I slip my phone away again and walk toward the train station, weaving between crowds without breaking my pace. A man bumps my shoulder and mutters an apology, but I barely register it. The city's electric hum surrounds me, but nothing penetrates the singular purpose coiling inside my spine.
Dr. Red Mercer.
He thinks he can analyze me without consequence. Yet he has no idea he stepped into a game he'll never control.
I reach home, swing the door open, and drop my purse on the counter. My kitchen lights reflect softly across the polished marble. I move toward the mirror in the entryway, glance at my hair, and lift a lock between my fingers.
He says he didn't like it, but he did. I saw it.
I let the strand fall and whisper to my own reflection, "I'll make you break first."
Then I head upstairs to choose the skirt I'll wear on Friday. I skim through my closet rack, talking out loud as I flick through each one. "Too tight. Too obvious."
I revisit each skirt, try a dozen on, then return to my closet, frustrated. Nothing carries the right message. There needs to be enough to ensure his discipline strains the moment I cross my legs in front of him. It needs to scream I'm innocent if he wants me that way or dangerous enough to ruin his ethics in under five minutes.
I return to flicking through my skirts, talking to myself again.
"I need one that will make him say he should worry about how often he thinks about me."
I push a hot-pink skirt past me, then several more, then groan. Nothing whisperstouch me, and your license won't be the only thing you lose.
I cross my arms, staring at my closet with more irritation. If I'm going to walk into Red Mercer's office and unspool the threadsof his discipline, I need something crafted with intent, not something bought off a hanger or made for a previous occasion.
So I march straight to my sewing station in the corner of my family room. The sunlight hits the white tabletop, turning it into a glowing stage. Fabric bolts stand in a neat line against the wall, arranged by color the way most people arrange books they pretend to read.
I remove the bodice I was working on from the dress form. Then I pull down the bolt of lightweight black sateen. It glides between my fingers with a soft whisper, exactly the kind of fabric that shifts when a man's eyes drift to where they shouldn't.
I toss it across the table and grab my sketchpad, flipping through pages of unfinished designs until I stop on one that hits me instantly. It's a soft A-line, mid-thigh, and cut on the bias so it moves like water.
"Perfect," I mutter.
I pull a pencil from the jar and refine the sketch, raising the hem two inches and shaping the curve inward at the side seams. I add a slit just far enough to promise something if I bend the wrong way, but subtle enough that Red will pretend he's not staring when the fabric shifts.
My heart pounds with excitement as I pin the pattern to the fabric. The quiet rasp of scissors slicing satin fills the room. I cut each piece with long, confident strokes, aware that every inch of this skirt is part of a psychological trap.
Men underestimate clothing, but Red won't. Once he sees what I made for him, he's not going to be able to stop thinking about me.
I move to the machine and thread it with bright red. The needle taps out a steady rhythm as I stitch the panels together with thick seams, shaping the skirt with slow patience.
Hours pass, and I feel calmer than in a long time. The sound of the machine always centers me. It's the one thing in my life that listens without arguing, judging, or categorizing me.
When I finish the outer seams, I lift the skirt to examine it. I stare at it for a while. It's not perfect yet. Something is missing.
I press the hem, then slide the finished skirt onto the dress form. The slit hits the exact point I imagined. The thicker red seams add a flair that's hard to look away from.
I circle the form once, then twice, letting the vision of Friday unfold behind my eyes.
I'll sit with my legs crossed when I start talking about Brax. Then uncross them when Red tries to redirect me.
Then I'll tilt my head just slightly when he asks why I'm telling him all of this, widening my legs a bit farther to showcase my crotchless red panties.
When his eyes lower for half a second, it'll be just enough for him to betray himself. And I'll deliver the line that will pin him in place.
You're the only person I trust with the truth.
I mumble, "If that doesn't loosen another piece of his foundation, nothing will."
I continue studying the skirt and decide nothing is missing from it. A visual temptation is only one strategy. There needs to be a visceral one.
