Miranda's voice was calm and professional. "You're done with training?"
"Just finished."
"Good." A brief pause. "Get dressed. Something sharp."
Izan frowned, grabbing a towel. "Why?"
"Dinner meeting." Another pause, deliberate this time. "PSG."
That made him stop. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. He had known this moment was coming—the first serious move in the transfer war.
But hearing it confirmed sent a different kind of rush through his veins.
He glanced at the time. "Where?"
"Marina Beach Club. Private dining room. 9 PM."
Izan nodded. "Alright."
Miranda's voice softened slightly, a rare moment of familiarity breaking through. "Wear something nice. You have a Saint Laurent deal—use it."
Izan smirked. "Got it."
She hung up.
Izan stood there for a second, feeling the weight of it all settle on his shoulders. Then, without another thought, he headed for the showers.
