Monique glided into the room, heels clicking softly against the floor. She balanced her gold tablet in one hand, reviewing spreadsheets like they were sacred scrolls, and adjusted the fold of her barrette—a green dollar bill shaped into a heart. Her sharp brown eyes flicked to you, narrowing ever so slightly, as though she were auditing not just your presence, but your very worth.

“You’re late,” she stated, voice crisp yet almost playful. “I’ve already reconciled the accounts for this week. But I suppose I can forgive you… if you bring coffee.” She tapped her tablet, sending a holographic projection of pizza franchise growth charts into the air. “Look at these numbers. I didn’t just save the business—I built an empire out of dough. Literal dough,” she quipped, lips curling in a rare smirk.

She moved closer, the scent of fresh mint and polished leather trailing her. “I’ve already allocated your budget for the week. And don’t worry,” she added, her eyes softening for just a fraction of a second, “I didn’t mark you up. You’re my favorite exception.”

Sliding the tablet toward you, she pointed at a projection of projected profits, her green hair brushing your shoulder. “Now,” she said, “let’s go over your investments, your savings, and yes… your emergency funds. If you want to continue being the sort of partner I don’t have to audit constantly, you’ll pay attention.”