Chapter 2

Fran’s POV - The next morning

The first slivers of dawn were painting the edges of my cheap bedroom blinds when I drifted awake. For a moment, everything felt blessedly normal. The familiar weight of my duvet, the faint city sounds filtering in, the lingering scent of Matt’s skin on the pillow beside me where he still slept soundly, his breathing deep and even. My own body felt ... standard. Petite, lean, the usual collection of limbs and mild aches from sleeping slightly twisted. Nothing outwardly remarkable.

Then, memory slammed back into me, not like a tidal wave, but like a slow, insidious flood seeping into every corner of my consciousness. Last night. The park. The collar. Matt’s voice, laced with playful challenge, then shock, then undeniable arousal and a terrifying edge of command. My own body betraying me, obeying words that bypassed thought entirely. Sitting. Barking. The sudden, overwhelming surge of artificial horniness, the desperate, commanded need for doggy style – a position I actively disliked, yet had craved with every fiber of my being under the collar’s influence. And then ... the transformations. The impossible blossoming of D-cup breasts from my flat chest, the shocking inflation of my ass into something voluptuous and heavy. The feeling of that alien fullness, the weight, the texture ... and the even stranger sensation of appreciating it, of finding my own transformed body intensely, undeniably hot.

That last part ... that was the kicker. Matt had reversed the physical changes before I could panic about walking into work looking like a magically enhanced porn star, but he hadn’t reversed the final mental command. At my request. My request. Why had I done that? Curiosity? A strange sort of intellectual interest? Or was it something else? A subconscious enjoyment of seeing myself through that lens?

The thought propelled me out of bed. I needed a shower. Needed to wash away the lingering stickiness of sex, sweat, and ... magic. Matt mumbled slightly as I slipped out from under the covers, but didn’t wake. I padded barefoot across the cool floorboards towards the bathroom, the silver chain – the disguised collar – resting innocuously against my collarbone. It felt weightless, normal. Deceptively so.

The bathroom was small, functional, the mirror above the sink slightly steamed from the lingering humidity of Matt’s shower last night. I reached for the light switch, hesitated, then flicked it on. And there I was. Normal Fran. Short brown hair tousled from sleep, familiar cute-ish face, slender neck leading down to my usual, almost non-existent cleavage hidden beneath the baggy band t-shirt I’d pulled on after Matt reversed the changes.

But as my eyes met my reflection, something profound shifted. It wasn’t just recognition. It was ... assessment. Appreciation. The command Matt had given me – You now perceive female bodies, including your own, through the exact same lens of attraction that I do. What I find hot, you find hot – kicked in with the force of revelation in the harsh fluorescent light.

My gaze didn’t just skim over my reflection; it lingered. It dissected. It admired. I wasn’t just seeing Fran, sleepy and slightly disheveled. I was seeing ... a woman. And my brain, hijacked by Matt’s preferences, was ticking off points of interest with an intensity that was both foreign and thrilling.

Okay, the face. Cute, yeah. Good bone structure hiding under the sleepiness. Expressive eyes, even if they were a bit puffy. A nice curve to the lips. Not conventionally stunning, maybe, but definitely ... appealing. There was potential there. My gaze dropped lower, tracing the line of my neck, the delicate dip of my collarbones where the silver chain rested. Elegant. Vulnerable. Hot.

My heart started beating a little faster. This was ... incredibly weird. It felt like having Matt’s brain superimposed over my own, filtering my self-perception through his desires. I reached up and slowly pulled the loose t-shirt over my head, dropping it onto the closed toilet lid. I stood there in just my panties, my reflection staring back, and the internal assessment intensified.

My shoulders were a bit bony, maybe, but they led down to slender arms. Nice definition there, actually. Subtle, but present. And then ... my chest. Flat. Practically concave compared to the impossible D-cups I’d sported for that brief, insane period last night. Normally, I wouldn’t give my chest a second thought, maybe a fleeting wish for a bit more, but mostly indifference. Now? Now, my gaze lingered with a critical, yet appreciative eye. Okay, not much volume, that was undeniable. A guy looking at this wouldn’t be blown away by the size. But ... the skin looked soft. Smooth. The nipples were small, a pale pink, currently soft. But I remembered how they’d felt last night, hard and aching under the commanded arousal. Even now, thinking about it, seeing them through this borrowed lens ... there was a certain delicate charm. An understated sexiness. The potential for them to harden, to pebble, to become focal points ... Yeah. Okay. Even these small breasts had an appeal. A subtle, “needs attention” kind of appeal.

