The Shape of Her Name
Copyright© 2025 by BeneathHerBraid
Chapter 4: The Beginning
The late afternoon sun had started its descent across the wall of Harper’s office, brushing gold over the cluttered mess of sketches, coffee mugs, and tangled charging cables. She sat curled in her desk chair, when Jules entered like a breeze with teeth - quick, dry, and armed with paperwork.
Jules waved a printed email like it was a summons.
“You’ve been invited to speak at the The Vergepoint Forum,” she said, already halfway to amused. “Panel title: The Future of Human Insight. It’s being held at the Glasshouses.”
Harper raised an eyebrow. “Do they know I named our backend script Goblin?”
“They want charm,” Jules replied. “You’re charm. Just wear something ironed.”
Harper groaned. “Tragic. There goes my week.” Then, “You’re coming right?”
Jules nodded as Harper reached for the email, scanning the lines with a smile that crept sideways across her mouth. Before she even thought it through, she was drafting a new message - short, impulsive.
To: Mira Laurent
Subject: Speaking at Parallax
Just got invited to speak at Vergepoint. “The Future of Human Insight,” which is either perfect or a trap. Thought I’d let you know, since it sounds like something you’d already know.
- H
She stared at the email for a moment. Her fingers hovered. Then, as she clicked send, she crossed her legs tightly beneath the desk. Lately, Mira had become the kind of woman she told things to.
The city stretched beneath Mira. She sat at her desk, a thumbnail grazing the edge of a briefing folder when Camille stepped in with her usual poise.
“Vergepoint Forum is next week,” Camille said, voice neutral. “I flagged the invite.”
Mira didn’t look up. “Confirmed.”
Her tone was even. Uninterested. But her screen still glowed faintly with Harper’s name - the email had arrived not five minutes earlier. Mira had read it three times. Once with amusement. Once with professional interest. And once with something dangerously close to anticipation.
She would’ve attended regardless, of course. It was already on their radar. Strategically sound. Professionally appropriate. Entirely deniable. And it had nothing - nothing - to do with a certain voice, a pair of wide blue eyes, or the way Harper Quinn wrote emails like open doors someone might step through barefoot.
After a beat, Camille said in French, “On suit déjà la moitié de leur liste d’intervenants. “ We’re already tracking half their speaker list.
Mira, still facing the window, replied in Arabic, “Ṭabīʿī.” Naturally.
Camille didn’t press. She rarely needed to.
The Glasshouses pulsed with a curated kind of intelligence - all floor-to-ceiling windows, poured concrete floors, and sky-high views that made even the most seasoned tech founders pause. The light was natural but controlled, softened by discreet linen drapes and reflected in brushed steel accents and matte glass dividers.
The Vergepoint Forum wasn’t designed to impress; it was designed to affirm. Everyone here already knew they belonged - or were desperate to prove they did.
The main space opened clean and bright, suspended above the city like a thought still forming. Polished figures moved across the expansive interior, their badges swinging like declarations. Between espresso carts and minimalist lounges, power moved in low, intentional tones - sharp shoes, quiet watches, sculptural eyewear, and billion-dollar ideas murmured between sips of fair-trade caffeine.
Mira Laurent entered without pause. She didn’t need to assess the room. The room recalibrated itself around her. She wore deep indigo - tailored to flow. The cut was precise through the shoulders and hips, but looser at the sleeves, like something made for heat. Gold traced the collar and cuffs in a delicate embroidered line, just enough to catch the light when she turned. A fine chain curved beneath her collarbone, holding a pale turquoise bead - small, round, like something weathered by time. Her heels were leather, bone-colored and clean, with a single strap that crossed the ankle. Her braid was long and low, dark and heavy, the end tied with a brushed gold clasp - shaped, if you looked closely, like a knot, quiet and held.
Flanking her were two Calridge colleagues. Camille trailed just behind her, tablet in hand. They crossed the wide foyer toward the glass-walled mezzanine - and then Mira paused.
No one else would have noticed. But Camille did. Mira’s gaze had drifted over the crowd, toward the stage. Because, there she was.
Harper.
Standing beside a tall display screen, dress hem dancing just above her knees. Navy. Simple. Fitted just enough to whisper about the shape of her.
Mira’s eyes travelled over her. Harper’s legs were long and toned, and she shifted from foot to foot like she couldn’t decide which one wanted to flee and which wanted to stay. Her curls were trying - a few strands had rebelled, as always, and curved around her cheek in soft parentheses. She looked brilliant. And terrified. And so entirely herself.
Jules stood beside her, whispering something too fast. Harper nodded, then fumbled her program. Bent to retrieve it. Straightened. Tugged at her strap. Laughed at something Jules said and then immediately looked like she regretted laughing.
Mira’s lips curved into a barely-there smile. Chaotic. Radiant. The awareness hit her low - just beneath her ribs, where it always did when something struck her without permission. Her body knew it before her mind consented: the tension in her thighs, the flare in her chest, the way her breath dropped an octave.
She didn’t approach. Not because she didn’t want to. But because the thought of interfering - of walking up and saying something banal like “good luck” - felt sacrilegious.
Harper was about to step into the light. She deserved to do it untethered. So Mira drifted - like a satellite falling into orbit - and stopped near the edges of the auditorium lobby, where the stacks of programs sat untouched and ignored.
She picked one up. Her fingers were steady. She flipped through it with absent grace - keynotes. Sponsors. Panel titles. Page 8. There. Harper Quinn.
The photograph was, frankly, terrible. The angle was too sharp, the lighting awkward. Harper looked like she’d been caught mid-sentence - mouth partway open, eyes slightly squinting as if she was trying to puzzle something out while smiling at the same time.
Mira stared at it. It wasn’t the kind of photo that made her look important. It was the kind that made her unforgettable.
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