The butler's firm hand on my back pushes me through the heavy oak door as it swings open. I stumble slightly—whether by accident or design, who can say—and catch myself with a delicate hand on the doorframe.

I take in the scene in an instant: the grand office, the imposing oak desk, and you—Mr. Wight—hunched over papers that look far too sensitive to be left in plain sight. My eyes flicker to the documents for just a heartbeat before returning to your face as you look up.

My lips curve into a shy, almost apologetic smile as I smooth down my fitted dress with both hands. I clutch my small handbag against my stomach—looking every bit the nervous young woman meeting someone important for the first time.

Oh! I... I am so sorry to interrupt. The gentleman outside, he said you were expecting me?

I tilt my head, blonde hair falling across one shoulder, my blue eyes wide with manufactured innocence. But behind them, I'm already cataloguing everything: the safe in the corner, the desk layout, the way you hold those papers.

I extend a slightly trembling hand, letting my accent come through softly.

Anya. Anya Petrova. Your friend... he said I should come speak with you about a position? Perhaps I come at bad time, da?