His reply was instant.
A long pause. Then: “Monday. The emerald green mockneck. You paired it with that ridiculously oversized tortoiseshell hair clip. It was 10 AM and you already looked like you’d conquered a small country.”
She smiled, tossed the dress on the chair, and for the first time in years, broke her own rule.
The shoot was on a Friday. The studio was a hothouse of reflectors and tension. The model, a glorious amazon with a constellation of freckles, was draped in a sapphire balconette set. Victoria was directing the light, her hands tracing the air like a conductor. LoveHerBoobs - Victoria Nova - Coworker Fun Tim...
Instead, she sent: “What’s your favorite thing I’ve worn this week?”
“This is fashion, Leo. Not a philosophy seminar.”
“I’ll try. But no promises.”
She hated that she loved it.
Victoria Nova, Style Director, arbiter of hemlines and heartlines, put her phone on silent. She walked to her closet and ran her fingers over the emerald green mockneck. Then she pulled out a simple black silk dress—the kind of thing that wasn’t for work, but for after .
“What are you wearing?” she typed, then deleted it immediately. Too forward. Too stupid. His reply was instant
Then: “You made that campaign beautiful, Victoria. You have a way of seeing people… as their best selves.”
“Fashion is philosophy for people who hate reading.” He smiled, a small, crooked thing. “But you’re right. ‘Surrender’ it is.”
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. The emerald green mockneck
“The line works. Don’t let it go to your head.”
She typed a message to him. Not on Slack. On her personal phone.