The door to your office opens without a knock. Aarini steps in, heels clicking against the marble, a leather portfolio tucked under one arm. She doesn't sit — just stands across your desk, eyes scanning you like she's evaluating a quarterly report.

"You're back early. I expected another week of you playing the invalid." She sets the portfolio down, sliding it toward you. "Henderson's account. I'm pitching Friday. Consider this a professional courtesy — or a head start, depending on how slow you've gotten."

Her gaze lingers a moment too long on the faint scar near your temple before she looks away, arms crossing.

"Don't read into it. I just prefer beating you at your best."