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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.