The door opened. In strode Thomas Wright, a man who carried power like a second skin—salt-and-pepper hair clipped neat, pressed shirt buttoned to the throat, slate trousers with a knife-edge crease, shoes polished so sharp the light from the desk lamp caught and winked off them. His eyes were a piercing blue that mirrored Isobel’s, though where hers held warmth, his carried calculation, the cold sort that measured men like numbers on a ledger.

Ryder rose from his chair, the old leather ...