16. Serena
Serena
It's been four days since the Four Seasons.
Four days since we had awkward morning coffee while I wore the same dress he fucked me in and tried not to think about how his hands felt on my body.
And even though I hid most of it from him, his patience did a strange thing to my shame—it turned the volume down. Just a little.
Since then, Caleb has texted every day, sometimes sweet, sometimes filthy, and always just enough to make me feel wanted without crossing that fine line into clingy.
Today's text from Caleb is the emoji trifecta—eggplant, peach, and inexplicably, a volcano.
I should find it juvenile. Instead, I laugh so hard I choke on cookie dough and nearly die.
Death by sexting. My mother would be so proud.
And despite his continued attentions, I've spent four days replaying the moment I bolted to the bathroom, clutching the front of my dress as if the light itself would shatter me. Four days of wondering what the hell is wrong with me that I can let a man inside my body but not let him look at it.
The only thing keeping me from full feral-cat mode is the steady stream of messages from Layla and Audrey. They text every hour, like digital EMTs checking my pulse and reminding me I still have a right to take up space on the planet.
Audrey:
You alive or did you and the lawyer eat each other?
Me:
He definitely tried, but I lived to tell the tale.
Layla:
Did you use protection?
Me:
Emotionally or physically?
Audrey:
Both.
Me:
Well, I cried about my feelings, so probably not safe.
Layla:
A+ for radical vulnerability but maybe aim for like... a B next time?
Me:
I don't know any other way.
Layla:
How are you, really?
Me:
Watching a documentary about women who poison their husbands.
Audrey:
Taking notes?
Me:
Only the ones that won't show up in an autopsy.
Layla:
Need anything?
Me:
A time machine and a new reputation.
And maybe a job. I'd forgotten what it was like to spend entire days alone, drifting from gym to couch to nowhere in particular.
My apartment is cleaner than it's ever been.
I've reorganized my closet twice, baked enough cookies to supply a small country, and refreshed my email approximately every thirty seconds hoping for news that doesn't come.
The entire case has gone silent, and I can feel the black hole forming in my LinkedIn profile, sucking recruiters and HR bots into its event horizon. I’m living in corporate purgatory.
There's nothing left for me to do but spiral.
And so I spiral. I rarely eat what I bake, but I spiral through the entire roll of Tollhouse, through my own DMs—where I re-read every one of Caleb's texts from the start of our flirtation to his latest emoji-filled communication—through an hour of Pilates that does nothing to quiet my mind, and four separate re-dos of my resume.
I even spend a solid thirty minutes contemplating a side hustle as a dog walker, except I'm allergic to fur and not even sure I'd keep a labradoodle alive for more than a lap around the block.
The only break in my day comes at 3:10, when my building's front desk buzzes me about a package.
I pull on my ancient UGGs and shuffle to the lobby mailbox, already anticipating the usual rent notice or spam envelope promising instant credit repair.
Instead, there's a slim white box with my name written in block letters on the label.
No return address, which makes it either a bomb or some new level of lawyerly gamesmanship.
I carry it back upstairs, my heartbeat a little lighter than before, and spend a full minute just staring at it on my countertop.
If this is anthrax, at least my obituary will include ‘avid consumer of true crime documentaries.’
I cut the tape with a steak knife and peel back the lid.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a dress—dark blue, probably cashmere, soft enough to make my fingers tingle.
There's also a smaller box, the kind expensive jewelry comes in.
I open it to find a pair of sapphire studs, understated but clearly real.
A thick envelope sits on top, addressed to me in handwriting I recognize immediately.
It's from Caleb, but the writing is careful, like he doesn't want to put pressure on the paper.
Serena,
Four days of giving you space is killing me.
The dress is my excuse to see you.
The earrings are because I can't help myself.
Tonight. Please.
Your place, mine, another hotel—I don't care.
I just need to see you.
~ C
P.S. Still thinking about the hotel. And the wall. And the elevator.
P.P.S. And every surface on this earth I haven't had you on yet.
I read the note three times, my heart doing something stupid and fluttery. Four days of casual texts, and now this. A dress. Earrings. A man barely holding it together.
Before I can overthink it, I strip off my pajamas and pull the dress on. It fits perfectly, of course. The man who notices everything about me would definitely figure out my dress size. The cashmere feels like a whisper against my skin, and the color… It’s just stunning.
