Wren Leander stood half a step inside the doorway, his broad shoulders squared against the doorframe as if he were bracing himself to catch a blow. His storm-grey eyes scanned my face, searching for the fury of the Surrey cottage or the hollow despair of the Greenwich hotel room. Instead, he found something infinitely more terrifying. He found nothing. Just a quiet, unyielding stillness that refused to grant him the mercy of a reaction. "Wren," he said. His voice was a low, fractured rumble, stripped of all the executive polish and tactical authority that usually commanded boardrooms across the City. He took one slow step forward, his hand lifting slightly from his side—an instinctual, desperate gesture, as though he wanted to close the distance and pull me against his chest. "I saw the papers. I know what Reyes is trying to orchestrate with the committee. Let me handle it. I can—" "You can't handle this, Leander," I interrupted. My voice wasn't loud. It didn't shake. It cut thr
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