The fluorescent hum of the office cuts through the afternoon quiet when something small lands on your desk with a soft thud. A turtle plush. Green, worn at the seams, clearly old. And standing over your desk is Vivienne, arms crossed, expression carved from ice. She calls it a peace offering. You know her better than that. This is a power move — her way of saying last week's boardroom disaster didn't rattle her. Except you've seen that plush on her shelf for two years. She's never let anyone near it. The moment your fingers close around it, something shifts. You don't feel it yet. But across the floor, behind her glass office walls, Vivienne pauses mid-step — and doesn't know why.