The earrings are another story. They're beautiful, expensive, the kind of thing I'd admire in a store window but never buy for myself. I put them on and stare at my reflection. With my unbrushed hair and no makeup, I look like someone playing dress-up in clothes that belong to a better, braver version of myself. Someone who hasn’t swapped salads for cookie dough for lunch.
My phone rings. Caleb's name on the screen makes my pulse jump.
"You got the package," he says without preamble. His voice is rough, like he's been in meetings all day yelling at people.
"How did you know?"
"Security desk called when you signed for it."
"That's creepy."
"That's thorough." A pause. "Are you wearing it?"
I look down at the blue dress. "Maybe."
"Serena."
"Yes, I'm wearing it."
"And the earrings?"
"Those too."
I hear him exhale. "Fuck. I've been imagining you in that dress all day." His voice drops. "Tell me what you're wearing under it."
"Caleb, it isn’t even four in the afternoon."
"So?"
"So you're at work."
"In my office. Door locked. Tell me."
Heat pools low in my belly. "Nothing special. Cotton underwear. No bra—the dress has built-in support."
"Take them off."
"What?"
"The underwear. Take them off."
"I'm not having phone sex with you at 3:45 on a Tuesday."
"Then just do what I say and we'll call it instruction."
"You're insane."
"I'm motivated. There's a difference. Take them off, Serena."
Something about his voice—commanding but not demanding—makes me comply. I shimmy out of my underwear, the dress falling back into place. The cashmere feels like a whisper against my skin, soft enough to make me shiver.
"Done."
"Good girl."
Those two words shouldn't affect me like they do, but my knees actually wobble.
"Now," he continues, "I need you to come to my office."
"When?"
"Now."
"I should change?—"
"No. Wear the dress. Put a blazer over it if you want to look professional, but I want to see you in it."
"Caleb—"
"Conference room three. Logan found a bunch of security logs. We need to go over them."
"Is this actually about the case or?—"
"Both. Always both with you." I can hear his smile. "Thirty minutes?"
"Fine."
"And Serena? Leave the underwear at home. It’s not a request."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I stare at my phone, then at my reflection. The dress suddenly feels shorter, the cashmere more sensitive against my skin. Every movement reminds me I'm bare underneath.
This is insane. I'm supposed to go to his law office, discuss my case, pretend to be professional while wearing a dress he bought me and no underwear.
I grab my black blazer, the structured one that makes me look like I know what I'm doing. With it over the dress, I almost look normal. Professional even. Like someone who wears underwear to business meetings.
The Uber ride is torture. Every bump in the road, every shift of the fabric reminds me of what I'm not wearing. By the time I reach his building, I'm wound so tight I might snap.
The receptionist smiles at me this time. "Conference room three, Ms. Morgan."
The walk down the hallway feels endless.
I knock and enter to find Caleb at the table, papers spread everywhere, laptop open.
He looks up and his eyes darken immediately.
The way he's looking at me makes my whole body go liquid.
Like he's been starving for four days and I'm the only thing on the menu.
"Lock the door," he says quietly. “And close the blinds.”
I do, my hands shaking slightly.
"Come here."
I cross to him, hyperaware of everything—the dress against my skin, the weight of the earrings, the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.
"The blazer," he says. "Take it off."
I shrug out of it, draping it over a chair. The dress suddenly feels like nothing, like I might as well be naked.
"Perfect," he breathes. "You look perfect."
"You said Logan found something?"
"He did. The access logs show drift against server time and the file hashes don’t line up with the audit trail. Someone tampered with them." But he's not looking at the papers. He's looking at me. "But that can wait."
"Caleb—"
He pulls me onto his lap, hands sliding up my thighs. "Tell me you did what I asked."
"Yes."
"Tell me exactly."
"I'm not wearing underwear," I whisper.
His hands tighten on my waist. "Do you know what that does to me?"
"I have some idea," I say, shifting against the evidence pressing against me.
"I've been hard since you answered the phone. Logan came in here earlier and I had to stay seated the entire time because I couldn't stop thinking about having you in this dress."
"That's unprofessional."
"Everything about what we're doing is unprofessional." He runs his hands up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through the dress. "But I can't seem to care."
"Someone could?—"