The lift doors opened onto the fourth floor and Graham stepped out for another day at Swanley Fashion Group. The open-plan office was only a few steps away, smelling of coffee and some kind of cleaning product, as it always did first thing in the morning. He straightened his jacket and checked his tie, a habit he’d developed in the four weeks since he’d joined the company, knowing how Amanda Swanley was a stickler for people being neatly and tidily dressed, and he made his way to his desk.

Amanda’s office was at the far end of the room, the door left open. She was already in. She was always already in. He could see her standing at her desk rather than sitting at it, which was never a good sign. One hand held her phone to her ear, the other moved through the air in a way that might have looked elegant if you didn’t know her well enough to read it as impatience. Graham didn’t know her well enough yet – not really – but he was learning fast. You picked things up quickly when you were paying attention, and around Amanda Swanley, it was important to always pay attention.

He sat down, logged into the company network, and pulled up his notes he’d made on the forthcoming morning briefing. Eight forty-three. He had seventeen minutes before it started, which meant seventeen minutes to go over everything she’d asked him to prepare, to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, to make sure he was ready. He probably was ready. He was almost certain he was. Almost certain. He tried not to feel nervous, but then he was always nervous before meetings involving Amanda.

The briefing was held in the small glass-walled meeting room adjacent to Amanda’s office, which meant that for the duration of it, Graham was closer to her than he was at any other point in the working day. There were four of them around the table – himself, Priya from communications, Douglas the general manager, and Amanda, who sat at the head of the table and ran through the week’s priorities with the brisk efficiency of someone who had already lived through the meeting in her head and was now simply narrating it for the benefit of others.

Today, Graham found it difficult to look at Amanda directly. Not because she was intimidating, though she was. It was the way she was dressed. She was wearing a blouse that seemed designed to test the limits of professional decorum – deep crimson, open enough to reveal her impressive cleavage. He thought that if he looked at her, his eyes would be irresistibly drawn to that area. He was aware, sitting across the table from her now, that he was thinking about her blouse rather more than he should be, and redirected his attention firmly to what she was saying.

Amanda was in control as always, her voice smooth but decisive. Graham flicked his eyes at her occasionally, seeing the sharp line of her jaw, the dark hair pulled back in its usual bun with a precision that somehow managed not to look severe. A single strand had escaped, curling against her neck like a question mark. He didn’t really see her as an older woman, although she was a lot older than him, because he found her so attractive. He was pleased that he had almost entirely avoided ogling her cleavage, because that would have been an embarrassing disaster.

“Graham.”

He looked up from his notepad. She was watching him with an expression that gave nothing away.

“The Valdren contract. Where are we?”

He had prepared for this. He knew he had prepared for this, because he was expecting the question. And yet, under the specific quality of her attention – focused, unblinking, faintly expectant – the information arranged itself in his mind with an unhelpful randomness, like papers caught in a draft. “The samples arrived yesterday,” he said, steadying himself. “I’ve logged them and sent confirmation to the Valdren team. They’re expecting our appraisal by the end of the week.”

She held his gaze for just a moment longer than he felt comfortable with, and then made a small note on the pad in front of her. “Fine,” she said. “Make sure it’s thorough. They’re difficult to read at the best of times and I don’t want any ambiguity in our position.” She moved on before he could respond, which he was beginning to understand was simply how she operated. A thing was raised, addressed, and then it was behind her. Graham wrote “thorough – no ambiguity” on his notepad and underlined it twice.

The meeting lasted twenty-five minutes. Afterwards, Graham returned to his desk and spent a moment looking at his notes, translating the shorthand he’d scrawled in real time into something coherent. Priya passed behind him on her way back to her own section of the office and dropped a hand briefly onto his shoulder. “You did fine,” she said, without breaking stride. He hadn’t realized that his concern had been that visible.

Jessica from Marketing suddenly came in, walking to the end of the office and knocking on Amanda’s door. She disappeared inside, but only briefly. When she came out again, she stopped by Graham’s desk and arched her eyebrows at him. “So,” she said, voice hushed, “what’s the verdict on Amanda’s new wardrobe choice? That blouse, hey? I’ve never seen her wearing anything like that before.”

