Harley’s heels echoed in sharp, deliberate rhythm as she crossed the polished floor of her office. Her hair was drawn into a sleek low bun, every strand perfectly in place. A stroke of crimson lit her lips—precise, practiced, powerful.

She settled onto the grey loveseat with measured grace, legs crossed, posture composed. The file in her hands felt heavier than most, its pages filled with red flags and warning signs. She hummed quietly, biting the inside of her cheek as her eyes scanned the contents.

“A bit of a problem child,” she murmured, half amused, half intrigued.

The door creaked open. She didn’t need to look to know it was them.

But she did anyway.

Her gaze lifted, cool and assessing, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips. “Good morning,” she said, voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp.