solitude with his Stetson tossed on the leather sofa, it felt like a view that belonged to another man.

Boxes lined the wall—files, framed photos, signed contracts. Twenty years of New York, his ...