Chapter 1: A really difficult meeting
The office was silent after hours, bathed in the weak, honeyed glow of James’s desk lamp. Long shadows stretched from the cubicle walls, turning the familiar space into a canyon of fabric and plastic. The only sounds were the relentless, distant hum of the air conditioning and the precise clack of his mechanical keyboard. He was deep in the flow, tweaking a line of CSS, when a scent cut through the sterile air—something like jasmine and vanilla.He looked up.Amina stood at the entrance of his cubicle, a tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. Her posture was uncharacteristically rigid.
“Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Amina Hal-hassan. I’m new. You’re also at the meeting Mr. Thompson called, right?”
"Meeting? What meeting? I didn't know anything about it... unless... of course! The email that arrived this afternoon at 3:00 PM and which I ignored! Damn bad habit of not reading emails right away." Noticing that Amina was still there with her hand outstretched, "Excuse me! I'm James Osborne!" James quickly shook hands.
Then, opening her email client, she realized the email was extremely long and detailed. So she decided to go all out. "I have to ask you a favor! I know it's not the best way to start a collaboration, but the meeting is in a few minutes and I risk getting a dressing down from Mr. Thompson. Could you summarize it for me? Please!" Amina's voice was low and urgent, her eyes darting toward the glass-walled conference room at the far end of the office. "I just got this project dumped on me, and Thompson’s been sending me these cryptic emails all day. I swear, if I have to read one more paragraph about ‘user-centric paradigm shifts’ without a single concrete instruction, I’m going to lose it."
James blinked, still processing the sudden request. He glanced at his screen—the half-finished CSS tweaks could wait. "Uh, sure. Yeah, no problem." He cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet the office was.
"I have a solution: we'll ask Microsoft Copilot to give us a summary." After typing the question, Copilot informed them a few seconds later that the project was to build a dashboard to monitor pressure, temperature, humidity, and other data from the plant installations of a large energy company. Amina Hal-hassan would be responsible for the UX/UI part, James for the front-end development in Angular, Mary Simpson for the back-end development in Java, Carlos Ramirez for the devops part, and, of course, Mr. Thompson would be the project manager. Copilot also took the time to point out a comment from Thompson: "They gave me a rookie for the UX/UI part."
Realizing the comment was intended for him and that it was confidential, James blushed at Amina's presence. "Sorry. Thompson can be a real jerk sometimes. But don't let that scare you off!"
James added quickly, trying to cover the awkwardness. "He says that about everyone at first. I think it’s his way of motivating us. Or maybe he just forgets how to be nice."
Amina let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, I’m not scared. I’ve dealt with worse." She adjusted the tablet in her arms, her fingers tapping restlessly against the screen. "But I *am* annoyed. I’ve been working on this mockup for three days straight, and if he’s going to dismiss me before I even get a chance to present it…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Anyway. Thanks for the summary.
Just then they were interrupted by Thompson, who appeared at the cubicle door and shouted, "You two still here? The meeting's about to start."
Everyone enters the meeting room where Ramirez and Simpson are already present. Thompson begins to discuss the application's functional requirements. A long dissertation on the type of solutions to implement, the technologies to use, the data architecture... at the end of which, he points to Amina, inviting her to stand, and he projects her Figma screenshots onto the giant monitor mounted on the wall.
The room falls silent as the first slide appears—a sleek, minimalist dashboard with a gradient background and crisp, modern typography.
Amina clears her throat, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "So, as you can see, I’ve designed the interface with a focus on readability and quick navigation. The primary metrics are displayed prominently, with secondary data accessible via expandable panels. I’ve also included—"
Thompson interrupts, rubbing his chin. "Hmm. Interesting. But I’m not sure about the color scheme. It’s a bit… bold. Our clients are conservative. They might find this too flashy."
A tense silence settles over the room.
Amina’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but she keeps her voice steady. "The color palette was chosen based on accessibility studies. The contrast ratios meet WCAG AA standards, and the gradient was selected to reduce eye strain during prolonged use." She taps her tablet, pulling up a secondary slide—a heatmap of user testing data. "We ran preliminary tests with a focus group, and this design had the highest engagement and lowest cognitive load."
Thompson leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "I appreciate the effort, but our clients are old-school. They like things simple. Clean. *Boring*, if you will." He chuckles at his own joke, but no one else does.