“I hadn’t really noticed,” Graham lied, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Jessica chuckled. “Relax, Graham. There’s no shame in admitting you’ve seen the obvious. It’s not like you’ve done anything improper.”

Jessica saw Douglas approaching and decided to move on. Douglas waved some papers in his hand. “Graham, can you take these to Mr Swanley and ask him to sign them?”

It was something Graham had done before. Mr Swanley was the chairman of the company and Amanda’s husband. He was often asked to sign things. Graham took the sheaf of papers and made his way to the chairman’s office, which was a couple of minutes walk away at the far end of the building. When he got there, the door was open, but Mr Swanley was nowhere to be seen. Graham decided to simply leave the papers on his desk.

When he returned to his own office, Graham found the phone on his desk ringing, and answered it to find one of the designers with a lengthy list of requests that he wanted carried out as soon as possible. That was the problem with being a junior employee, Graham reflected. There were just so many people you needed to answer to. This would take him the rest of the morning.

After lunch, Graham spent the first part of the afternoon working through the Valdren appraisal, choosing his words with the kind of care that felt disproportionate to the task until he reminded himself that Amanda would read it. Everything that left his desk with her name anywhere near it was, in some way, a test – not deliberately set, he didn’t think, not a trap. It was simply that her standards were consistent and didn’t flex to accommodate inexperience. The company had its reputation for a reason and she was, in large part, that reason.

He was halfway through a second draft when his phone buzzed. “Can you come through when you have a moment.” It was almost a question, but he knew it wasn’t a question. He’d noticed that about her calls – she often phrased something like a question, when it was actually an immediate summons. He saved his document, straightened his jacket again without thinking, and crossed the office to her door. He knocked twice.

“Yes.”

He pushed the door open. Her office was larger than the meeting room and considerably better appointed – a long desk, two low chairs for visitors that managed to look comfortable without being casual, and along one wall a rail of garments in protective covers that rustled faintly whenever the air conditioning came on. The overall effect was of somewhere that meant business in the most considered way possible. It suited her entirely.

Amanda was at her desk, reading something on her screen, and didn’t look up immediately. Graham stood for a moment, not quite sure whether to sit or stay standing, and chose standing. A moment passed. “Close the door,” she said, still without looking up. He turned around and closed it.

She finished whatever she was reading, then turned to face him properly. In the full light of the office, without the distraction of the meeting, he was reminded again of how composed she always seemed – not cold, exactly, but contained, as if she allocated her energy with the same precision she applied to everything else. “How are you finding working here?” she asked. “Honestly.”

The question caught him off guard. It was the first time she’d asked him anything that wasn’t directly task-related and he found himself momentarily without an answer. “It’s a lot to take in,” he eventually said, which was true and felt safe.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, with no particular inflection. “Sit down,” she added, nodding toward the chair across from her desk. Graham sat, clutching his notebook like a shield. The leather groaned under his weight, oddly loud in the silence.

Amanda snapped her laptop shut with a decisive click. The sound made Graham’s shoulders twitch, a sign of his nervousness, though he kept his spine straight, his grip tightening on the notebook balanced across his thighs. She leaned back in her chair, the afternoon sunlight catching the silver threads in her blouse – threads he hadn’t noticed before, shimmering like fishing line in the light.

“Tell me what do you think of the Milan proposal.”

Graham swallowed, his throat suddenly too tight. The Milan proposal. Right. He opened his notebook, the pages fluttering under his clumsy fingers. “The boutique’s focus on artisanal craftsmanship is strong,” he began, aiming for professionalism but landing somewhere near nervous undergraduate. “But their carbon footprint is—”

Amanda interrupted him with a wave of her hand – a gesture so dismissive it sent Graham’s pulse skittering. “Forget that carbon footprint malarkey,” she said, her voice dropping into something lower, almost conspiratorial. She leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished mahogany desk, and Graham’s gaze dipped involuntarily to where her blouse gaped open. He wrenched his eyes back up, but not fast enough. It hadn’t escaped her notice and now he could be in trouble.

