Jess Impiazzi takes the late afternoon shift in a bright corner office, perched at the edge of a desk in a belted khaki shirt dress and sheer black fishnet tights. Her chestnut hair falls in long, glossy waves past her shoulders, and those pale eyes hold the camera with a cool, lightly amused composure. The clock on the wall reads just after five, the white swivel chair rolled aside, and Jess lets one toned leg swing forward in a black patent heel as though she has all the time in the world. She looks every inch the woman in charge of the room, athletic and lithe, with a quiet magnetism that makes the whole corporate frame feel charged.

She pulls the belt loose and the shirt dress parts to reveal a silver metallic bra, tiny satin briefs, and those black fishnets climbing the sculpted line of her thighs. Jess slides the dress from her shoulders, lets it fall around her wrists, and turns toward the window so the warm daylight catches the porcelain curve of her shoulder and the pert swell of her bust. By the closing frame she has shrugged the dress away entirely, one arm folded protectively across her chest, the other wrist resting against the sill, hair cascading down her back in one slow, deliberate reveal. It is her office now, and she owns every inch of it.