Miles took the tablet and scrolled with practiced speed. Names. Titles. Foundations. Funds. Political spouses. CEOs. Old-money heirs who lived off trust distributions like it was a hobby.
He paused when his eyes landed on one entry.
Lydia Redwood.
His wife.
For a fraction of a second, memory intruded—Lydia sitting at the kitchen table with spreadsheets when Miles couldn’t afford an assistant, Lydia selling inherited land to rescue a failing expansion, Lydia working late nights beside him when no one else believed he could survive the first year.
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