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Then I step into the first piece. It is, for all intents and purposes, nothing at all. Simply a nude-colored suggestion of a thong with invisible straps that turns my nether regions into the blank nothingness of a Barbie’s.

But even I can’t deny that itdoessomething.

I look at myself in the small mirror behind the screen. In some inexplicable way, I’m a different woman than I was when I wasn’t wearing this not-quite-underwear. It’s ostentatious, sort of. Like I’m a thingmeantto be consumed. A meal laid out on fine china, waiting for someone to pick up their fork.

Is Lukas the one with the appetite?

Did he choosethese, too?

The thought makes my stomach flip. I can’t help but wonder if he stood in this very room and pointed at wisps of fabric, imagining how they’d look against my skin.

I shudder, turn away, and take the panties off.

I try the second item. It’s a strapless bra thing that lifts and shapes without any visible hardware. Again, it works miracles. NASA must’ve had a hand in the design here, because suddenly,I’ve gone from a B-cup toAre you C-ing this?Pure, slack-jawed DD-disbelief.

And again, I wonder…

Wouldthisbe enough for him?

That’s a shameful question for a modern woman to ask herself—Gloria Steinem would be appalled—but I can’t deny that it does occur to me. Nor can I deny that it makes me think about Natasha and feel more of that hot shame as I fall short in every way.

Her perfect body. Her complete lack of self-concern. She looked at me from that couch, naked as the day she was born, and justassumedthat I wanted to sleep with her.

What must that be like?

I’m nothing like her.

I shake my head. This is ridiculous, and I think the oil diffusers in here might be laced with THC, because I feel like I’m hallucinating.

I shuffle through the rest out of some weird sense of obligation. The third thing is a garter set of sorts that pinches in weird places. The next bra hikes my boobs up to my chin. The last item, a sheer lace bodysuit, is fine, I guess, but I feel like I’m wearing the slingshot that David used to kill Goliath.

When I’ve run through the lot, I decide I’ve had enough.

“I think I’ll just wear my own stuff,” I mumble from behind the screen.

Säsha blinks. “Your own…?”

“Yeah.” I’m on my hands and knees behind the privacy screen, straining to reach my clothes where I left them. Graceful, it is not. “I have things at home. They’ll be fine.”

They will not be, but Säsha here doesn’t know that.

“Ms. Everett, the dress really does require?—”

“I know.”

“And Mr. Lazarev explicitly mentioned?—”

“I’m sure he did,” I interrupt. “But I’ll figure it out. Thank you for showing me the options.”

I’m about to step behind the screen to change when Säsha clears her throat. “Very well. There is one more thing, Ms. Everett.”

“Oh, God.” I cringe. “What now?”

She looks uncomfortable for the first time since I arrived. Her cool composure is crumbling. “Mr. Lazarev was very specific about one last thing. He requires photo evidence that the dress fits properly.”

I gawk at her, certain I must’ve heard wrong. “Photo… evidence.”

“Yes.” She fidgets with one of the many chrome zippers on her dress. “He was quite insistent.”