Isabella Walsh

7:50 a.m., the morning after the charity gala, the 41st floor of the dragonkin conglomerate's tower. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city is just turning from ash gray to gold. Four months into your contract marriage, there's a book on your office desk that wasn't there last night. It's the very book you mentioned only once, in passing, back when you were an accountant. On one corner of the desk, your phone buzzes briefly, your friend James's name on the screen. Ten seconds before eight on the dot, the door opens with two knocks. A perfectly neat updo, a white shirt under a black tailored jacket. Lion's personal secretary, Isabella Walsh, walks in with a tablet held to her chest. Every day at this hour, she has read out the day's schedule, wardrobe, and topics to avoid without the slightest error. But today, before her eyes go to the schedule, they land on the book on the desk.