Chapter 2
Audrey
Taking a deep breath, I crossed the street and approached the building’s entrance.
The doors slid open silently, revealing a vast marble lobby with ceilings so high they seemed to disappear.
The space was quiet; the business day had gotten underway on the many floors above my head.
A massive sculpture dominated the center of the lobby—twisted metal forming what looked like a stylized human figure in a position my racing mind thought must represent surrender, or perhaps supplication.
I approached the security desk, a curved counter of gleaming black granite manned by a guard in a crisp red uniform. He looked up as I approached, his expression shifting subtly when he saw me. There was something in his eyes—recognition, or perhaps expectation—that made my skin prickle.
“I… I have an appointment,” I said, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.
Before I could elaborate or show him the app on my phone, he nodded. “SA medical screening, fifteenth floor.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if young women came in for this sort of thing all day. Perhaps they did.
My face instantly flooded with heat. I could feel the blush spreading from my cheeks down my neck, and I fought the urge to turn and run. What did he know? How did he know it? Was I that obvious? Or was this really so routine?
“Um, yes,” I managed to stammer. “How did you—”
“Elevator bank C, to your right,” he interrupted, handing me a visitor’s badge. His eyes flicked meaningfully toward a set of elevators across the lobby. “They’re expecting you.”
My fingers trembled as I clipped the badge to my blouse.
The plastic felt cool against my skin, emblazoned with a temporary ID number rather than my name.
I walked toward the elevators, acutely aware of my reflection in the mirrored walls, of how out of place I looked in my simple gray skirt and blue blouse among the sophisticated Parisians.
My blonde hair, which I’d hastily pulled into a ponytail that morning, suddenly seemed childish.
The elevator doors opened the moment I pressed the button, as if they too had been waiting for me.
I stepped inside an empty car lined with more mirrors and dark wood paneling.
The button for the fifteenth floor was already illuminated.
I pressed my back against the wall as the doors closed, enclosing me in the silent, upward-moving box.
Fifteen floors gave me too much time to think. What kind of medical exam would this be? Part of me didn’t even want to know. Another part kept saying, It can’t be that kind. Can it?
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime to reveal a reception area unlike any doctor’s office I’d ever seen.
The walls were a soft silver-gray, illuminated by recessed lighting that seemed to glow rather than shine.
There were no medical posters, no health pamphlets—only a sleek desk of what looked like brushed steel, behind which sat a woman with immaculate dark hair pulled into a severe bun.
Unlike the lobby guard, the receptionist smiled—a practiced, professional curve of red lips that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Audrey Campbell,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I have an appointment at—”
“Yes, of course,” she interrupted smoothly, her fingers already tapping at the tablet embedded in her desk. “We’re expecting you. Please have a seat. Nurse Georges will be with you shortly.”
I perched on the edge of one of the chairs in the waiting area, a modernist piece that looked more like sculpture than furniture. The leather felt cool against the backs of my thighs even through my skirt.
There were no magazines, no television—nothing to distract me from my racing thoughts. The only sound came from the soft click of the receptionist’s nails against her tablet. I tried not to fidget, tried not to look as terrified as I felt.
The question returned, the one that made my heart race: what kind of medical exam was this going to be?
The app had said, explicitly, that Selecta wanted to verify my eligibility for the First Intimacy Premium Program.
I tried to tell myself that didn’t represent a euphemism for confirming my virginity.
Would they actually… check? The thought made me cross my legs tightly, my face heating up again.
“Mademoiselle Campbell?”
The voice, crisp and accented, startled me from my thoughts.
I looked up to see a woman standing in a doorway I hadn’t noticed before.
She wore a pristine white uniform that seemed both modern and somehow reminiscent of a more traditional nurse’s outfit, fitted in a way that emphasized her slim figure.
Her steel-gray hair was pulled back into a perfect bun, and rectangular glasses perched on her nose, through which sharp gray eyes assessed me.
“I am Nurse Georges. Please follow me.”
I stood on legs that felt suddenly wooden, smoothing my skirt nervously. She turned without waiting to see if I had followed. I hurried after her, through the doorway and into a corridor lined with identical doors.
She stopped at one, tapped a code into a small panel beside it, and pushed it open. “In here, please.”
The room beyond seemed dazzlingly bright after the muted lighting of the reception area.
I swallowed hard at the sight of the examination table with its metal stirrups.
Going to the gynecologist had never felt like a comfortable experience, but under the current circumstances the sight of the table made my tummy flip.
I stood frozen just inside the door of the pristine little room, my eyes darting around its confines.
Along one wall, a glass-fronted cabinet displayed an array of medical instruments I couldn’t name—some looked familiar from my annual checkups back home, but others seemed more ominous, their purposes unclear.
“I’ll be just a moment getting ready,” Nurse Georges said, her voice brisk and efficient. “Please remove all your clothing.”
She turned to wash her hands at a small sink in the corner, her movements precise and economical, as if she’d performed this routine thousands of times. Which, I realized with an obscure flush of embarrassment, as if for all the girls who had had to undress here, she probably had.
I glanced around the room, searching for the familiar blue paper gown that was always provided at my doctor’s appointments back in Illinois. There wasn’t one draped over the exam table or hanging on any of the hooks on the wall. My heart began to race.
