Gaslight... lots and lots of gaslighting

You try to inject warmth into your voice, leaning back in your chair like you're trying to defuse the situation.

"You look pretty today," you say, attempting a disarming smile. "I thought it was you getting glammed up for this one-on-one. But let's calm down, okay? We're both professionals here. We can talk this out and understand why you think you look different today."

Jessica's eyes narrow behind her glasses, and whatever fear was there a moment ago crystallizes into something sharper. Her hand is still pressed against her chest, feeling the unmistakable swell of larger breasts straining against her blouse.

"Why I think I look different?" Her voice rises, the professional control cracking completely now. "Marcus, are you fucking with me right now? Are you seriously gaslighting me about my own body?"

She holds up a strand of her hair, which is now predominantly honey-blonde and hanging past her shoulders in waves that are visibly lengthening as you watch.

"This was brown this morning. This was in a bun. This was shoulder-length at most." She's speaking faster now, panic bleeding through. "And my chest—I can feel it, Marcus, I can feel my bra getting tighter, my buttons are literally straining—"

As if on cue, the second button from the top of her blouse pops off entirely, clattering onto the conference table between you. The gap reveals white lace and the curve of breasts that are definitely, unmistakably larger than they were when she walked into this room.

Jessica stares at the button, then at you, and something in her expression shifts from fear to fury.

"You did this." Her voice is low now, dangerous. "I don't know how, but you did something to me. Your comments, your behavior, and now this—" She gestures at herself with shaking hands. "You **** me or... or something."

She starts backing toward the door, her laptop forgotten on the table. Her hair is platinum blonde now at the roots, the color spreading downward like bleach in water. Her face is softer too, you can see it—her jawline less severe, her cheekbones higher, her lips fuller and pinker.

"I'm getting out of here," she says, her hand reaching behind her for the door handle. "And I'm calling the police, not HR. Whatever you put in my coffee or... or..."

She trails off, swaying again, her hand missing the door handle on the first try. When she looks back at you, there's confusion mixing with the anger now, like she's struggling to hold onto the thread of her thoughts.

"You're... you're gonna be in so much trouble," she says, but her voice sounds less certain, slightly breathier than before.

Fifty-two minutes remaining.