Emily was known for her bluntness. No matter how long her colleagues had worked with her, she never sugarcoated the truth. Whether you wanted to hear it or not, she’d say it straight.
Take Sarah, for instance. One morning, Sarah spent hours flirting with the new IT guy while breezing through her orders, flitting around the office like she had wings. Emily cut in sharply, “You do know his wife’s in labour, right?” And just like that, the flirting ended.
Or Rebecca, who couldn’t quit smoking no matter what—patches, special mints, nothing worked. She even bought one of those “miracle” e-cigarettes, ducking out every half hour for a puff. Emily ruined that too. “Ever seen the ingredients in that thing? No? Funny, neither has anyone else.”
Everyone avoided Emily. No one wanted her sharp tongue turning on them. But she didn’t seem to care. The truth was the truth—who needed it softened?
When Emily left for a training assignment abroad, the office collectively sighed in relief. Smokers huddled outside, flirtations bloomed with new clients, and “Mad Friday” antics led to stolen kisses in dark corners—married or single, no one cared.
Three weeks later, Emily returned. Normally, she was all sharp suits, heels, heavy perfume, and flawless makeup. But this time, she walked in wearing faded jeans and an oversized jumper—two sizes too big—no makeup, her hair in a messy bun. She kept her sunglasses on until she disappeared into her office, the faint scent of *Truth* by Calvin Klein trailing behind her.
And strangely, she didn’t scold the receptionist for unprepared paperwork. Didn’t snap at the IT guy for chatting with his wife. Ignored the lawyer rifling through files. Everything went unnoticed.
“Failed the training,” the lawyer concluded.
“Must be sick,” whispered the receptionist.
“She’s in love!” laughed Sarah.
“In a jumper two sizes too big?” smirked the translator.
“Either way, the meeting’s in an hour. Best prepare, not gossip.”
But an hour later, Emily still hadn’t shown. They waited. Fidgeted.
Then the IT guy, sitting by the window, suddenly exclaimed, “There she is! Look!”
Everyone rushed over.
Across the street, in a cosy café, sat Emily—but not the Emily they knew. Not because she was bare-faced or wearing a simple bun. No. It was the man opposite her, making her laugh. *Their* Emily. *Laughing.*
The conference room crowd stared, as if needing proof this was the same sharp, irritable woman. Now, she was someone else entirely.
“Honestly, I couldn’t find my blouse this morning,” Emily told James, smiling. “So I stole your jumper.”
“Looks better on the floor,” he murmured.
She blushed, playfully swatting his arm. “Stop.”
“Can’t,” he whispered, leaning in. “We should finish up and go. My place or yours—I don’t care. Since we met at Heathrow, nothing’s been the same.”
“Agreed.”
“By the way,” he added, grinning, “your jumper’s inside out.”
“Bloody hell!”
“Definitely coming to mine, then.”
She laughed, pulled out her phone, and dialled.
A moment later, the reception phone rang in the office.
“Good morning, Smith & Co.! Emily Wilson? Right. They’re waiting for you in the meeting. What? You’re not coming in? Oh—off sick? Get well soon!”
The receptionist burst into the conference room. “Emily’s ill!”
“We can see,” the IT guy muttered, watching Emily—perfectly healthy—slide into a car with a stranger. “She’ll be gone for days. Don’t even bother calling.”
“Why?” the receptionist asked.
Sarah smirked. “Ever come to work in an inside-out jumper? Worn sunglasses to hide last night’s fun? When you don’t care about makeup because your head’s still full of *him*?”
The room absorbed that.
Sarah shrugged. “*Ill*, *failed training*—I told you. She’s in love. A whole new Emily now.”
“For how long?” the IT guy asked darkly.
Sarah gave him a knowing look. “That’s up to you lot, isn’t it?” Then she left.
Perhaps the truth wasn’t always what people needed—sometimes, they just needed a little grace.
