Today was clearly going to open with a new disaster.

I was taller. 'Slim,' maybe—but the kind of slim that had too many ambitious curves for borrowed clothes.

And that was the first mistake.

The pencil skirt I wore was too tight—not the sexy kind of tight, but the kind that made me look like an exploded rice cake, outlining every unimportant part of my body. And the white shirt… sigh! Too small, too sheer to hide my bright red bra, which now screamed for global attention like an emergency siren.

No more time. Mrs. Widya had warned me: we cannot be late for the office!

And sure enough—once I entered the lobby, all eyes turned toward me like X-rays. I regretted ever believing strangers didn’t care about appearances.

Ding!

The moment the elevator opened, I slipped inside—pretending to be busy with fake notifications, hoping the world wouldn’t notice I existed.

Then I saw my reflection in the elevator’s metal wall.

My curly hair had puffed up—its ends twisting in every direction like a sleepless lion stuck in a fan. A total hurricane.

And yes. The bra was still showing.

Oh. The shirt was so tight—the gaps between buttons were like unsolicited bonus visuals. Those poor buttons looked like exhausted soldiers on the front line, barely holding back a world too bold to be contained.

As soon as I got off the elevator, I rushed to where the car was waiting.

"Adel, hurry up!"

Mrs. Widya’s voice cracked like a whip—complete with the intonation of "late? You're dead!"

"Yes!"

Her gaze traveled up and down. Not judgmental—more like a sin detector.

"Did you forget who we’re meeting this morning?"

"I-I remember."

My voice was tiny.

"And you think this outfit is acceptable for a meeting with Mr. Lou?"

I tried a weak laugh. Big mistake. She wasn’t joking.

"Sorry, I grabbed something in a rush, just took whatever from your suitcase—"

I replied as I got into the car.

"Yeah, but your bra is red, Del!"

I swallowed. That was my only bra!

And okay, maybe the color was too… patriotic.

But the real problem wasn’t the bra—it was the shirt! It looked like it was designed for someone who’d never touched fried food in their life.

I tried to breathe slowly and evenly—praying no buttons would explode and humiliate me mid-meeting.

Fingers crossed.

When I entered the meeting room, it felt like I had stepped into another dimension.

The room was bright. Too bright. Everyone stood in a semi-circle facing the glass board, tablets in hand, serious faces.

No one looked at me as I slipped to the back, clutching my laptop like an impostor who’d crashed a mafia meeting—or maybe a PTA gathering.

My shirt was still tight.

The buttons still fighting an impossible mission.

And the red bra?

Still waving proudly beneath the white fabric, like a war flag that didn’t know when to surrender.

Then at 9:30, someone tapped the table and announced, "Formiddagspause!"

Coffee break.

Apparently, a sacred time in Denmark.

I followed the crowd into the open pantry and—wow. Everyone transformed into their chill selves.

Ties were loosened, shoes slipped off, one guy even sat cross-legged on a chair.

Very egalitarian.

No visible hierarchy.

But what almost made me cry—

There was no tea.

Only coffee. So much coffee. Coffee machines. Coffee grounds.

I searched frantically. Maybe a rogue tea bag? A box of chamomile?

All I found was hot water and a box of almond milk.

"Try kanelsnegl," a friendly female staff offered, handing me a cinnamon roll the size of a baby pillow. "It’s homemade."

"Thank you!"

I smiled—half hungry, half caffeine-deprived.

We chatted. Her name was Freja. She introduced two of her friends—Mathilde and Anne—who all looked like Pinterest office board models: linen blazers, wide-leg trousers, spotless white sneakers.

I introduced myself too. They nodded politely, but their eyes clearly said:

“A tragic protagonist. Lost in the wrong novel.”

"How’s your first day in Denmark?" Anne asked while sipping her espresso. From her English accent, she might not be a native.

I wanted to say the truth: "Still grieving my luggage."

"Oh, yeah… it's a bit colder than I expected."

They laughed. Warmly, not mockingly. Still, I could feel their faces saying: “Oh, she’s trying!”

In the end, I had to sip the coffee.

Too bitter.

Even the coffee rejected me today.

Before 10 AM, someone appeared at the pantry entrance. "Louandre wants to see the girl from the Indonesian team." Her blue eyes calmly scanned the room.

I glanced at Mrs. Widya, who immediately waved her hand like shooing a lost duckling.

All heads turned. Even the coffee machine went silent.

Mathilde and Freja stared at me as if I had just been chosen as the midsommar sacrifice.