"Jeremy, accessibility requirements are important. Mandatory, I dare say. They'll kick our asses if we don't comply. Listen to her. She knows what she's talking about!" James, having known Thompson for a long time, takes the liberty of interjecting.
Thompson didn't like being contradicted, but it was one thing to blame a woman, or rather a transsexual (in his day, those freaks of nature didn't dare aspire to work in serious positions), and another to deny the evidence James was reiterating. Mary and Carlos also hastened to support Amina's position.
Thompson, who was not used to being contradicted on such a large scale, had no choice but to give in. "Okay, okay, we'll go with your design. But I want to see a prototype by the end of the week. And don't forget to include all the metrics we discussed earlier." He then turned to James. "You're in charge of the front end. Make sure it's responsive and works on all devices. And don't forget to test it thoroughly." He then turned to Mary. "And you, make sure the back end is robust and scalable. I don't want any performance issues." Finally, he turned to Carlos.
"Maybe it would be better to develop an app in parallel. I don't mean in native language, of course, but something hybrid, with Capacitor, for example. I don't think responsiveness is 100% guaranteed on mobile devices otherwise." James floated the idea. He knew it would mean a lot of extra work for Amina and for him (to build the prototype), but he couldn't help it: his professionalism demanded he be correct. Even if it meant double the work.
Amina shot James a look that could have melted steel, but he only shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry," he muttered, almost inaudible. "It's just... the way things are."
Thompson, oblivious to the tension, nodded approvingly. "Good point, Osborne. We can't afford to drop the ball on this one. The client is a big fish. If we impress them, we might get more contracts." He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. "Alright, everyone, let's get to work. I want updates by Friday."
The room began to disperse, but Amina lingered, her eyes still locked on James.
The moment the door clicked shut behind Thompson, she exhaled sharply and turned to him.
"You *do* know how to make an entrance, don’t you?" she said, her voice low and laced with something between amusement and irritation.
James blinked, caught off guard. "I—I just thought it was a good idea. For the project."
Amina arched an eyebrow. "Oh, absolutely. *Brilliant.* Now I get to redesign *everything* for mobile. Again."
James winced. "I can help. I mean, if you want. I’m good with responsive layouts."
She studied him for a long moment, then sighed, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
"You know what? Fine. You can help. But only if you promise not to suggest any more last-minute overhauls."
James nodded eagerly. "Deal. And—uh, sorry about Thompson. He can be a bit…"
"Out of touch?" Amina supplied, smirking as she leaned against the conference table.
"Yeah. That."
She laughed, the sound bright and sudden, cutting through the sterile office air. "Don’t worry about it. I’ve dealt with worse. And honestly? I’d rather work with someone who *cares* about the project than someone who just nods along."
James felt his cheeks warm. "I do care.
A lot," James admitted, his fingers nervously tapping the edge of the conference table. "I just don’t always know how to say things without sounding…"
"Like a robot?" Amina finished for him, her smile softening. "Don’t worry, I get it. You’re the quiet genius type. I’m the loud, chaotic one. We balance each other out."
James exhaled, relieved. "So… we’re good?"
Amina pushed off the table and adjusted the cuffs of her blouse—a deep emerald that brought out the gold flecks in her eyes. "We’re good. But only if you buy me coffee first. I need caffeine to survive Thompson’s next meeting."
James grinned.
"Coffee it is. But only if you let me pay. It’s the least I can do after dropping the mobile app bomb on you."
Amina smirked, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "Oh, you *owe* me more than coffee, Osborne. But I’ll start with a triple espresso. Black. No sugar."
James chuckled as they walked toward the office kitchen. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the empty break room. A half-dead potted fern drooped in the corner, and the microwave displayed a time that was three hours behind. James made a mental note to fix it—again.
The microwave had been stuck in 2019 since the last power outage, and no one had bothered to reset it. Just like Thompson’s outdated ideas about design, he thought with a smirk.
Amina leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as James fumbled with the coffee machine. It was one of those high-end corporate models that required a PhD to operate, and James was currently in the process of proving that theory.
“You know,” she said, tilting her head, “if you’re this bad at making coffee, I’m not sure I trust you with my UI.”
James paused, a filter half-stuck in the machine. “I’m great with code. You will realize this very soon!"
Maria poked her head into the kitchen: "Can I have some coffee too?" Then, turning to Amina: "You're new, aren't you? Amina sounds like a foreign name. Where are you from?"
Maria asked, her voice casual, but her eyes sharp with curiosity. The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.
