And then I lift it over my head and pull the white baby doll down over my body. My breasts might as well have a giant arrow pointing at them for all the coverage I get. The only thing that’s really covered are my nipples, and they can be seen through the nearly-sheer material anyway. The underwear is a matching little scrap of fabric that’s just as useless. I slip on the shoes and wait.
I might as well be wearing nothing. I’ve never felt so exposed.
The click of the door latch cuts through the suite’s quiet like a knife.
I turn away from it, facing the window with my arms wrapped tight around myself, as if holding my body together will keep me from falling apart.
My stomach is a constant, uneasy swirl—acid and fear and the awful awareness that I can’t undo any of this. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t help. The sickness sits there, heavy, rolling.
I have to do this.
The money has probably already changed hands. The number doesn’t feel real, but it is.
My fingers curl into the thin white fabric at my sides. It’s so little it’s almost insulting. It doesn’t hide anything I want hidden. It doesn’t protect me. It just reminds me of what I am in this room, to these people.
Spreading her legs for the first time. The words echo in my ears. A “tight pussy” to “sink” into.
My heart is thundering. I can hear it in my ears.
I force air into my lungs. One shaky breath, then another, like I can trick my body into cooperating if I pretend I’m calm.
Turn around.
Just turn around.
My feet feel glued to the carpet. I make them move anyway, pivoting slowly, because the faster I do it, the more likely I am to break.
The room blurs at first, my vision glitching like my brain refuses to process what’s happening. I blink, and the blur shifts into a silhouette framed by the open door.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair.
The outline confuses me. It doesn’t belong in a room like this, and yet it does.
My stomach drops. My pulse spikes so hard I swear I feel it in my throat, in my fingertips. For a split second, I think I might actually pass out. Or my body might just give up and shut down.
The figure steps in far enough for the light to catch his face, and something in my chest tightens painfully.
A face carved in stone.
My eyebrows draw together in instinctive confusion, my mind scrambling for an explanation that isn’t there. This can’t be real. It can’t be—
My vision clears.
The blur sharpens.
And I see him.
Someone familiar.
Someone I see every single day.
My boss.
Nico Conti.
