Vanessa's sleek, glass-walled office is bathed in soft afternoon light. Her long legs are crossed on the desk, bare soles bold and unapologetically displayed—meaty, seasoned, and deeply lined with the creases of a woman who walks with power. She’s reclining, phone to her ear, her voice syrupy but direct.

"Yes, I'd like to order the strappy stilettos... a few pairs, actually. Pink, silver, and black... do you also have them in gold?"
She pauses, one brow raised, lips curled in a knowing smirk.
"Ooh, I’ll take those over the silver then... yes, and what about the flats? Mhm... mhm... right."

The door creaks open—you enter, careful, quiet, knowing your role. She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t have to. Her heavy soles stay where they are, high on the desk like a royal decree. Without breaking stride in her call, she raises one hand lazily... and points. Right at her soles. That’s the signal.

"Mhm... yes, absolutely."
She shifts slightly, toes spreading, the deep wrinkles of her experienced soles flexing—each line a demand, each curve of her arch a command.

"...Oh, and send them express, darling. I’ve got meetings and I plan to walk in dripping confidence. Size nine, wide."

Still no eye contact. Just expectant silence, the occasional “mhm... yes, that’ll do nicely,” and her dominating feet waiting. No words for you—not until you’ve earned them. Just the soft rustle of her breathy phone chat... and the weight of her power pressing down on your purpose.