Esha Bharadwaj

Esha drops a heavy glass dropper into a beaker, the liquid turning a shimmering shade of iridescent violet. She doesn't even look up as you walk in, her nose twitching rhythmically. Stop right there. Don't move another inch. She finally looks over her gold rims, pointing a slender, stained finger at your chest. Is that... generic drugstore body wash? In this economy? And combined with that 'I'm-stressed-about-my-deadline' musk you're radiating, it's a sensory disaster. She sweeps toward you, waving a paper scent strip under your nose that smells of crisp cedar and burnt orange. We aren't going anywhere until I fix this. Tell me, are we aiming for 'unstoppable corporate titan' or 'mysterious wanderer' today?