CHAPTER 7 – PREPARING FOR THE BIG DAY
DAISY
The suite is even quieter than usual—so still the only thing I hear is the soft beating of my own heart.
Light filters in through gauze curtains, silver and indifferent, and on the wide velvet settee my body feels both too heavy and almost not there.
I stare at the city out the window, all glass and pale fire, and try not to blink, because every time I do, I see something that doesn’t belong.
Sometimes it’s a flash of a cafe, the sticky hum of an espresso machine, a chalkboard menu that spells “special” wrong.
Other times, I get a perfect Polaroid: a girl with blonde hair and laughter that sounds like bells, a sapphire engagement ring so blue it looks Photoshopped.
She’s holding up her hand to show it off.
There’s a man’s voice, too, warm and teasing, but I can’t make out the words.
Then it’s gone—like the shape of a dream, or a word on the tip of my tongue. The only thing left is this taste in my mouth, like old pennies and loss. When I try to grab the pieces, they slip. That’s the scariest part.
But mostly I just sit, legs curled under, with a new phone in my hand that the club gave me to use. I scroll through my contacts, but there’s only “Hunter,” starred and pinned at the top. I resist the urge to text him. Instead, I browse through Instagram and pretend to care.
The knock on my door is soft, and I perk up.
“Hey, Daisy?” Sophia’s voice floats in, all sing-song and spa-calm. “Can I come in?”
I drop my phone on the table and smooth my hair with both hands, as if she’s already inside. “Of course! It’s open.”
The gorgeous brunette enters carrying a bouquet of garment bags, black and gold satin, so heavy she staggers a little.
Behind her, a rolling rack follows on silent wheels, trailed by a slender woman in club uniform who doesn’t say a word.
The two of them make quick work of hanging the bags, then the helper bows out, leaving us alone.
Sophia’s cheeks are flushed with excitement, her big bust heaving with exertion. She looks like she was born for this job: every inch beautiful, from the subtle highlights in her chestnut hair to the way her cardigan hugs her shape just right.
“Is that all for me?” I try to sound casual, but my voice is embarrassingly thin.
She grins, plopping onto the ottoman across from me. “Every stitch, baby. It’s an auction wardrobe. The club always gives the girls the best.”
I try not to show how my stomach twists at the word “auction.”
Sophia sees it anyway, and reaches over to squeeze my hand. “You’re going to be amazing, Daisy. Every girl says she’s terrified at first, but you’ll own the room. Trust me.”
I nod, not sure I do, but I let her comfort wash over me anyway.
She rises and gestures to the rack, fingers dancing along the zipper pulls. “Should we start with the classics or the wild stuff?”
“What’s the difference?” I say.
She gives a wicked smile. “You’ll see.”
The first garment is a pale white slip, barely there, so thin the hanger cuts through the fabric. She holds it up to the light, and I can see her outline through it—every curve, every sway.
“Think you can pull it off?” she teases, handing it over.
I take the hanger, but my hands are shaking.
“I don’t even know if I should,” I say. “Isn’t the auction supposed to be, I don’t know… elegant?”
Sophia cackles. “Sweetheart, this is Sanctum. The men here want elegant, but they pay for wicked. Trust me, you’ll look like a million bucks in this.”
She keeps going. A fire-red lace bra with matching panties that tie at the sides, the kind that would disintegrate if you moved wrong.
Then a black corset with mesh panels and a set of garters that look medieval.
The last is a full-length gown, midnight blue with a neckline that plunges almost to the navel.
She arranges the outfits on the bed, each one more daring than the last.
I stare at them, and for a second, I see myself from the outside: a naive blonde with curves, standing barefoot in a hotel suite, about to wear clothes that were obviously made to be taken off by a man’s hands.
My skin prickles and my skin goes hot. Oh my god, I want this.
Sophia seems to sense my feeling, because she grins, sitting next to me on the bed. “Listen. No one expects you to be someone you’re not. But if you want to impress, you gotta play the game a little. I know you can do it.”
I nod, biting my lip.
She touches my arm, warm and gentle. “You want to try this stuff on?”
I glance at the array of fabric, then at her, and nod again. “Sure.”
She heads to the en suite with an encouraging glance.
“Go ahead and get started. I’ll just use the ladies for a sec.” Then, Sophia disappears and I’m all alone.
I start with the slip. It slides over my head, cool as silk and barely heavier than air.
I turn to the mirror. I look like a goddess of seduction—pale, nipples hard, every curve visible in the light.
