Laura had a sharp way with words. Her colleagues knew her as someone who never minced her words, always cutting straight to the truth—whether you wanted to hear it or not.
Take Emily, for instance, who spent all morning flirting with the new IT bloke while breezing through her orders, practically floating around the office. “I assume you know his wife’s in labour?” Laura asked. And just like that, the flirting fizzled out.
Then there was Victoria, who’d been trying to quit smoking for ages—patches, mints, nothing worked. She even bought one of those fancy e-cigarettes, popping outside every half hour for a puff. Laura shut that down too: “Have you even seen the ingredients in that miracle vape? No? Funny, neither has anyone else.”
People tiptoed around Laura, avoiding her razor-sharp tongue. She didn’t care. The truth was the truth, after all—but did anyone actually want it?
When she left for a three-week training stint abroad, the office let out a collective sigh of relief. They smoked behind the building, flirted with new clients, went wild on Friday nights, and even snogged in dimly lit corners—married or single.
Then Laura returned. Always immaculate—tailored dresses, heels, heavy perfume, full makeup—she now walked in wearing faded jeans and an oversized jumper, hair in a messy bun, no makeup, sunglasses still on as she slipped into her office. No overwhelming scent, just a whisper of Calvin Klein’s Truth.
And the strangest thing? She didn’t scold the receptionist for forgetting the meeting notes. Didn’t snap at the IT guy for his endless calls with his wife. Walked right past the lawyer buried in paperwork without a word.
“Failed the training,” the lawyer guessed.
“Caught a bug,” the receptionist whispered.
“She’s in love!” Emily cackled.
“That why she’s drowned in a jumper two sizes too big?” smirked the translator.
“Either way, the meeting’s in an hour. Best prep instead of gossiping.”
Except an hour later, Laura still hadn’t shown. The team waited, uneasy.
Then the IT guy, seated by the window, gasped: “Bloody hell—look!”
Everyone rushed over.
Across the street, in a cosy café, sat Laura. But this wasn’t their Laura. Not because of the lack of makeup or the messy hair. No—it was the way she laughed as the man opposite her spoke, leaning in like she’d never done with any of them.
Their Laura. Laughing.
The team stared, as if double-checking this wasn’t some lookalike. Sharp, stern, always-irritated Laura was… happy.
“Honestly, I couldn’t find my blouse this morning,” Laura told the man, grinning. “So I stole your jumper.”
“Prefer you without it,” he replied.
She blushed, swatting his arm. “Stop.”
“Can’t,” he murmured, leaning closer. “We need to finish up and go. Mine or yours—I don’t care. Since we met at the airport, nothing’s been the same.”
“Agreed.”
He smirked. “By the way—your jumper’s inside out.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Exactly why you’re coming to mine. To take it off.”
She laughed, pulling out her phone. A moment later, the office phone rang.
“Good morning, thank you for calling! Laura Whitmore? Right. The team’s waiting for the meeting. What? You’re not coming? Oh—ill? Get well soon!”
The receptionist dashed into the meeting room. “Laura’s ill!”
“We can see,” the IT guy muttered, as everyone watched Laura, perfectly healthy, slide into a car with the stranger. She’d be gone for days. “Don’t even bother texting or calling.”
“Why?” the receptionist frowned.
“Ever come to work in an inside-out jumper?” Emily smirked. “Worn sunglasses to hide how wrecked you are from last night? When you don’t care about makeup because your head’s still with him?” She shrugged. “That’s love.”
The room processed this.
“‘Ill’, ‘failed training’—told you. She’s in love. A different Laura now.”
“For how long?” the IT guy grumbled.
Emily gave him a knowing look. “That’s up to you blokes, isn’t it?” And she walked out.