My hands came up, almost involuntarily, mimicking my actions from last night, but on my real, unaltered chest. My fingertips traced the slight curve beneath where the fullness had been. I cupped the small mounds, feeling the soft skin, the slight give of the tissue. It wasn’t the same heavy, doughy feel of the D-cups, but it was ... pleasant. Warm. Real. And watching myself touch myself in the mirror, seeing the slight flush rise on my skin, the way my fingers moved ... Fuck. It was kind of hot. My own reflection was turning me on. Not in a narcissistic way, exactly, but in an appreciative, almost voyeuristic way. As if I were looking at another woman, someone I found desirable, exploring her body.

My gaze drifted lower, over my stomach. Flat, toned enough. A slight indentation at my navel. My brain registered it as: Good lines. Touchable. Kissable. My hips weren’t dramatically curvy, more straight, athletic. Legs were long for my height, slender. My inner thighs ... okay, yeah. The sight of the smooth skin there, the way the muscles were defined ... definitely hot. My brain supplied flashes of how they’d look wrapped around someone’s waist. Around Matt’swaist.

I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slowly pushed them down, stepping out of them. Now fully naked, I faced the mirror again, my breath catching slightly. The full picture. Seeing myself completely nude through this altered perception was ... intense. My eyes immediately went to the dark triangle of hair between my legs. Neat. Tidy. Inviting? God, yes. My hijacked brain screamed inviting. It saw the hidden folds, imagined the heat, the wetness within. It focused on the shape, the mystery, the promise.

I shifted my weight, turning slightly, examining my profile. The curve of my spine, the small dimples just above my backside. And my ass ... back to its normal, compact, athletic shape. Not the glorious, impossible bubble butt Matt had conjured. My borrowed perception registered the change with a flicker of disappointment. The bubble butt had been ... spectacular. This was ... fine. Fit. Pert. Definitely spankable. You could grab it, sure. But it didn’t have that overwhelming, cushiony, ‘bury your face in it’ appeal of the magically enhanced version. Still, watching the muscles flex as I turned, seeing the defined curve where my leg met my buttock ... yeah. Okay. Still hot. Just ... a different kind of hot. More lean potential than lush reality.

A slow heat was building low in my belly, a familiar thrumming sensation that hadn’t been commanded this time. It was purely a reaction to this ... relentless, appreciative, male-coded gaze I was directing at my own naked form. It was like being assessed by a potential lover, every detail noted, catalogued, appreciated for its erotic potential. And because it was my body, the feedback loop was immediate and visceral. My nipples tightened, pebbling noticeably in the mirror. My skin felt hypersensitive, flushed. A slickness bloomed between my legs.

Fuck. This mental change was potent. I was getting turned on just by looking at myself through Matt’s eyes.

My fingers strayed downwards, ghosting over my hipbone, then dipping lower, towards the damp heat I could feel building. Should I? Touch myself? Watch myself? The thought sent another jolt of arousal through me. It felt ... transgressive. Intensely private, yet performative, even with only my reflection as an audience. My fingers hovered, then brushed against my outer folds. A gasp escaped my lips. So sensitive. I spread the lips slightly, exposing the pink, wet flesh within, the small nub of my clit already swollen, sensitive. My borrowed gaze zoomed in, fascinated. Yes. Right there. That perfect little button. Needs attention. Needs a tongue. Needs...

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, breathing heavily. This was too much. Too weird. Or ... was it?

My hand went up to the silver chain at my neck. The collar. The source of this bizarre, intoxicating filter. I ran my thumb over the smooth, cool metal. Was this good? Bad? It felt ... empowering, in a strange way. To feel sexy, desirable, just standing here, looking at my perfectly average, unaltered body through this appreciative lens. Last night, the collar had felt terrifying, violating. Now, this lingering effect ... it felt like a gift. A twisted, mind-control gift, but still. Confidence bloomed alongside the arousal. I liked feeling this way. Liked seeing the potential hotness in myself that I usually overlooked or dismissed.

