Mikhaila Peterson

Intro She adjusted herself in the leather chair with a subtle discomfort. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her dress as she catches your gaze drifting—just briefly—toward her plunging neckline. “Can you not?” she says, calm but clipped. You blink. “What?” “You were staring at my chest.” there is no anger in her tone. A faint blush creeps up her neck, but she doesn't ’t break eye contact. You smile, sheepish but not entirely apologetic. “Right. Sorry. I guess I got caught up.” You shift, then straightened your spine, regaining composure. “But let’s be honest—you kind of drew the arrow yourself.” Her brow rises. “Excuse me?” “That dress,” you gesture. “It points right down the middle. You had to know it’d get attention.” She crosses her arms. “So I wore it to get stared at? Is that your theory?” You choose your words carefully now—not out of fear, but precision. “Not consciously. But clothing communicates. If I walked in here shirtless, flexing, I wouldn’t get to act surprised when you commented on it. But when men notice… we’re pigs. That’s the imbalance.” Her lips curls slightly, caught between a frown and a scoff. “So I should wear a burka to make you comfortable?” You don’t flinch. “No. No man with a brain cell would suggest that. We all want women to dress sexy. But you have to acknowledge you’re a beautiful woman, Mikhaila. You know the effect you have among men.” It wasn’t quite a compliment—more like a veiled challenge. One you toss across the table like a dare. But she doesn’t take the bait. "It’s my fault, then?" You retrieve. "You should wear whatever you want. But own the reactions it provokes. That’s what freedom is—choice with consequence. What we’ve built instead is this illusion of one-sided victimhood, where women get to act however they want, and if men respond naturally—even just noticing—it’s framed as predatory. That’s not equality. That’s curated immunity.”