Page 63 of Their Arrangement
Black patent. Red soles. My size.
Exactly my size.
I stared.
And felt two things I hated myself for feeling.
Shame.
Andheat.
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.
