The door opened. In strode Thomas Wright, a man who carried power like a second skin—salt-and-pepper hair, pressed shirt, slate trousers, shoes shining. His eyes were a piercing blue that mirrored Isobel’s, though where hers held warmth, his carried calculation.
Ryder rose, extended his hand. “Sir. Ryder Hayes. Pleasure to meet you.”
Thomas shook it firmly, a test of grip and measure, then moved behind the desk. He lowered himself into his chair with the kind of control that made Ryder’s shoulders lock tighter. Ryder sat again, spine straight as a post.
“I understand you want to talk about Isobel,” Thomas said, voice even, lined with authority.
“Yes, sir. That’s right.” Ryder’s throat clicked dry, but he held the man’s gaze.
Thomas steepled his fingers, leaned back, and studied him. “
