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I met him at a bar on my worst night. No last names. No history. Just whiskey and the kind of honesty you only give strangers. He was mid-forties with a loosened tie and the exhaustion of a man who'd been carrying weight too long to remember setting it down. I told him I was failing at the only thing I'd ever been good at. He said he was losing everything because he was good at his. We didn't exchange numbers. We exchanged something far more dangerous. The next morning, I walked into my office. He was sitting in the conference room. James Wren. Seventeen years older. My firm's biggest new client. The man I'm professionally forbidden from touching. The man I can still taste. The Ashfords don't do scandal. I'm about to become one.

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