She moves to her desk chair, but instead of sitting, she braces her hands on the polished mahogany. She looks at her reflection in the dark computer screen.

Warm, natural sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows. The office is pristine: leather chairs, a half-empty latte, scattered blueprints.

She stands, walks to the heavy oak door, and turns the lock with a decisive click . She leans her forehead against the wood for just a second, exhaling.

We hear the door handle jiggle. Veronica freezes.

Her hand slowly unbuttons the top of her silk blouse. Then another.

Veronica doesn't panic. Instead, she smirks—a slow, dangerous curve of her lips. She smooths her skirt, but makes no move to re-button her blouse.