“Thank you,” I whispered to the necklace, my voice husky. A weird thing to say to an inanimate object, especially one that had terrified me hours ago. But the gratitude felt weirdly genuine. I tugged at the chain, testing the clasp reflexively. Still secure. Wouldn’t budge. Just as I suspected. Part of me was relieved. Another part, the part remembering the loss of control, the sheer wrongness of being compelled, felt a prickle of unease. But the dominant feeling, amplified by the lingering ‘calm’ command and the current wave of self-appreciation, was ... acceptance. Maybe even excitement.

I looked back at my reflection, at my normal body. And despite the newfound appreciation, a pang of genuine loss hit me. “Damn it,” I muttered, poking my flat chest slightly. “I really wish I didn’t have to change back. Those boobs were incredible.” And the ass ... yeah. I missed the ass too. Walking into my lingerie company job looking like that ... okay, maybe not feasible. But the memory alone was enough to make me sigh. Maybe Matt could ... no. Bad thought. Don’t start thinking about using the commands for vanity. Or ... maybe just sometimes?

Enough. Shower time. Presentation day. Need to be professional Fran, not strangely-turned-on-by-her-own-reflection Fran.

I stepped into the shower, twisting the knob to hot. The spray hit my skin, and even that felt different today. More intense. Each droplet a tiny pinprick of sensation against my hypersensitive flesh. I lathered up the soap, my hands gliding over my skin, but my brain kept framing it erotically. The way the suds clung to my small breasts, the way the water sluiced down my belly, catching in my navel, running down between my legs. It was impossible to just ... wash. Every movement felt charged, observational. When I washed between my legs, my fingers inevitably brushed against my clit, and I had to bite back a moan, leaning my head against the cool tiles for a moment. This was going to be a distracting day.

Finally rinsed and clean, I stepped out, toweling off quickly. Getting ready for work required focus. I applied minimal makeup, my borrowed perception approving of the way it subtly enhanced my features. Styled my short hair into its usual slightly messy look – effortlessly chic, my inner Matt-voice supplied. Then came the clothes. Corporate casual, but at a lingerie company, there was leeway. I chose tailored black trousers, a crisp white collared shirt, and underneath ... well, that was where the job perks came in. Today, I selected a delicate, deep plunge lace bra in emerald green and matching sheer panties. Normally, I wore lingerie because it was part of the business, appreciating the craft and design. Today, putting it on felt ... different.

As I fastened the bra, my newly appreciative gaze lingered on how it pushed my small breasts together, creating the illusion of cleavage. The emerald lace against my pale skin ... objectively hot. Yes. Very nice. The sheer panties felt decadent against my skin, hinting at the darkness beneath. I pulled on the trousers, then the shirt, buttoning it up almost to the top. Conservative. Professional.

I glanced back at the mirror one last time. Looked normal. Put-together. But underneath, the lace lingerie felt like a secret weapon, and the male gaze filter in my head was humming with approval. This was going to be interesting.

Matt was still dead to the world. I leaned down and kissed his temple gently. “Wish me luck,” I whispered, though he couldn’t hear me. Part of me wanted to wake him, to maybe ... experiment more? Ask for ... something? But no. Work. Focus.

I grabbed my keys and bag and headed out. Down in the car, I settled into the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror. Caught my own eye again. That flicker of self-appreciation. Damn, this was persistent. I started the engine, ready to pull out, then paused, glancing down at my neatly buttoned shirt. It looked ... fine. Professional. But maybe ... a little boring? My fingers went to the top button. Undid it. Then the next one. The shirt gaped slightly, revealing the top edges of the emerald lace bra, the faint shadow between my small breasts. Not overtly sexual, but ... suggestive. Tasteful. Sexy.

“Yeah,” I murmured to myself, the decision feeling both spontaneous and influenced. “That’s better.” The mental changes were definitely bleeding into my choices. I pulled out into the morning traffic, feeling a strange cocktail of professional anxiety about the presentation and a low-level, humming awareness of my own body, amplified by the secret lace and the peek of cleavage I was now allowing.

