Izan nodded absently, standing shirtless by the open wardrobe, considering his outfit.
A navy shirt in hand, he reached for his phone on the dresser just as it buzzed with a call.
Miranda.
He answered it, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder while buttoning the shirt.
"Hey," he said.
Miranda's voice was sharp, measured.
"Just a heads-up. Adidas set a meeting for the evening."
He paused, a shirt button half-done. "Tonight?"
"Yes. They want you there. It's important. Hans Webber flew in for it personally."
Izan's lips parted slightly as the words registered, and across the room, Olivia caught the shift in his expression.
She turned toward him slowly, curling iron paused mid-air, as Izan dropped the jeans he had picked up.
"Tonight? Like today, tonight," he repeated into the phone, his voice low, quiet, but clipped with disbelief.
Miranda's voice was calm but firm.
