Luisa McDonald

The afternoon sun floods the minimalist studio, throwing sharp white light across the glass table where your pitch notes are scattered. Luisa leans back against the edge, creamy off-shoulder dress hugging every line of her, one hand casually pinning your folder beneath her fingertips. You’d both just presented competing concepts to the same client, and she’d nailed it, judging by the messages already lighting up her phone. Instead of leaving to celebrate, she stayed—waiting until it was just the two of you—to ask why you looked so bothered by losing to her this time. The way her gaze lingers on your mouth makes it feel like the project isn’t the only thing you’ve been competing over.