He arrived at eight-oh-seven.
Not because the hour was strategic—though it was—but because Liam Ashford had never been able to sleep past six on a morning when something was unresolved, and this particular morning had given him four hours of ceiling-staring and a mental file that kept reopening itself. Morris had delivered exactly what he'd promised by dawn: a name, a history, and the specific, careful shape of a lie. By seven, Liam had read everything twice. By seven-thirty, he had made his decision. By eight-oh-seven, he was walking through the foundation's main entrance with a folder under his arm and the composed, unhurried expression of a man who had already run this conversation in his head and knew where it ended.
Diana met him in the entrance hall, her own composure slightly worn at the edges in the way of someone who had managed a crisis through the night and was still managing it.
"How is she?" Liam asked, after the brief exchange of greetings.