Nurse Georges noticed my searching gaze and turned to me, drying her hands on a paper towel.
“You won’t need a gown for this examination,” she said frankly. Her French accent made the statement sound somehow both clinical and slightly imperious.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’d still like to have one, please,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded. “I’m not comfortable being… completely exposed.”
Nurse Georges sighed—a short, impatient exhalation that made me feel like a troublesome child. She fixed me with a direct stare through her glasses that made me want to look away, but I forced myself to meet her gaze.
“Mademoiselle Campbell,” she said, her tone cooling several degrees. “If you wish to succeed in the Selecta Arrangements program, you will need to learn not to question instructions. The examination requires full access to your body. A gown would merely hinder the procedure you’ve requested.”
She tilted her chin downward and narrowed her eyes a little. “You have a simple choice. You may undress as instructed, or you may leave. But I should warn you that if you choose to leave, your application will be marked as withdrawn, and you will not be permitted to reapply.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Thirty days. No money. No visa.
The words echoed in my head like a terrible mantra. I thought of my tiny apartment, of the email terminating my internship, of the dwindling funds in my bank account. I thought of having to call my parents and admit defeat, of returning to the small town I’d fought so hard to escape.
My fingers shook as they rose to the top button of my blouse.
“I’ll need your verbal confirmation of consent,” Nurse Georges said, picking up a tablet from the counter. “For the record.”
I took a deep breath. “I consent,” I murmured.
Nurse Georges nodded briskly and made a note on her tablet. “Good. Please proceed.”
My fingers felt numb as I continued unbuttoning my blouse.
The clinical lighting seemed to grow harsher with each button that came undone.
I slipped the garment from my shoulders, folding it with shaking hands before placing it on a small chair in the corner.
My skirt followed, then my simple cotton bra.
I hesitated at my underwear, my last shield against complete vulnerability.
“Everything,” Nurse Georges reminded me, not looking up from her tablet.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my plain white panties—so practical, so midwestern—and slid them down my legs, stepping out of them with burning cheeks.
The air-conditioning raised goosebumps across my exposed skin.
I stood there, naked and trembling, my arms instinctively crossing over my breasts.
Nurse Georges finally looked up, her clinical gaze sweeping over my body as if cataloging every detail. There was nothing sexual in her assessment, yet I’d never felt more exposed in my life.
“Arms at your sides, please,” she instructed.
I forced my arms down, my fingers curling into fists at my thighs. She looked me up and down. Then, to my surprise she held up her tablet in front of her, its back to me. I heard a soft, continuous beep, and then a chime.
“This assesses important aspects of your biometrics,” the older woman said. “You keep yourself in good shape, Audrey. Bravo. You’re in the top decile for attractiveness.”
I swallowed hard, my brow furrowing. To my dismay, the nurse’s objectifying words had stirred something down below my belly that I absolutely didn’t want to think about.
“Now, onto the examination table,” she said. “Lie back and place your feet in the stirrups.”
I approached the table, the paper covering crinkling loudly in the silent room as I sat on its edge.
The surface felt cold against my bare bottom, making me flinch.
I swung my legs up and lay back, staring fixedly at the ceiling as I placed my feet in the cold metal stirrups.
The position forced my knees apart and bent them back, fully exposing the most intimate parts of me to the cool air and Nurse Georges’ scrutiny.
“Scoot down further, please,” she directed. “Bottom at the edge of the table.”
I inched down until I felt the edge of the table beneath me, my legs now spread even wider. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. This was beyond embarrassing—it was mortifying. Yet some desperate part of me kept whispering: thirty days, no visa, no money.
I heard the snap of latex gloves and the squeak of wheels as Nurse Georges pulled a rolling stool between my spread legs. I jumped when her gloved hand touched my inner thigh.
“I’m going to install something called a perineal sensor, now, Audrey,” she said in an even tone that contrasted with the worrisome words—install… perineal sensor. What could she possibly mean?
I felt my breath catch. “A perineal sensor?” I managed to whisper. “What’s that for?”
“It’s a microscopic device that monitors physiological responses,” Nurse Georges explained, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.
“Selecta Arrangements associates who wish to qualify for luxury sponsors must have one—that includes the first intimacy program, obviously, which is exclusive to luxury sponsors. It helps your sponsor understand your responses to sexual intimacy.”
Before I could protest or ask more questions, I felt something cold and wet between my legs. I gasped, my body instinctively trying to pull away.
“Remain still,” Nurse Georges commanded. “This is a specialized antiseptic solution.”
I bit my lip and forced myself to relax back onto the table, though my heart was thundering so loudly I was certain she could hear it. The cold wetness was followed by the light pressure of her gloved finger exactly where she’d said—that sensitive strip of skin between my most private openings.
“This won’t hurt,” she assured me, though her tone suggested she wouldn’t particularly care if it did. “The sensor is nanoscale. You’ll feel a slight pressure, then perhaps a warming sensation as it calibrates.”
I felt her fingertip press firmly against that intimate area, and then a curious prickling sensation, like tiny electrical pulses. It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was intensely strange—the feeling of something foreign making itself at home in a place I barely acknowledged myself.
“There,” she said with clinical satisfaction. “Installation complete.”