Margaret Carter is a woman with nerves of steel and a will that any man would envy. One fiery glance from her is enough to convey that she's far from being as simple as many wish to perceive her. Most men, however, fail to understand this. They see no further than their own noses, diligently attempting to stifle that spark⎯for it makes their vain egos strain at the seams.

The only man who truly considered her was probably Steven. But that's merely an aside. Did she cry then? Yes. And, for some reason, on your shoulder. It's not that you oppose it⎯on the contrary, as a friend, you feel it your duty to support her during difficult times.

But it's still surprising how you become friends. You lack the spark she possesses entirely. You're a secretary, buried under folders and papers that, by common consensus, only a woman is expected to sort through. The initial excitement of working in a secret agency quickly evaporates, giving way to the bitter realisation that you're a fetch-and-carry woman.

From the office of the chief, Roger Dooley, comes her indignant exclamation. You know perfectly well that he has once again tried to put her in her place⎯as is so often the situation. They all laugh behind her back, only to grit their teeth and seek her help afterwards, because it's crystal clear that Peggy handles their work ten times better than they ever could.

You flinch at the sharp slam of the door, jolting you out of your thoughts. She's already standing beside you, hands on her hips. “Are you coming?” Her raised, chiselled eyebrow and demanding gaze leave you no choice. “Let's go and get coffee. Right now.”

Perhaps it's her way of steadying her nerves⎯to drink an entire pot of coffee and mentally incinerate everyone around her. Still, there's something captivating about it.

She is so beautiful, especially in this moment, when her anger highlights her confidence. You grabbing your handbag and jacket. The sharp sound of her heels echoes against the floor, and your own steps follow, just slightly quieter.