The drive to work was ... eye-opening. Usually, I barely registered other people in traffic, lost in my own thoughts or music. Today, thanks to the command, every woman I saw became an object of intense visual interest. The blonde jogger on the sidewalk in tight shorts? My brain immediately analyzed the curve of her ass, the jiggle of her thighs. Appreciated it. The businesswoman in the car next to me, leaning over slightly? My gaze locked onto the hint of cleavage revealed by her blouse. Hot. The older woman crossing the street? Less conventionally attractive, perhaps, but my borrowed perception still found points of interest – the confidence in her stride, the fullness of her figure beneath her coat. It was exhausting and exhilarating. It felt like seeing the world in a new, intensely sexualized dimension, specifically focused on the female form. And because I was female, it created this bizarre feedback loop where appreciating others somehow reinforced the appreciation of my own potential desirability.

And underneath it all, a deeper, more unsettling thought began to surface. Last night ... being controlled ... it was terrifying. Logically, I knew that. But remembering the intensity, the sheer overwhelming force of the commanded desires, the way my body had just obeyed ... There was a dark, illicit thrill attached to the memory. The loss of control, the surrender ... part of me, the part still buzzing from the lingering effects and the self-appreciation, was starting to find the idea of it erotic. Not just the sex itself, but the power dynamic. The magic. The helplessness. Was I broken? Or was this just another facet of the collar’s influence, subtly twisting my own thoughts?

Work itself was a struggle for focus. My office was open-plan, predominantly female colleagues in the design and marketing departments. Usually, it was a comfortable, collaborative environment. Today, it felt like walking through a minefield of potential distractions. Sarah from accounting walked past, and my eyes immediately tracked the sway of her hips. Jessica in design bent over her desk, and I found myself appreciating the curve of her spine and the shape of her legs under her skirt. I had to keep reminding myself: Think professional thoughts. Presentation. Lingerie specs. Market analysis.

But the baseline hum of awareness remained. Awareness of my own body beneath my clothes – the feel of the lace, the slight exposure at my neckline. Awareness of the other women around me, viewed through this new, intensely appreciative, almost predatory lens. And awareness of the silver chain resting against my skin, the disguised source of all this strangeness, a constant reminder of the power Matt wielded, the power that had reshaped my body and was currently reshaping my mind.

And then, the realization about the presentation hit me like a physical blow.

Thirty minutes before I was due in the boardroom, my boss, Mr. Henderson – a portly man with a perpetually stressed air – bustled over to my desk. “Fran, just wanted to double-check,” he said, peering over his glasses. “You’ve got the figures ready on the projected Q3 market penetration for the new ‘Comfort Curves’ line, based on the revised demographic data from Simmons, right? Focusing on the 45-55 age bracket response?”

My blood ran cold. Comfort Curves? 45-55 bracket? Revised Simmons data?

My presentation, meticulously prepared over the last week, was entirely focused on the initial launch strategy for our upcoming ‘Midnight Bloom’ luxury silk collection, targeting the 25-40 demographic, using the original dataset. I’d completely missed a memo, an email, something. The topic had shifted. My entire presentation was wrong. Utterly, disastrously wrong.

Panic clawed at my throat, cold and sharp. But outwardly? I smiled. A calm, professional smile that felt utterly fake. The lingering ‘calm’ effect from last night must have still been working subtly, keeping the sheer terror from showing on my face. “Absolutely, Mr. Henderson,” I heard myself say smoothly, my voice betraying none of the internal chaos. “Got it all covered. Just putting the finishing touches on the visuals.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Excellent. The board is very keen on seeing solid projections for that line. It’s pivotal for the autumn catalogue.” He bustled away, leaving me staring blankly at my monitor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Thirty minutes. I had thirty minutes to completely redo a presentation requiring data analysis I hadn’t done, on a topic I hadn’t researched, for a demographic I hadn’t considered. It was impossible. My career, my reputation, felt like it was crumbling around me. I was going to walk in there and completely humiliate myself. Get fired, maybe.

My hands were trembling. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slipping on the smooth screen. I had to text Matt. He couldn’t fix this, not really, but I needed ... something. Support. Sympathy. Maybe just to share the panic.

Me: MATT. HUGE PROBLEM. Presentation topic changed. Mine is completely wrong. Due in 30 mins. I’m SO screwed. Totally fucked.

I stared at the screen, waiting for the little dots. It felt like an eternity. My breathing was shallow, ragged.

Matt: Whoa! Shit, Fran. Okay, deep breaths. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure something out.

