Page 62 of Their Arrangement
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.
Forexposure.
Forpossession.
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.
