Page 7 of Bite
Francesca gives me a long, diplomatic once-over. “Youcan. But if you want engagement requests, I’d strongly recommend something more flattering.”
I wince and nod.Fair enough.
“Follow me,” she chirps, sweeping toward the door with the effortless glide of someone who’s always in control.
We step out into the hallway, and I swear it’s even brighter than the office. The walls practically glow with clinical perfection, the floors reflecting the overhead lights like polished marble. There’s no sound– no music, no voices, no footsteps except ours. Just the steady hum of the air conditioning and the click of Francesca’s red-bottomed heels.
It feels like walking through a dream.
Or maybe a laboratory.
She stops in front of a door, pushing it open with a manicured hand and gesturing for me to step in. “This is our wardrobe suite.”
I blink into the room. When she said they hadoptionsavailable, it was a massive understatement.
The room is a full-on boutique, and not the cheap kind. There are racks and shelves and drawers of lingerie, all color-coded and organized by size and style. Lace, satin, silk, mesh, leather. Delicate garments in black and crimson, emerald and ivory, blush and midnight blue. A gold-trimmed mirror leans against the far wall, and there’s a velvet sofa with tiny glass dishes of jewelry and accessories beside it. The place looks like a high-end showroom crossed with a boudoir, and the air smells faintly of perfume– something floral and expensive.
Francesca waves me inside. “Choose whatever you feel most comfortable in, then head across the hall to hair and makeup. They’re expecting you.”
And just like that, she leaves, the door clicking quietly shut behind her.
Letting out a slow breath, I take a step deeper into the room, the carpet soft under my boots. I trail my fingertips across a rack of hangers, each set more luxurious than the last, tags still attached. Some of these pieces probably cost more than my rent. Some of them look barely wearable– delicate whispers of fabric, sheer or cut so high or low they’re basically decoration.
Eventually, I settle on a simple black lace set. It’s elegant and sexy, with scalloped edges and a sculptured bra that promises support plus a bit of lift. I grab a silk robe from a hook on the wall– deep plum, buttery smooth– and set everything out on the sofa.
The moment I peel off my worn clothes and put on the lingerie, something in me shifts. My body looks… different. Familiar, but not. The bra hugs just right, the panties sit high on my hips and hug my curves like they were custom made for them. I cinch the robe over it, relishing the feel of the silk against my skin.
I look…powerful. A little dangerous.
I try not to overthink that.
With one last glance in the mirror, I slip out of the suite and pad across the hall on bare feet.
Hair and makeup is a flurry of activity the moment I walk in. A man and woman greet me like they’ve known me for years, chirpy and warm and fast-moving. I barely manage to say hello before I’m ushered into a swivel chair and handed a bottle of water.My robe is loosened, clips go in my hair, a brush sweeps foundation across my cheekbones.
They don’t ask questions. They just work.
Hot tools click to life. Brushes flutter over my face. Something cool rolls over my skin, then something warm. I just close my eyes and let it all happen, listening to their easy chatter, my pulse still ticking in my throat.
It’s oddly calming, and by the time they finish, I feel transformed.
One of them leads me over to a full-length mirror, and when I take in my reflection, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.
I lookincredible. Like someone else entirely. My chestnut hair has been tamed into soft waves that cascade over myshoulders, glossy and perfect. My olive skin glows, bronzed and dusted with something shimmery. My lashes are full and dramatic, framing my large hazel eyes, and my plump lips look lush and confident, painted a deep maroon. The robe clings to my waist like it was tailored just for me, the lingerie peeking through at all the right angles.
I don’t look like a hopeless girl who got fired from a diner yesterday.
I look like someone with secrets.Someone you’d pay for.
“You’re ready,” the makeup artist announces with a smile, stepping back.
I nod, heart thudding, and let them guide me down the hall to the studio.
The photography suite is minimalist like everything else– clean white backdrop, tall umbrella lights, a single camera on a tripod. A man in slim black clothes greets me with a warm smile and a practiced handshake.
“Daniel,” he introduces himself. “Let’s get a few test shots to start.”
He positions me on the white drop cloth, instructing me where to stand and how to angle my body. The lights strobe in bright, rhythmic bursts. I try to pose like I belong here, but it’s harder than it looks. My shoulders are too stiff, my expression too guarded.