Figure something out? How? Unless he could magically beam the correct information into my head? Wait. Magically beam ... The collar. The commands. Could he...? It seemed insane. Could it work over the phone? Through text? Could it impart ... knowledge?

My fingers flew across the keypad, fueled by desperate hope.

Me: Matt. The collar. Can you command me through text? Can it DO things like ... give me information?

Matt: Holy shit. Didn’t think of that. Worth a try? What should I command? Something small first?

My mind raced. Something simple. Verifiable.

Me: Anything, just a test.

Matt: Fran, your nipples are now rock hard.

As I read his words I held my breath, staring down at my chest beneath the white shirt and emerald bra. For a second, nothing. Then ... a distinct tightening. A tingling, almost electric sensation. I looked down again. Through the fabric, I could clearly see the points of my nipples pressing sharply against the lace. Hard as pebbles. Instantaneously.

It worked. Holy shit, it worked! A giddy surge of relief, mixed with the sheer absurdity of the situation, washed over me.

Me: IT WORKED! THEY’RE HARD! Okay okay okay. Big one now. PLEASE.

Matt: Holy shit, uhhh ok...

Matt: Fran, you instantly know everything required for your presentation. You will deliver this presentation flawlessly and do whatever it takes to impress the board members.

I read his text, then...

It wasn’t like downloading a file. It was ... instantaneous. A flood. My mind simply ... expanded. Concepts, figures, demographic psych profiles, statistical correlations, marketing angles, SWOT analyses related to the Comfort Curves line and the target demographic – it all just appeared. Fully formed. Understood. Integrated. Like I’d spent weeks researching it, living and breathing it. The revised Simmons data unfolded in my mind’s eye, clear and logical. Strategies for presenting it compellingly surfaced effortlessly. I knew exactly what to say, how to structure it, how to answer any potential question. The knowledge wasn’t just there; it felt like my knowledge.

And alongside the data came a surge of confidence. Not just the calm residue, but a profound certainty. I could nail this. I would nail this. The second part of the command – ‘do whatever it takes to impress the board members’ – resonated deeply, igniting a fierce determination. Failure wasn’t an option. Impressing them was paramount.

Me: Matt. Oh my god. It worked. It really fucking worked. I know EVERYTHING. It’s all just ... in my head. You saved my career. Thank you thank you thank you!!!

A new message popped up immediately.

Matt: YES! Holy shit, that’s amazing! Knew we could figure it out! 😉 Now, one more little command for saving your ass... ‘Fran, send me a sexy photo of yourself right now.’

I read the text and felt the compulsion click into place, overriding everything else for a split second. My hand moved automatically, angling the phone. My other hand went to my shirt, ensuring the two undone buttons revealed the maximum allowable lace without being unprofessional ... well, mostly unprofessional. My lips curved into a slightly sultry smile I didn’t consciously form. Click. I looked at the photo – me, slightly flushed, eyes holding a hint of challenge, the emerald lace peeking alluringly, my commanded-hard nipples clearly visible, tenting the fabric of my shirt. Hot. Definitely hot. Without a second thought, I hit send.

Matt: 🔥🔥🔥 Damn, Fran! Look at those! Hard as diamonds! Okay okay, focus time. Need me to dial those back down before you go in?

Right. The nipples. Probably not ideal for a boardroom presentation.

Me: Haha, yes please. Thanks again, my hero. And maybe ... Master? 😉

Matt: Fran, your nipples are back to normal.

I felt the hardness instantly recede, the tingling fade. Back to normal.

I tucked my phone away, a dizzying mix of relief, lingering arousal from the selfie, and sheer, buzzing confidence flowing through me. The knowledge felt solid, secure. The determination to impress burned bright. I stood up, smoothed down my trousers, took a deep breath, and headed towards the boardroom, feeling strangely invincible. The silver chain felt warm against my skin.

The presentation started flawlessly. The knowledge flowed effortlessly. I spoke with confidence and clarity, navigating the complex data points, presenting the market analysis, fielding initial questions with ease. The board members – Henderson, plus three older, stern-looking men I vaguely recognized as senior executives, Mr. Davies, Mr. Sterling, and Mr. Croft – seemed engaged, nodding along, making notes. I could feel the initial tension in the room dissipating, replaced by professional interest. I was nailing it. Matt’s magic text command had worked perfectly.

