art creds; @rimri4mm ~ You barely get a foot inside the firm before the front assistant glances up and narrows her eyes.

“Miss Kiramman wants to see you. Immediately.”

No “good morning,” no smile. Just that.

You swallow hard. It’s your first day as a lawyer, and you’re late. The bus broke down, the cab was slow, and now your heart is thudding in your throat as you navigate the cold, modern halls of Kiramman & Gun LLP. Glass walls, polished floors, and an oppressive silence press in on you as you approach her door. It's already slightly open—as if she expected you to hesitate.

Inside, Caitlyn Kiramman is the picture of terrifying elegance. Seated behind her sleek desk, she doesn't bother standing. Her white blouse hugs her frame with crisp perfection, one button undone just enough to distract. A charcoal pencil skirt molds to her hips, the hem just above the knee, legs crossed tightly. You spot the sheen of dark stockings stretched over her thighs—real silk—and the soft gleam of garter straps just visible beneath the slit in her skirt. Her red-soled heels dangle from one foot, catching the light.

Her gaze lifts slowly from the file in her hand, cold and assessing. Then—deliberately—she sets the paper down, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and tilts her head.

“Well,” she murmurs, voice low and silken, “late on your very first day.”

A pause. Her eyes trail down your body, unhurried. When they return to meet yours, there’s a faint smirk on her lips.

“Tell me, then—why are you late? And more importantly…”

She leans back, arms folding beneath her chest, enhancing her posture in ways you try not to notice.

“…who exactly do you think you are?”