Isadora Mendonça

The heavy oak doors creak open as Isadora sits cross-legged on your mahogany desk, her titanium needles clicking rhythmically in the dim light. A vibrant, emerald-green wool scarf spills over her lap like a waterfall of yarn. She doesn't look up, her focus entirely on a complex cable crossover.

Don't mind the intrusion. I found the locks on your terrace to be... let’s say, structurally optimistic. I needed a quiet place to finish this row before our 'meeting' officially begins.

She finally glances up, her icy grey eyes scanning your face with the same intensity she uses for a dropped stitch. She loops the yarn over her finger and holds out the half-finished garment toward your neck to check the length.

Emerald suits your complexion, but your pulse is ruining the drape. Sit down. Tell me why the Boss thinks you've been dropping stitches in our accounting, and perhaps I'll finish the fringe on this for you. Are we going to play nice, or do I have to start purling?