8. Cloe
CLOE
I almost didn’t open the door.
There was a knock—three crisp taps.
No voice.
No follow-up.
Just a command wrapped in quiet.
I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, still wearing yesterday’s regret and an oversized hoodie I hadn’t parted with since the rain. It clung to me now like it had absorbed more than water. Like it had soaked up everything I hadn’t said.
My heels were ruined. My stockings shredded and thrown away. My eyes were raw—no makeup, no armor.
But the knock didn’t come again.
Whoever left it didn’t wait.
They didn’t need to.
When I opened the door, the hallway was empty.
But at my feet?
A black garment bag. Sleek. Heavy. Hung from a branded hanger I didn’t recognize—stitched leather, a dark gold hook that probably cost more than my rent .
And a box.
Smaller. Velvet-wrapped.
On top of both, a cream-colored envelope.
My name in calligraphy.
Just: Cloe .
No return address. No seal. No logo. I didn’t need one. I already knew who sent it. I brought everything inside and laid it out on the bed like I was preparing for a funeral. Or a sacrifice.
Then I opened the envelope.
One card. Heavy stock. Embossed edges. No signature.
Just:
Wear this. No excuses.
My heart pounded.
The box came first.
Burgundy.
Deep wine-red lace. Black silk ribbons. A corset that looked like it was built to control and display. A thong that was more suggestion than coverage. A garter belt. Sheer thigh-highs with golden clips that gleamed like threats.
Lingerie designed not for comfort. Not for modesty.
For exposure .
For possession .
I set it aside and reached for the zipper on the garment bag.
My fingers shook.
The zipper purred down like it knew I wouldn’t stop.
Inside: a black pencil skirt. Fitted, tailored to the point of cruelty. A champagne satin blouse—backless, high-necked, with a delicate bow at the throat.
And heels.
Black patent. Red soles. My size.
Exactly my size.
I stared .
And felt two things I hated myself for feeling.
Shame.
And heat .
I dressed slowly.
Piece by piece.
Every item clung to me like a whisper.
The corset tightened my ribs until every breath felt intentional.
The garter straps kissed the backs of my thighs. The blouse slid across my skin like silk over sin. Its bow tied perfectly—restraining, ornamental. The skirt gripped my hips, forcing me to move with precision.
And the heels?
They lifted me up.
Changed the sound of my step.
Commanded space even as I tried to shrink.
I stood in front of the mirror.
And didn’t recognize myself.
Not entirely.
The reflection wasn’t Cloe Woods.
It was someone she might’ve become if she were braver. Sharper.
Owned .
A doll dressed in obedience.
A gift wrapped for someone else to unwrap.
I should’ve hated it.
But I didn’t.
Not fully.
Because it was the first time in weeks I hadn’t felt invisible.
The elevator ride was silent.
Too silent.
Each floor ticked by in cold, surgical precision. I stood in the center, arms close to my body, watching the numbers rise as my breath stayed trapped in my throat.
I wasn’t scared of being seen. I was scared of how much I wanted them to look. When the doors opened onto the Lawlor floor, the air hit different.
Sharper.
Cooler.
Like it had been waiting.
I stepped out.
And heads turned.
Not all of them.
Not loudly.
But enough.
A ripple through the air. A stillness at the corners of vision. My heels struck the marble in crisp rhythm. My hips swayed in the skirt’s forced precision.
I didn’t look at anyone.
But I felt it.
Felt the eyes.
The judgment.
The hunger.
The confusion.
And somewhere beneath all of it?—
The power.
It wasn’t mine.
But it was on me.
And in this moment?
That was enough.
One assistant looked me up and down. Blinked.
A man I didn’t recognize adjusted his tie. Another woman smirked like she’d seen a girl make a mistake and couldn’t wait to watch it fall apart.
I kept walking .
Felt the burn of my own thighs where the lace rubbed with every step. The pinch of the corset with every breath. The heel click that wasn’t quite steady enough.
But I kept going. Because that’s what they wanted. Because I didn’t know how to stop anymore. I hadn’t made it halfway down the hall before he appeared.
Royal .
Shoulder against the wall. Coffee in hand. Grinning like he’d been waiting hours just to eat me alive with his eyes.
“Well,” he said, his gaze dragging from my throat to my hips to my knees, “someone learned how to say thank you.”
My stomach twisted.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
He stepped closer.
“Let me guess…” His voice dropped—husky, amused. “You don’t know who sent it.”
“I—”
“Was it Barron?” he mused. “Wolfe? Loyal?”
He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost over my cheek.
“Or do you just want it to be all of us?”
The words burned hotter than the corset.
I swallowed, breath short.
“Nice color,” he added, his finger drifting just above the waistband of my skirt. Not touching. But close. So close.
His voice was a dark whisper.
“Bet the lace is soaked already, isn’t it?”
My breath caught.
His smirk deepened.
Then he turned.
Walked away like he hadn’t just left me trembling .
The office had never felt louder.
Phones ringing.
Heels clacking.
Keyboards clicking.
But I didn’t hear any of it.
Not after Royal’s voice in my ear.
Not with the heat still rising under my skin from the way he looked at the hem of my skirt like he could see everything I didn’t want him to see—and everything I did.
I moved like I was underwater.
Slow.
Pressed in from all sides.
Hyper-aware of the corset stiff against my ribs. The soft, damp lace dragging between my thighs.
I kept my eyes forward as I passed the glass conference room.
And that’s when I felt it.
A stillness.
Like the air went still just to notice me.
My pulse slowed—and then spiked.
I turned.
Wolfe was there.
Behind the glass.
Staring.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just stood with one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to break the glass or touch it.
I couldn’t breathe.
His gaze didn’t just land on me.
It dragged .
From the arch of my neck…
To the bow at my throat…
To the satin stretched across my chest…
Then lower.
All the way to my thighs.
Like he already knew what was beneath it.
Like he’d chosen it himself.
Something flickered in his expression.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Something darker.
Want .
It punched through me so hard I had to grab the edge of a desk as I passed to stay upright.
I looked away.
Had to.
But I felt him watching me all the way to my seat.
And when I sat—corset biting into my ribs, lace dragging between my thighs—I realized something:
Wolfe hadn’t said a word.
And I was already completely undone.
I couldn’t focus.
Not on the numbers.
Not on the line items.
Not on the half-finished coffee beside my hand.
Everything was too loud. Too hot.
My back ached from the corset. My thighs pressed tighter where the garter straps rubbed. And every time I moved, the slick lace reminded me how far gone I already was.
People passed behind me.
Phones rang.
But all I could feel was Wolfe .
The way he hadn’t blinked.
The way he knew.
The way I didn’t look away fast enough.
I clicked on a spreadsheet.
The numbers blurred.
I backspaced. Twice. Three times.
Still wrong .
Then I felt it.
That shift in the air.
The awareness.
Someone behind me.
I didn’t turn.
Didn’t have to.
He was there.
The warmth of his breath just behind my neck.
The pause.
Then—
“You wore it.”
Wolfe .
His voice was low.
Sandpaper-soft.
Velvet-rough.
“You wanted me to.”
I swallowed.
My fingers hovered above the keys.
And then?—
“And now you’ll spend the whole day remembering…”
A beat.
“Who saw you first.”
He didn’t touch me.
Didn’t wait.
Just walked away.
Left me wet.
Panting.
Completely undone.
With nothing but a screen full of meaningless numbers and the echo of his voice in my blood.