9. Cloe
CLOE
By noon, I couldn’t feel my ribs anymore.
The corset had become a vise. A slow, elegant torture device made of lace and expectation. Every breath scraped the inside of my lungs. Every shift in my chair felt like punishment.
The silk bow at my throat was still tied.
Still perfect.
I was not.
I kept my back straight—because slumping made the boning bite. I crossed my ankles under my desk so the garter wouldn’t catch. I clutched the mouse like it might steady me, but my hand kept slipping. Sweat made the underside of my palm slick.
I hadn’t eaten.
The idea of food turned my stomach.
My spreadsheet blinked up at me with quiet judgment. Budget projections for Q3. Loyal had asked me to reformat them three hours ago.
I had. Then unformatted them by mistake. Twice .
Now the columns glared back at me. The cells multiplied. The numbers doubled.
I blinked.
No change.
Still two of everything.
Someone passed behind me.
Heels—easy, confident, composed. They clicked like punctuation marks.
I didn’t look up.
But I heard it.
The breath. The pause.
Then the whisper.
“She’s really still wearing it.”
A second voice, lower, amused. “Did you see the skirt? I bet there’s nothing under it.”
“Oh, there’s something under it,” the first voice shot back. “Wolfe Lawlor’s permission.”
Laughter.
Soft.
Effortless.
Cruel.
I clicked too hard into the next cell. The field autofilled. Wrong. Backspace. Backspace. Missed the key. Mouse slipped. I gripped it tighter. Too tight.
My eyes stung.
Camille would’ve laughed.
Would’ve told me to kick off the shoes and walk barefoot like I owned the floor.
“If you’re going to wear something that screams sex,” she once said, “you might as well moan while you do it.”
But Camille was gone.
And I was still here .
Pretending this was fine.
Pretending I could still breathe.
Ping.
Inbox.
Loyal .
Subject: Update?
I clicked.
Couldn’t read it.
Tried again.
Realized I’d been holding my breath.
The chair creaked as I stood.
I didn’t excuse myself.
Didn’t ask.
I walked.
Too fast.
The corset pinched with every step. The garter tugged at my thighs. The lace between my legs was wetter than it had been an hour ago.
And I hated how much of it was still want.
More eyes tracked me.
A throat cleared.
A muttered, “She’s going to cry.”
I turned left.
The private bathroom was at the end of the hall.
I reached for the handle.
Shoved the door open.
Slid the lock shut behind me.
And dropped to the floor like my knees had finally surrendered.
The tile was cold. Clean. Too clean. No echo. No witness.
I pressed my back to the wall. Let the porcelain chill seep into my spine. My heels dug into the tile .
I was wearing lingerie someone else chose.
A corset that wasn’t just tight—it was possessive.
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
I reached back, fingers clawing for the ribbon.
Silk threads. Tight boning.
My arm twisted. I stretched. Higher.
Couldn’t reach it.
The laces were pulled too tight. My spine arched in the wrong direction. My muscles shook.
Still nothing.
I bit back a sound.
Not because I didn’t want to cry.
Because I didn’t want to make noise.
Noise meant vulnerability.
Noise meant someone might hear.
And if someone found me here—sweating, crumpled, shaking—they’d win.
I’d become the punchline in every whisper down the hallway.
The girl in Wolfe Lawlor’s corset.
The one who tried to survive inside it—and couldn’t.
I blinked hard.
Pressed the back of my head to the wall.
And whispered, “Just breathe.”
But breathing hurt.
Because this wasn’t mine.
This wasn’t power.
This was control—worn like silk.
And I’d put it on anyway.
And now I couldn’t get it off.
My ribs burned. My spine ached. Every inhale was a punishment I’d agreed to. And maybe that was the worst part— how willingly I’d stepped into the trap. How beautiful it had looked when he dressed it around me.
How safe I’d felt inside a cage.
The lace bit harder the longer I sat.
I shifted.
