I finish my sandwich, dust my fingers off, and smile like a cat that got in the cream. “Already RSVP’d.”
There’s a long pause, then Jade says, “You have to tell us every detail. Like, every single one.”
“Absolutely,” I say, and I mean it.
We finish lunch with the kind of laughter that only happens in girl gangs, each of us a little lighter for having said the thing out loud. When I head back to the office, my cheeks are still flushed, but this time it’s not from shame.
It’s from anticipation.
Cachet isthe kind of boutique that looks like it was designed by a billionaire’s mistress: all gold fixtures, plush velvet benches, and racks of lingerie that seem engineered to both seduce and destroy. Even the mannequins look predatory, all sharp cheekbones and jutting hips, posed mid-pounce in the window.
Eliza and I step inside together, and for a moment, the hush of the place is intimidating. It’s nothing like the chaos of the café. Here, every movement feels amplified. The saleswoman behind the counter is wearing a suit so sharp it could open a vein, and she gives us the up-down with practiced subtlety before smiling just enough to bare her perfect teeth.
Eliza heads straight for the lace racks, plucking pieces off like she’s grocery shopping. “You want to go slutty or classic?” she stage-whispers, holding up a red mesh bodysuit with panels cut out of the hips.
I blink. “Um, I’m not sure. Both?”
She laughs. “That’s the spirit.” She rifles through the next rack, unearths a bra that’s nothing but underwire and a scrap of tulle, then a garter belt with matching thigh-highs that actually have tiny crystal bows sewn at the back. “This,” she says, “will melt their brains. But you need something to wear over it, or you’ll have a wardrobe malfunction at the elevator.”
I stare at the pile of barely-there options gathering on her arm. “Do people actually buy this stuff?”
Eliza gives me a sidelong glance. “People? Maybe not. But you’re not people anymore, remember? You’re a saucy woman who’s about to please not one, but two handsome male animals.”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse is skipping.
We keep going, picking up increasingly absurd, daring things: a bralette so sheer it’s basically two Band-Aids; panties with a slit right where you’d never admit you wanted one; a robe made entirely of black mesh and feathers. I protest a little, but Eliza just says, “If you’re doing this, do it all the way.”
The saleswoman appears out of nowhere, tape measure draped like a snake over her shoulders. “Would you like a fitting?” she asks, eyes laser-focused on my chest.
“I think we’re okay,” Eliza answers for me, but the woman is already sizing me up, pulling the tape snug around my ribs and then across my bust. She writes down a number and hands me a key for the dressing room, her lips curling ever so slightly at our selections.
In the little gold-lit stall, I hang the options on the hook and undress, then try the first set: a lacy demi-cup bra and matchingthong that leaves nothing to the imagination. I stand in front of the mirror, not even sure where to look. The woman staring back is a stranger, but also somehow more real than any version of me I’ve seen.
I’m about to take it off when Eliza knocks. “Can I see?”
“Fine, but don’t laugh.”
She bursts in and stops dead. “Holy shit, Marn. Brent and James aren’t going to survive. You won’t be wearing these items for more than two seconds.”
I try on the next set: the black garter, the thigh-highs, the mesh robe. I add the ridiculous little feather-trimmed slippers for good measure. I lookdangerous. Not like prey at all. Like a woman who could make two ruthless attorneys forget their own names.
Eliza grins, then suddenly gets serious. “You feel okay about this?”
I nod, surprised by how much I mean it. “I want them to lose control. Just once.”
She hugs me from behind, careful not to mess up the feathers. “You will. Promise.”
By the time we check out, the pile on the counter is a monument to overkill: two sets of crotchless panties, three bras, the garter, the robe, and a little satin choker with a gold ring at the throat. The saleswoman rings it all up without comment, though she does raise an eyebrow as she folds the robe.
Eliza nudges me. “No turning back now.”
I swipe my card, heart pounding. The bag is heavier than it should be, like a promise I’m carrying home.
Outside, the sky is dark and the wind is cold. I pull my coat tight and clutch the bag, feeling the buzz all the way down to my toes.
I picture Saturday night: the penthouse, the eyes on me, the moment before the curtain rises. And for the first time, I’m not afraid.
I’m ready.
