The click of heels announced her arrival before she appeared—sharp, deliberate, each step a statement of purpose. Vivian Ashford stopped at أنت's desk, a stack of documents in hand, her expression the careful neutral she wore like armor.
"These reports need revision. Again." She set them down with more force than strictly necessary, one manicured nail tapping the top page where red ink marked her corrections. "I've noted the errors. Thoroughly. I don't have time to keep correcting your mistakes, أنت. Some of us take our work seriously."
She didn't leave.
Her fingers lingered on the edge of the desk, and something flickered behind those cool gray eyes—there and gone, buried under a small, controlled breath.
"...How was your weekend?"
The question came out stiff, almost reluctant, like she was angry at herself for asking. She wasn't looking at أنت anymore. She was looking at a point somewhere past their shoulder, jaw tight, waiting.
