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“You’re kidding.”

“Oh, how I wish I were.”

I let out a laugh that sounds crazy, even to my own ears. “So what, I’m supposed to text my boss a dressing room selfie?”

Säsha winces. “I understand this is unusual. But he was very clear. No photo, no dress.”

“No dress sounds great, actually,” I say. “I’ll just wear something from my closet. Problem solved.”

“Ms. Everett,” she pleads, “Mr. Lazarev paid for this appointment in advance. He paid for the dress. He paid for alterations. He paid for everything you see in this room.” She gestures at the trays of jewelry, the shoes lined up by the mirror, the scattered undergarments I’m refusing to wear. “If you leave without sending the photo,Iwill be the one who has to explain why. And I very much do not want to do that.”

I give her a strange look, like I’m seeing her in a new light. “Has he done something to you?” I ask.

“No!” She shakes her head quickly. “No, nothing like that. He’s just not a man you want to disappoint. That’s all.”

We stand there for a moment, two women caught in the orbit of a man neither of us fully understands.

“Fine,” I say. “One photo. But I’m not smiling.”

She exhales in audible relief. “Fortunately, there were no instructions in that regard.”

I step back behind the privacy screen. Slowly, I put the dress back on. Then I pull out my phone.

This is humiliating. This isbeyondhumiliating. But Säsha’s face keeps flashing in my mind. That burst of fear when she talked about disappointing him…

I hold up the phone and open the camera app. The view catches me from the chest up. Red fabric, bare shoulders, messy hair.

I look terrified.

Delete.

I try again. This time, I angle the phone lower. More of the dress, less of my panic face.

Still bad. My expression says, “hostage video.”

Delete.

Third attempt. I force my shoulders back, lift my chin, and channel my inner Natasha.What would I look like if I were someone who belonged with Lukas Lazarev?Then I snap the pic.

The result is… I’d say “okay.” Not great, but serviceable. I look like someone attending a gala, not someone being held at gunpoint.

It’ll have to do.

I pull up Lukas’s contact. My thumb hovers over the send button.

This still feels wrong. Intimate in a way I didn’t sign up for. But the opportunity to turn back is way in the rearview mirror. I’m already in this. Whatever “this” is.

I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.

19

LUKAS

HOME DEPOT - Receipt #439-8038-NYC

Date: Thursday, 11/20/25, 14:22

Cashier: Miguel R.