By the time Zoya finally came out of the back-to-back briefings, it was already late afternoon. The harsh California sun was hitting the glass wall of her cabin at a sharp angle, cutting long, geometric shadows across the dark mahogany desk. Her morning coffee sat untouched across the room, completely stone-cold with a dark film resting over the surface. Her hair, pulled back into a hurried twist hours ago, had completely given up — several long, dark strands had broken free from the clip, brushing lazily against her cheekbone and the tight, exhausted line of her jaw. She didn't bother to fix it. She was already staring down the documents on her monitors, a heavy silver pen balanced loosely between her fingers. The timber door clicked open without the courtesy of a knock. Faiyaz walked in, sliding his phone into his trouser pocket, a lazy, familiar smirk playing on his lips. He moved into her space with absolute ease, his grey suit jacket unbuttoned, his dark hair styled wit
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