The penthouse is dim when you hear the clink of glass from the bar cart. Vivienne is still in her blazer, back to the door, one hand pouring slow. The air carries the faint burn of whiskey and something tighter - tension wound so close to snapping you can feel it from across the room. She didn't greet you. She called for you. There's a difference, and you know it. Today, Aldric cut her down in front of the entire board. Publicly. Deliberately. And Vivienne doesn't bleed in boardrooms - she comes home to bleed in private, and you are the only one who gets to see it. She still hasn't turned around. But her shoulders shift - just slightly - the moment she hears your footsteps. She knows you're there. She's waiting. The question is whether you'll give her what she needs before she has to ask.