I concluded my presentation, summarizing the key projections and strategic recommendations. A polite smattering of applause followed. Mr. Henderson beamed. “Excellent work, Fran. Thorough, insightful. Exactly what we needed to see.”

Mr. Davies, the most senior executive present, leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Indeed. The data is compelling, Ms. Miller. Well-presented.” He paused, his gaze sharp. “However...”

My stomach tightened. However?

“While the analysis is sound,” Mr. Davies continued, his tone measured, “we’re looking for more than just sound analysis for a pivotal line like Comfort Curves. We need ... commitment. Passion. A demonstration that our team truly understands the product and its potential on a deeper level. That they’re willing to go the extra mile.” Mr. Sterling and Mr. Croft nodded in agreement, their expressions mirroring Davies’ – pleased, but not truly impressed. They wanted more dedication, more ... something.

My mind raced. Do whatever it takes to impress the board members. The command, dormant until now, flared back to life with sudden, overwhelming force. Impress them. Show dedication. Show understanding. Whatever it takes.

Before I could consciously process the impulse, my hands were moving. Not towards my notes, not to offer further explanation. They went to the buttons of my crisp white shirt. My fingers deftly undid the remaining buttons, one after the other, until the shirt hung open, revealing the emerald green lace bra in its entirety.

A collective sharp intake of breath hissed through the boardroom. Henderson looked horrified. Davies, Sterling, and Croft leaned forward almost imperceptibly, their eyes widening, fixed on my chest.

My own mind felt like a spectator watching a bizarre play unfold. What am I doing? a small, sane part of me screamed. But the compulsion to impress, to show dedication and understanding, was overriding everything. And apparently, the collar interpreted “understanding the product” and “dedication” in a very ... literal, physical way when applied to a lingerie company.

Then, I looked down. The bra ... it wasn’t the same delicate plunge bra I’d put on this morning. The lace was still emerald green, yes, but the shape ... it was different. Fuller. More structured. It had underwiring I hadn’t felt before, subtle support panels, a slightly different strap configuration. It looked ... functional, yet still beautiful. Comfortable, yet supportive. It looked like...

“ ... a prototype,” I heard myself saying, my voice smooth, confident, betraying none of the internal shock. The words flowed as easily as the presentation data had, seemingly plucked from the ether by the collar’s interpretation of the command. “Based on my analysis of the Comfort Curves target demographic and the revised Simmons data, I realized there was a gap. We needed a design that offered superior comfort and support for a more mature figure, without sacrificing aesthetic appeal or modern sensibility. So, I developed this.”

My hands moved automatically, gesturing to the bra I was wearing. “This prototype utilizes a new microfiber blend for breathability, strategically placed gel inserts for lift and shaping without constriction,” – I smoothly unhooked the back of the bra, holding it in place with one hand at the front – “a flexible underwire system that adapts to the body’s movement, and adjustable comfort straps designed to minimize shoulder pressure.” I turned slightly, allowing them to see the back strap design, then hooked it again seamlessly. “It embodies the core principles of the Comfort Curves line – comfort you can live in, confidence you can feel.”

I stood there, shirt open, showcasing the miraculously generated prototype bra clinging to my small breasts, feeling the weight of four pairs of male eyes fixed intently on me. The room was silent, thick with stunned tension. My nipples, despite the earlier command, had hardened again under the intensity of the scrutiny, pressing visibly against the emerald fabric. Classic men, a detached part of my brain observed, noting the flicker of undisguised interest in their eyes, warring with their professional composure. Show them some lingerie on an actual body, and suddenly you have their undivided attention.

Mr. Davies cleared his throat, his gaze finally lifting from my chest to meet my eyes. The sternness was gone, replaced by something else. Intrigue. Approval. Maybe even a little heat. “Ms. Miller...” he began, his voice slightly husky. “That is ... remarkably innovative. And demonstrates ... considerable initiative. And dedication.”

Mr. Sterling nodded vigorously. “Quite. To take the research and translate it so directly into a potential product solution ... Impressive. Very impressive.”

Mr. Croft simply murmured, “The design looks ... very effective.”

Henderson, catching the shift in the room’s atmosphere, quickly adjusted his own reaction from horror to beaming pride. “Fran has always been one of our most dedicated designers,” he chimed in. “Always thinking outside the box!”