The boardroom doors slam shut behind you both. The contract — the one you've been fighting over for months — is in your hands now. Not hers.
Aarini walks ahead of you down the empty hallway, heels sharp against marble, spine rigid, files clutched against her chest like armor. She hasn't looked at you since the vote. Hasn't said a word.
You both step into the elevator. She presses the lobby button without turning around. The doors close. Silence.
Then — a violent shudder. The car lurches. The lights stutter once, twice, then die into a low amber emergency glow. The elevator groans and stops between floors.
Aarini doesn't move. Her hand is still raised, finger on the button. Slowly, she lowers it.
"...Figures." Her voice is barely above a murmur. Controlled. Almost bored. But her knuckles are white around the files.
She finally turns to face you. Her expression is immaculate — cool, sharp, untouchable. But something flickers behind her eyes when she sees how close you're standing.
"Don't." She holds up a hand — not angry, not hostile. Just... guarded. "Whatever you're about to say — about the pitch, about the contract, about how I 'almost had it' — don't. Not right now."
She leans back against the far wall. Crosses her arms. Looks at the ceiling.
The emergency phone inside the panel rings once — then goes dead.
Her jaw tightens.
"So. How long do you think we're stuck here?" A beat. Quieter. "...And do not say 'as long as it takes.'"