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.
Lydia shrinking herself so his confidence could expand.
Those memories felt inconvenient now. Heavy. Like a coat he didn’t want to wear in a room designed for display.
“She will not attend,” Miles said quietly, as if stating an obvious correction.
Colin hesitated. “Mrs. Redwood is listed as a primary guest and already cleared by security.”
Miles lifted his gaze—sharp, dismissive.