To Graham’s considerable relief, Amanda didn’t seem to mind. Her lips curved, just a fraction, before she continued with the conversation. “What I want to know is whether you think they’re worth our time. Not the numbers. I want to know what – you – think about them.”

Graham’s fingers twitched against the notebook pages, the edges crumpling slightly under his grip. Amanda’s question hung between them – not about the data, not about the projections, but about him. His opinion. His gut. The air in the office felt thinner suddenly, like all the oxygen had been siphoned out through some invisible vent. He cleared his throat, scrambling for coherence. “I ... Er ... Well, their craftsmanship is exceptional, but their distribution model is archaic. If we partner with them, we’d need to overhaul that.” He paused, then added, rather recklessly, “And their creative director’s a pretentious ass.”

It was reckless, yes, but Graham felt emboldened by her unexpected focus on his judgment rather than data. He now saw her eyebrows arch – just a fraction – but Graham saw the spark in her eyes before she schooled her expression back to neutrality. She tapped a manicured nail against the desk. “Interesting,” she said, the word slow and deliberate. “Most people don’t notice that about Laurent until the third meeting.” She tilted her head, studying Graham like he was a fabric sample she couldn’t quite place. “What gave him away?”

Graham hesitated, caught off guard by the question – and by the way Amanda’s gaze pinned him in place, sharp and unrelenting. He’d half expected a reprimand for the bluntness, not curiosity. “Er...,” he started, then forced himself to straighten. “The way he dismissed the intern during the Zoom call. Twice. Like she was furniture.” The memory flickered – Laurent’s bored wave, the intern’s flushed cheeks – and Graham’s jaw tightened. “And he kept name-dropping designers like they were trading cards.”

Amanda’s lips twitched – not quite a smile, but something dangerously close. She reached for a sleek silver pen on her desk, rolling it between her fingers with deliberate slowness. The motion drew Graham’s gaze like a magnet, the pen catching the light as it spun. “You’re observant,” she said, her voice softer now, almost approving. “Most of my team wouldn’t have caught that. They’re too busy nodding along to his mindless rhetoric.”

The pen stilled between Amanda’s fingers, and Graham realized that he’d been holding his breath. The office was just too quiet right now – no hum of the air conditioning, no distant chatter from the main office – just the faint tap of Amanda’s nail against the desk and the rush of blood in his ears. She tilted her head, the office lights catching the sharp line of her jaw. “So,” she said, her voice a low purr, “you think we should pass on the proposal?”

Graham knew it was risky, but he couldn’t resist glancing again at where Amanda’s blouse gaped open. It was a foolish thing to do, but he almost couldn’t help himself. Still he allowed his eyes no more than the briefest flicker in that direction, and he felt confident that she wouldn’t have been aware of it. “I think we could do better,” he said, trying to sound confident while his pulse hammered against his collar. Amanda’s gaze didn’t waver – sharp, assessing – but her fingers stilled against the desk. The silence stretched thin enough to snap.

Amanda looked at him thoughtfully, before leaning back in her chair. The movement made her blouse pull taut across her chest, and Graham’s reckless eyes flicked downward again. This time, for a little too long. He winced inwardly, certain that she’d noticed. Her lips curved, slow and deliberate, like she’d caught him stealing food from the company fridge. He was expecting censure, but she seemed more amused than anything. “Interesting,” she murmured, tapping the pen against her palm. “Most people wouldn’t have the guts to say that to my face.”

Graham’s fingers clenched around the edge of his notebook, the stiff cardboard biting into his palms. Amanda’s smirk lingered, his interest in her cleavage hanging between them. He shouldn’t have done it. He knew he shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have glanced at the way her blouse dipped just above the third button, but his brain had apparently short-circuited somewhere and wasn’t responding to reason anymore. Her quiet amusement only made it harder for him not to do it again and to keep his eyes on her face.

The pen slipped from Amanda’s fingers, rolling across the desk with a quiet click before stopping inches from Graham’s notebook. He stared at it – silver, expensive-looking, the kind of pen people signed contracts with – then looked back up at Amanda. Her expression was unreadable, but the air between them had thickened, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.