Amina didn’t flinch. She had heard it a hundred times before, in a hundred different ways. The way people asked about her name, her accent, her background—it was never just about geography. It was about *otherness*. But she had learned how to answer with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
"Morocco," she said, her voice smooth. "But I’ve been in the U.S. for years. Long enough to know that coffee machines like this one are designed to make you regret your life choices."
Maria laughed, the sound bright and easy.
"Oh, I love Morocco! I went on a trip there once—Marrakech, right? The markets were insane. And the food! Have you ever had proper Moroccan mint tea? It’s like…" She mimed a dramatic sip, her eyes rolling back in exaggerated delight.
Amina’s smile tightened just a fraction. "Yes, I’ve had mint tea," she said lightly. "Though I prefer my coffee black. Less… *sweet*."
James, finally managing to coax the machine into submission, handed her a steaming cup. "Here. Strong enough to wake the dead."
Amina took it, her fingers brushing his as she did.
"Thank you," she said, her voice softer now, the earlier tension melting away. She took a sip, her eyes closing for a moment as the bitterness of the coffee hit her tongue. "Perfect."
Maria, still lingering, leaned against the doorframe, watching them. "So, Amina, what do you think of the office so far? I mean, besides the coffee machine from hell."
Amina glanced around the break room, her gaze lingering on the sad fern and the outdated microwave. "It’s… functional," she said diplomatically. "Though I have to say, the design of the workspace could use some work. The cubicles are a bit… soul-crushing."
Maria laughed.
"Oh, you’re telling me. I’ve been here for three years, and I swear, if I have to look at those gray fabric walls one more day, I’m going to lose it. But hey, at least we have a kitchen with a coffee machine that *sometimes* works. That’s more than some places offer."
Amina took another sip of her coffee, her expression thoughtful. "You know, I’ve worked in a lot of offices. Some were sleek and modern, others were… well, let’s just say they had *character*. But the best ones? They’re the ones where the people actually *care*.
"Are you referring to Thompson, by any chance? He's a dinosaur. Just think, he was a Turbo Pascal developer! You shouldn't be scared of him. Although... you shouldn't take him lightly. He can be dangerous. Plus, he has a problem with..." Then, also realizing James's presence and not knowing whether it's appropriate to talk about such personal things, Maria ends the conversation "... well, you get the idea."
James glanced at Maria and Amina, his expression suddenly guarded. "Anyway, I should get back to work. Deadlines, you know?" He gave a quick, awkward wave and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Maria and Amina alone in the break room.
The silence that followed was thick, weighted with things unsaid. Amina stared after Maria, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. "So," she said finally, her voice low. "You were about to say Thompson has a problem with what, exactly?"
Maria hesitated, her gaze flicking to the doorway where James had just vanished. She exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make this public, but I'm sure Thompson knows you're transgender, even though you have an alias career. I overheard him discussing this with Susan in HR the other day." Maria lowered her voice, leaning in slightly, her eyes darting toward the hallway again. "He said something about how 'the company's diversity policies were going to ruin us.' He was talking about you, Amina. He doesn't like it when people don't fit his mold."
Amina's grip on the coffee cup tightened, her knuckles whitening. The warmth of the ceramic seeped into her skin, but it did little to ease the sudden chill that ran down her spine. She had expected resistance, of course. She had faced it before—subtle comments, sideways glances, the occasional outright hostility.
But this was different. This was her first real job in the U.S., her first chance to prove herself in a field where she had poured her soul into learning. And now, before she had even settled in, she was being measured by a man who saw her as a problem rather than an asset.
Maria’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. But I thought you should know. He’s not exactly… progressive."
Amina forced a smile, though her chest felt tight. "It’s okay. I appreciate the heads-up." She took a slow sip of her coffee, the bitterness sharp on her tongue. "I’ve dealt with worse."
"However, if Thompson were to misbehave, you can always resort to whistleblowing. The company is very careful about inclusion policies, and if Jeremy goes too far, he knows how to take action." Maria's voice was soft, but there was a firmness beneath it. "Just be careful, okay? And if you need anything—anything at all—you know where to find me."
Amina nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "Thanks, Maria. I appreciate it." She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax. She had spent years building a thick skin, a shield against the world’s judgments. But this—this was different. This was her career, her future, hanging in the balance.
Maria gave her a reassuring smile before heading back to her desk, leaving Amina alone with her thoughts. The break room felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.