I stood before the glass door that read: Lucien L. – CEO.

Sweat began to drip—from places I didn’t know could sweat.

Okay. Nervous.

But I reminded myself—before presenting the product report—I had to apologize. For the rendang hysteria and… the cheese trail incident.

Oh, and one more thing—please, shirt buttons, stay strong. Hugging my laptop was my only brilliant idea.

The blue-eyed assistant welcomed me. "Come in."

The door wasn’t even closed, but my heart had already sprinted.

And there he was.

Louandre Lucien sat behind a black oak desk—too black for normal office furniture. Morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, outlining a jawline too sharp for mere mortals.

His hair was dark, slightly tousled at the front, but somehow looked like the result of a premium stylist going for “casual.” His shirt was immaculate—maybe ironed by planetary pressure. Sleeves rolled just below the elbow, revealing veined forearms and a metallic watch that probably cost more than my entire existence.

His expression?

Flat. Like someone who just smelled neon-yellow cheese.

I stood stiff like a prisoner before a judge. If this were a film, it’d be titled *Fifty Shades of Shame*.

He slowly looked up.

His eyes—green. Not sweet emerald green like the romantic heroes in novels. This was deep-sea green—calm, dark, piercing, and maybe—deadly.

"Please sit, Miss Hartono," he said in English.

I faked a stiff smile and reached out like a proper Indonesian.

He ignored it.

"I have twenty minutes to learn about your company’s product. Of course, I’ve had the brochure since months ago, but I need more detailed information," he said in English.

"O-oh. Of course, Sir."

Suddenly, I remembered—I had to apologize first—

"Be-before that… I’d like to apologize for my inappropriate behavior—"

"You now have nineteen minutes," he cut in, interlocking his fingers. His watch glinted like a laser warning.

"Oh-oh?"

Frantically, I opened my laptop and forced my fingers to move.

What should’ve been a simple task now felt like opening a coffin.

The screen lit up.

My reflection stared back—panicked eyes, dry lips, frizzy curls, and the red bra shadow—

"Interesting underwear," he remarked flatly.

Gulp.

I choked on air. "I-I..."

He sighed, then stood. His movements slow. Calculated.

Like a predator in no rush—knowing the prey won’t get far.

I just wanted the earth to swallow me.

And suddenly—with a swift move, he tossed his suit jacket at me.

Of course I panicked.

I stepped back instinctively—

—and my heel caught the chair leg.

I fell backward.

But—unfortunately or luckily—

He caught me. Fast. His left arm supporting my back.

For a second, we both froze.

My head rested against his arm. I stopped breathing.

"Miss Hartono," his voice dropped an octave. Soft. Too soft.

"I can’t work with someone like you."

His Danish accent was too clean. Too crisp. Like those words were pre-sharpened before being thrown at my face.

He dropped me to the floor. Like a plastic bag full of spoiled vegetables.

I sat there, stunned. Half in pain, half in disbelief—emotionally and physically.

I studied his Scandinavian-accented English carefully.

"Lort. You're a liability."

I froze.

Did he mean… I was a burden? Fired?

Without another glance,

he added—

"Cover your bra. Get out."

Clear—as if he’d already rejected the proposal and the product before I even spoke—

I grabbed the black jacket like a cheap witch’s cloak.

But there was no magic.

Just shame, erupting behind it.

---

"This is pathetic! At this rate, you might as well stay in the hotel! Or better yet, you shouldn't have come with me to Denmark!"

Mrs. Widya snapped, flinging her bag onto the sofa.

"I spent two days racking my brain doing everything myself—and you nearly destroyed my company’s reputation!"

I lowered my head. There was no one else to blame.

Yes, I was unlucky.

And maybe cursed from day one.

That man almost erased our name from the client list. Luckily, Mrs. Widya was professional enough to explain what really happened.

At least now, he knew I wasn’t some tacky secretary trying to seduce a CEO with a red bra!

I wiped my forehead. I couldn’t tell which was worse—being punished for a wardrobe malfunction, or just… life’s algorithm.

"I’m sorry, Ma’am..."

Mrs. Widya rubbed her temples. "Byggeri Expo is in five days. We have zero tolerance for mistakes now."

Her tone began to cool.

"LL isn’t just our main sponsor—they’re a strategic partner. As an industry leader, their reputation sets the standard. If we fail, we don’t just lose a contract—we lose our credibility in the market!"

"Yes, I understand, Ma’am."

Mrs. Widya sighed. I watched her glance at her watch, then swiftly grab her bag again.

