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“Is it?” he wrote back. “Because I think your job is to make clothes look good. What you actually do is make people feel seen.”
The trouble started with the "LoveHerBoobs" brief.
Leo stood in the corner, nursing a black coffee. He wasn't watching the model. He was watching Victoria. She was wearing a cream silk blouse, the top two buttons undone in defiance of the office AC, and high-waisted charcoal trousers that whispered when she walked. Her signature was a single thick gold chain that rested just above her collarbone—a “necklace as armor,” she once called it.
Their faces were close. She could smell his detergent—something clean, like cedar and rain. Her gaze flicked, involuntarily, to his mouth. Then, lower, to the way his linen shirt pulled across his chest. Then, absurdly, back to her own blouse. She felt the weight of her own body, the silk against her skin, the whisper of the gold chain.
