Never worn anything like this.
At the Sanctuary, we wore long skirts that brushed our ankles and high necklines that showed no collarbone and nothing that might inspire lust in the men around us.
This is designed to inspire lust.
To showcase.
To display.
To transform a person into an object, a body into a commodity.
To make me into what I am now—property.
The garter belt takes three tries to figure out.
The clasps are tiny and my hands are shaking and I can't seem to make them attach to the stockings properly.
Finally, I get it.
The stockings stay up.
The whole ensemble comes together into something that looks?—
I force myself to look in the full-length mirror.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger.
She looks beautiful in a way that makes me deeply uncomfortable.
In a way that feels fundamentally wrong.
Her body is displayed like art in a gallery.
Showcased like merchandise in a store window.
Every curve highlighted by the strategic placement of lace, every asset presented for maximum visual impact.
She looks like someone's fantasy brought to life.
Someone's property prepared for display.
She looks like she belongs to him.
The realization makes tears burn hot behind my eyes, threatening to spill over and ruin whatever composure I'm clinging to.
I pull on the robe he left—his robe, white terry cloth and soft from countless washings—and tie it tightly closed with shaking fingers.
At least I don't have to walk through the house like this. At least not yet.
At least Mrs. Silva won't see me dressed like—like this.
Small mercies, I guess.
Breakfast is excruciating.
I sit across from Vaughn in the formal dining room, wearing his robe over the lingerie that feels like it's burning against my skin, unable to eat the food Mrs. Silva prepared.
Scrambled eggs and toast and fresh fruit arranged beautifully on fine china.