"Go shopping. Buy proper clothes and whatever else you need."

Her voice was flat, but her eyes sharp.

"Don’t take too long. Be back after lunch."

Then—she handed me her platinum credit card.

---

I frowned at my reflection in the store mirror.

The black jacket hung off me like a burlap sack—stiff, too wide in the shoulders—making me look ridiculous. Like a kid wearing her dad’s suit. But... the smell of sandalwood and vetiver reminded me—this was Louandre’s jacket. A-at the very least, it covered up the white shirt and red bra disaster.

"Jeez!"

My fingers trembled slightly as I flipped the price tag. Even with a 30% discount, the number made my throat dry.

I took a deep breath and picked a plain black turtleneck, a tapered-cut women’s blazer, and a pair of black linen culottes. Simple. And—undergarments. I grabbed a set of plain black sports bras. No more wardrobe malfunctions!

I slid the credit card to the cashier, silently praying Mrs. Widya wouldn’t call and cancel the transaction remotely.

Ping!

My phone buzzed.

"Busy? Haven’t replied to my texts in 24 hours. Did you overnight with Nathaniel?"

—Misswa, my devil of an editor, always texting just when I was about to lose my mind.

I bit my lip and dragged my shopping bags outside, typing fast:

"I almost got fired over a wardrobe malfunction! Nathaniel? I can’t even manage my own life!"

Her reply: just a laughing emoji.

WITCH!

"Okay, so you’re finally focusing on the office plot? Your draft hasn’t progressed in five days!"

"CAN YOU JUST SHUT UP!"

My thumbs hammered the screen, sending three punching emojis.

Devil emoji.

My shoulders slumped.

"Come on, give me some progress."

"There is no progress! Seriously, I’m drowning here!"

"So? No hot guys?"

"NO!"

MY. GOD. THIS WOMAN!

"NO!!! There’s only this black-haired, green-eyed guy—flat face like a wall. Cold. Boring!"

Damn it! That wall even called my bra 'interesting.'

Wait—

"Oh? That could work!"

I smacked my forehead.

How the hell did I remember Louandre Lucien’s entire physical description?

I sent her a voice note: "NO! STOP!"

She replied—complete with the sound of a passing meatball vendor in the background.

"YEAH, BECAUSE I MADE A PROBLEM HERE!"

Once I sent that voice note—

I realized several people nearby turned to look at me.

I quickly looked down and typed.

"Miss, I can’t work on the draft this week. Sorry. I’m in a foreign country and I need to be extra careful."

—Of course. Ignorant, as always.

Devil emoji again.

"Uh? Ugh, whatever!"

I gave up and stopped replying.

Definitely not.

Nathaniel had deep brown eyes—like warm, melted dark chocolate on a morning that could still burn your tongue. His gaze calm, but sharp enough to slice through lies in a boardroom. No wonder Cathy fell in days.

Yeah, his eyes were green—but not the sweet kind that made Cathy swoon.

More like a villain’s green—the kind that scanned your entire life’s sins before you even sat down!

And yes, he once said I looked ugly. Cathy doesn’t go for rude guys.

My steps still felt awkward when I reached the LL office building—either because of the red bra trauma, or because the CEO’s jacket was still hanging on my shoulders.

I took a long breath as the Fredericia wind slipped between my scarf and Mrs. Widya’s tight shirt.

"Okay, Del. Focus. The day isn’t over."

"Miss Adel!"

Suddenly, Freja jogged over from the front door. "Miss! Your baggage—here!"

I blinked a few times. My brain needed a second to process.

"Your baggage has been found!"

My suitcase?!

My eyes widened. My suitcase had been found?!

I almost cried. Honestly. It felt like a plot twist in the final episode of a Korean drama—if the drama was about a suitcase.

That light blue case looked a little cracked at the edge, but the lock was intact. I opened it slowly, hands trembling. Thank God, the contents were still neatly packed—and oh my God—Mom’s rendang.

Tears welled up.

I lifted the brown-taped container like a precious offering.

Patiently, I peeled off each layer of tape. Until finally I opened the lid—and peeked—

Sniffing sounds echoed around me. Then someone shouted:

"SHE FOUND IT!"

Applause followed.

Cheers.

As if I had just won The Great Lost Luggage Reunion Award 2025!

Apparently... the drama of my suitcase filled with rendang from Indonesia had become breaking news in the office.

I let out a deep breath. That suitcase didn’t bring miracles, but at least it helped cover the mess I caused earlier today. At the very least, I could change clothes. At least... I could restart the day, even if a bit late.