Page 24 of True Colors

She sets her computer on the table and takes a seat. The leather chair practically swallows her whole. She’s a size zero or two at most—but not in a runway model way, more like a woodland nymph.

Woodland nymph? Seriously, Luther? You’re losing your fucking mind.

Today, she’s wearing black dress pants and a black blouse, offset by a bright silk scarf—purple and pink patterns that shouldn’t work, but somehow do.

Her makeup is minimal. Maybe gloss. Maybe mascara. Nothing else.

It’s all very Parisian chic.

My eyes drop to her shoes, curious. Heels? Sneakers?

Neither.

Black leather booties. Not cheap but not ridiculous either. Somewhere in between comfort and high fashion.

She’s well put together. That’s what I missed yesterday. I saw someone low on confidence because she struggled to speak. But now I’m seeing a woman who dresses with intention, care, and precision.

She could wear a non-descript, boring suit like so many professionals, but she doesn’t—probably because that wouldn’t be authentic to who she is.

She’s professional without being stuffy. Elegant without being dull. The kind of woman who probably lives in yoga pants at home but comes to work armored in fabric.

And that’s when realization strikes.

She’s compensating.

Not for incompetence, though. It’s for assumptions, for the judgment that arrives the second she opens her mouth. She dresses to buy herself credibility. To secure a fair first impression.

A dull ache spreads where my breath should move freely.

She dresses this way for men like me.

Yesterday, I saw someone who struggled to speak.

Today, I see a woman who’s spent her entire career making sure she’s taken seriously anyway.

If I weren’t already feeling like a jackass, this epiphany would’ve done it.

“Thanks for making time to talk to me before the meeting.” I keep my tone level because my emotions are in turmoil, and I’m not used to it.

“N-no p-problem.” She gives me a small smile. If she gave me a full-wattage smile, I’d probably be the one stuttering because she is fucking radiant.

“I want to talk about the Novagene project,” I manage to say, hoping my face doesn’t show that I’m a little smitten with her.

What the hell, Luther? She’s an employee. Plus, she isn’t your type. You’ve always gone for women who are confident, outspoken, and unafraid to claim a room. So why does this quiet, hesitant woman have your attention?

She nods, throat bobbing. “O-okay.”

I keep my posture neutral, hands loose on the table, no raised voice, no clipped directives.

I’m trying. God, but I’m trying.

“You’ll be responsible for the predictive model,” I continue. “Baseline volatility. Forecasting. The supplier risk matrix.”

She leans slightly forward. “I-I’ve b-built mod…mod—” She closes her eyes for a small moment and then opens them again as she lets out a long, deep breath. “Models like this before.”

“Good,” I say.

“I…read everything posted on Sh-SharePoint.”