I nod. “Yeah. I’m trying.”
“Both shops are still open,” Miranda continues, checking her phone. “Want company?”
“No!” Again, too quick. “I mean, thank you, but this is something I need to do alone.”
“Of course.” She slides off my desk, trying to hide her smile. “Well, whoever they are, they’re lucky.”
If she only knew I’m not shopping for a date. I’m shopping for…what exactly? The chance to explore something darker? Even if I never do, which is highly likely, I’d still like to have something pretty to wear under my clothes. Just in case…
“Go,” Miranda says. “Before you change your mind.”
I start packing up my things, then stop. “Miranda? Thank you. For everything. These past two years…I know I haven’t been easy to work with. I pushed myself too hard, but I’m aware I did the same to you.”
“It’s okay. I love my job,” she assures me. “I’m just glad you’re ready to start living again.”
I nod, resisting the urge to give her a hug.Living again. Is that what this is? This electric feeling under my skin, this constant awareness of possibility?
The Shopsat Crystals is quiet when I arrive. The luxury mall’s angular architecture soars overhead, glass and sharp edges bathed in strategic lighting. I must have walked pastthis store a hundred times without giving it a second glance. Now I stand outside, heart racing like I’m about to enter a courtroom.
The boutique is elegant, intimate. A sales associate approaches—tall, blonde—and gives me a polite nod as I enter. “Hi, I’m Sally. Can I help you find something?”
What am I looking for? Something that saysI think I want you to tie me up, but I’m not sure because I’ve never done this before? Instead, I hear myself say, “Something black. Simple but…”
“Provocative?” she suggests.
“Yes.” My voice comes out hoarse. “A little sexy.”
She leads me through racks of beautiful lingerie. Everything is understated, expensive, designed to reveal and conceal in equal measure. I touch a black bodysuit, imagining Athena’s reaction to seeing me in it.
Sally looks me up and down, taking in my proportions.
“I’m a 34B,” I tell her, trying not to fidget under her assessment.
“I think you should try a 32C instead,” she says decisively. “Trust me. Most women spend their whole lives wearing the wrong cup size. It’s my job to get it right.” She pulls out several pieces: a black lace balcony bra; a pair of matching Brazilian panties…
“Will you be wearing heels?” she asks.
My core flutters when I think about Athena’s playroom. “Probably.”
She nods. “Then you’ll want stockings and a garter belt too.” She selects a pair of sheer black silk stockings with wide lace tops. “These have a reinforced toe and heel—more comfortable for extended wear.
“The garter belt is essential,” she continues, showing me a band of black lace designed to sit at the naturalwaist. Four satin straps dangle from it, each ending in a clip.
She lays everything out on the counter: bra, panties, garter belt, stockings. The ensemble looks elegant, sensual and decidedly wicked. “The fitting room is right this way. Would you like to try them on?”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to just buy everything and run, but I know fit matters. “Yes, please.”
The fitting room is mercifully spacious, with warm lighting and an armchair in the corner. Sally hangs the pieces on hooks, and sensing I’m a little clueless, she demonstrates the proper way to attach the stockings to the garter belt.
Alone in the room, I strip down to my practical black underwear. The contrast between what I’m wearing and what’s hanging on the hooks couldn’t be starker. I’ve never worn anything like that. Never felt the need.
I slip on the bra and the fit is perfect, the lace soft rather than scratchy. Then the panties and stockings and the garter belt follow, sitting securely but comfortably at my waist. It takes some fumbling to get the stockings attached, but once they are, everything feels snug and comfortable.
Stepping back into my heels, I turn to face the mirror and a soft gasp escapes me. The woman staring back at me is a stranger. I look…powerful. Desirable. And fuck, I look hot.
My fingers trail over the lace at my hip, tracing where it meets skin. There’s something magical about the way this lingerie transforms not just how I look, but how I feel—precious, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. I feel like a woman who deserves to be looked at, to be touched, to be wanted.
“Can I come in?” Sally asks.
