It was not what they expected.

When Betty Suarez left MODE, the whispers began immediately. Who would replace her? Another frumpy, wide eyed overachiever? Someone mean, cruel..maybe someone who belonged?

No one expected her.

She was beautiful. But not in the impossible, intimidating way of MODE’s models and editors. No, she was beautiful in a way that felt intentional. Hair always perfect, makeup not less, not much.

She walked in wearing a coat that shouldn’t belong to someone middle class, something yellow and wool. A bag that shouldn’t be real. Nails always painted in primaries; red, blue, yellow.

Like Mondrian. Like Pop Art. Like she knew something they didn’t.

And she smiled.

At everyone.

Not out of obligation, not out of fear—but out of something genuine.

Amanda was the first to test her. A passive-aggressive comment about her coat.

“Oh, I love your coat. My grandmother had one just like it before she died.”

A perfect insult. A MODE classic. But the new assistant just laughed.

“Oh, she wore Dior?” she said, adjusting the collar before walking away, utterly unbothered. No bite. No sting. Just dismissal. Amanda stared. People stared.

She wasn’t supposed to be immune.

Henry barely had time to register the impact. One moment, he was balancing a coffee, a sandwich, and a folder overflowing with invoices. The next— boom!

The coffee tipped. The papers scattered.

“Oh God—”

Instinct told him to brace for disaster. MODE was not forgiving. He had seen people go ballistic over a single misplaced latte.*

He looked up. There she was. Impossibly put together. A soft, structured coat draped over her, bag still perched perfectly on her arm as she bent down to pick up a paper. She should’ve been annoyed. But she wasn’t. Why?

“Are you okay?”

Henry blinked.

Was he okay?

She was the one who had been bumped into. She was the one who had coffee nearly spilled on her.

“I—I should be asking you that.”

“No worries,” she said before walking away, just like that.