It’s obscene, but also kind of beautiful.
I twirl, watching the hem flutter around my thighs.
My ass is totally visible, and the white color makes my eyes look almost electric.
I snap a selfie for Hunter, then immediately delete it, embarrassed at my own boldness.
Next is the red lingerie set. It takes a minute to figure out how to tie the bows, and when I do, I realize the design is intentional—easy to untie, hard to resist. I stare in the mirror, cheeks burning, but there’s something in my eyes I haven’t seen before. A hunger.
Then, the corset. It takes forever to lace, and the mesh presses my tits up so high they threaten to spill out. I laugh, actually laugh, because I look like a pinup from a magazine, or maybe a very expensive doll.
Finally, the gown. I slip it on, and the fabric hugs my body, shimmering in the light. The neckline is deep, going almost to the navel, and the slit up the side almost reaches my hip. I can’t stop staring at myself.
At that moment, Sophia re-enters the living space, and then stops, hands to her mouth. “Oh my god,” she says, voice reverent. “You look unreal.”
I blush. “Is it too much?”
She shakes her head. “It’s perfect. I knew you’d be gorgeous, but girlfriend, you’re like a sexy evil princess.”
She circles me, fingers fussing with the straps and smoothing out the skirt. “This one’s going to get the club members going,” she whispers, tugging the neckline lower. “The guys will eat it up.”
She’s behind me in the mirror, and for a second we lock eyes in the reflection. Then, Sophia nods.
“You ready for a little more?” she asks, voice soft.
I hesitate, then nod.
“Good,” she says. “Let’s practice a walk.”
She shows me how to stand, how to walk—hips loose, chin high, eyes fixed ahead like there’s no one in the world but me. I try, and nearly fall over in the heels she brought, but Sophia catches me.
“Again,” she urges. “Slower.”
I sashay. I turn. I pose. Each time, she claps, encouraging and kind. Soon it feels less like a punishment and more like a game.
When I trip once again, my tits almost falling out of the neckline, Sophia steadies me with both hands. “You’re going to do amazing, Daisy,” she says. “And after? You can do anything you want. You’ll have enough money to get out of here, to start over somewhere. Someplace sunny and warm.”
Her words float in the air, bright and impossible.
I look back at the mirror, at the girl in the dress, and for the first time, I don’t look away.
I see her.
She’s nervous, but she’s also alive.
It’s after Sophia leaves, promising to text me later, when the memories come back, stronger this time.
I’m in a car, laughing with a girl who looks like me but isn’t.
We’re driving fast, music blaring, and her hand is on my arm, her nails painted blue.
There’s a man in the front seat—older, dark hair, eyes cold and bright as blue ice.
He glances at me in the mirror, and for a second, I think it’s Hunter.
The world flips, and suddenly I’m at a table, candlelight flickering, a bottle of wine half-gone. I’m holding hands with someone, but I can’t see his face. I squeeze, and he squeezes back, and the feeling is like being underwater—weightless and heavy, safe and dangerous all at once.
I shake myself awake, blinking hard.
I touch my face, then my wrist, half expecting to find a bracelet or something that would anchor me. There’s nothing. Only the faint pressure of my own hand.
I stare at the clothes on the bed, then at the city beyond the window. I wonder who I am, or who I was before I became Daisy.
But for now, I just want to be seen. I want to walk on that stage and watch every male eye go wide. I want Hunter to watch, and ache as his cock hardens, and remember me forever.
I want to be the star.
Even if I don’t remember why.
The next day, Sophia is at my door with a smile and a clipboard, dressed like she’s about to host an afterparty for the Met Gala.
She’s also brought a black gym bag and a bottle of some lemon-cucumber water from a fancy French brand I can’t pronounce.
The second I open the door, she sweeps into the suite, all perfume and energy.
“Ready for some more walking lessons?” she chirps, and before I can answer, she tugs me by the wrist, clipboard clacking against her thigh.
She leads me down a maze of corridors, past velvet settees and oil paintings that seem to watch us pass. I’m in the white slip from yesterday, which now feels less like a dress and more like a uniform. My legs are bare. My arms are bare. My nerves are very, very bare.
“Should I be wearing this in public?” I whisper, a bit embarrassed.
Sophia merely shoots me a knowing look.
“Sweetheart, girls here sashay around in nothing but panties and high heels. This is Sanctum we’re talking about, where the less the women wear, the more the male members like it.”
Oh. Right. I bite my lip and stumble along behind her.