The pressure didn’t ease. It climbed.
Claustrophobic. Flesh-bound. Precision-cut agony.
I reached behind me. Once. Twice. My hand slipped against the satin boning. Couldn’t find the edge.
Couldn’t find myself.
I choked on a breath I couldn’t take fully.
“Please…”
But no one could hear me in here.
And I wasn’t sure who I was begging.
Both hands this time.
My elbow knocked the stall wall. My fingers snagged the lace ribbon but couldn’t pull it loose.
“Come on,” I whispered, voice cracking. “Come on, come on?—”
It didn’t budge.
I slammed my fist softly against the tile. The echo came back harder than expected. I bit my lip and pressed my head into my knees.
“It was just a job. I just needed a fucking job.”
The tears came hot and silent.
I reached up and tried again.
Still nothing.
I dropped my arms. Wrapped them around myself like I could hold my pieces in.
Camille’s voice echoed across the back of my skull like memory: Don’t ever let them see you bleed, babe. They’ll call it performance art.
She would’ve laughed .
She would’ve torn the corset off in the lobby and told everyone to get a good look.
But Camille was gone.
And I was on the floor of the private bathroom stall, unable to even take off my own clothes.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps .
Slow. Measured. Not heels.
Boots.
They stopped just outside.
A pause.
Then a knock. Soft.
“Cloe?”
I didn’t move.
Then—
“It’s Loyal.”
His voice was closer now. Right outside.
“I can’t come in if you don’t say yes.”
Everything inside me screamed no.
But I wasn’t sure if it was fear or shame or something worse.
“…yes.”
A soft click.
The lock released.
The stall door opened—and there he was.
Loyal.
In a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled, tie askew. He looked uncomfortable. Not awkward. Just… like he didn’t want to see me like this. But he did anyway.
His eyes swept over me—knees tucked to my chest, red eyes, the corset still hugging my ribs.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t leer.
He knelt. Slow. Deliberate.
Like I was made of glass.
“I can’t get it off,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said. “It’s meant to be impossible alone.”
Of course it was.
He didn’t touch me right away.
He just sat with me.
Silent.
Let me breathe.
Let me unravel.
“Turn around.”
I did.
Fingers brushed my back. Warm. Steady. He pushed my hair over one shoulder.
His breath grazed my neck.
Then his fingers found the ribbon.
He worked slowly.
Carefully.
Unthreading each pass of silk without pulling, without snagging. The corset loosened with each movement.
Finally—I could breathe.
I turned back.
Arms crossed over my chest.
He didn’t look away.
“You can breathe now,” he said.
“I don’t think I can.”
His expression shifted.
Not pity.
Not sympathy.
Understanding.
“They think you want it,” he said.
I froze.
He didn’t clarify.
“Do you?” he asked .
I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know. Because part of me had wanted it. And part of me hated every second. He leaned forward—not close, not cruel. Just enough to tie the ribbon again.
Loose.
Gentle.
Then he stood.
And his voice changed.
Colder.
“Then stop crying in places they can’t see.”
He walked out.
Left me in the stall.
Still in the corset. Still not sure what the fuck I wanted. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror. Didn’t want to see my face. Didn’t want to see the ribbon. Still tied.
But looser.
A knot someone else had tied for me.
The hallway was colder. Or maybe I was. My heels echoed too loud. Every step felt like a confession. A woman looked at the bow at my throat and smirked. Another glanced at my skirt.
I kept walking.
The ribbon pressed between my shoulder blades like a finger. When I reached my desk, my screen was black.
Spreadsheet gone.
And on the keyboard?—
A Post-it note.
Tight handwriting.
Fix it. – B
No explanation.
No signature.
Just the letter.
And the implication that Barron had been watching the whole time .
I sat down.
Straightened my skirt.
Tucked my ribbon beneath the collar.
And opened the file again.
Because there was no door here that closed all the way.
And no one who wouldn’t open it whenever they wanted.