"Thanks." I think.
"I'd like to show them off, if that's all right with you."
"Adam didn't offer instructions?"
"He trusts me." She turns to the rack of lingerie. Plucks three black bras from the rack. "Try this one. It should fit better than what you're wearing."
Holy shit, is that the price? I swallow my shock.
Bree turns, giving me a tiny hint of privacy. "You're the first. If you were wondering."
"Huh?"
"The first woman Adam has sent to me."
"Do most men send women to you?"
"It's common. Especially when wealthy men are dating younger women, women who are still early in their careers."
Women without money.
Sugar babies.
Mistresses.
Girlfriends.
At the end of the day, it doesn't matter what you call it. Rich men use their money to score time with pretty young women.
"Are you finished, sweetheart?" she asks.
I do away with my cheap bra. Try on this obscenely expensive piece of nylon. "About."
She turns. Adjusts the straps. Studies the fit. "You don't like the idea of it?"
"Huh?"
"Being shown off."
"That's what Adam is doing, isn't it?" I ask.
"He sent you here to build your wardrobe. So you'll be comfortable in his circle."
"And I won't look cheap?"
"You work in a gallery. You know what it's like."
I nod. "If you look like the help, people treat you like the help."
"If you wear Louboutins, they assume you're one of them."
"Are those Louboutins?"
"Don't pretend you didn't notice." She studies my reaction. "Don't worry. I won't put you in anything showy. People who come from money don't shout their designers from the rooftop. They do it subtly. So people notice their style, not their label."
That's true. The really rich collectors never show up with a purse bearing the Louis Vuitton label. "It's all confidence."
"It's always confidence." She motions for me to turn.
I do.
"How is the fit?"
"Different. But good."
"Very good. Try the dress again." She motions to the snug black dress on the wall. "It will look different."
"Right."
"With these." She hands me a seamless black thong.
Not what I usually wear—this is one thing I don't need riding my crotch—but hey, when in Rome.
This time, she steps outside the dressing stall.
I change into the black underwear, rise to my tiptoes, check my reflection.
The overhead light isn't the most flattering, but the lingerie fits well.
I push the strap of the thong down my hip. Curl my fingers into my skin. Snap a photo with my cell.
It's not the kind of picture I normally take. Certainly not what I post on my website.
Nudity is one thing. It's not necessarily sexual.
But lingerie?
There's no other way to interpret the scrap of black fabric.
And this picture, with my fingers curling into my skin, the nylon thong sliding down my hips, the close crop—
It might as well say I'm about to fuck myself and I want you to watch.
What would Adam say if he saw it?
If I posted it on my site?
I adjust the exposure. Try a filter. Tweak the crop.
It lacks depth and precision but it looks good.
It looks really fucking hot.
I can post it now.
I can force him to react to me.
"Ms. Bellamy."
Shit. I slip my cell into my purse. Pull the dress over my head. Pretend I'm not imagining Adam fucking himself to my image. "Come in."
Bree steps inside. She nods that's it. "Perfect. I'll pull more in that size." She adjusts the shoulders. "How do you like the dress?"
The stretch fabric is thick and soft, warm yet breathable. With the short hem and the low scoop, the dress is sexy. "It's beautiful."
"Try this." She holds up a pair of wine-red ankle boots. "Sexy, in charge, and still practical for winter."
Practicalish. Those are three-inch heels. But they're gorgeous.
I sit and slide into the boots. They're a soft suede and they're beautifully saturated. Rich and lush. Like everything in Adam's world.
"With this." She holds up a necklace. Motions to a tailored black coat. "Perfect." Bree looks to me. "If you love it."
"I do." It's perfect, actually. Sexy, artistic, expensive. And still me. "You're good at this."
"Wait until I put you in evening wear."
After I try on another ten bras, three dresses, and six pairs of shoes, Bree sends me to lunch.
I order a twenty-dollar salmon Caesar at the department store restaurant. A week ago, I would have balked at the price tag. Today, I shrug it off. I've got a hundred grand in my bank account and a credit card from my fake boyfriend.
The salad is delicious. Fresh salmon, crisp romaine, creamy dressing, the hint of lemon. Then another cappuccino and a chocolate truffle that costs as much as the coffee drink.
Anything and everything I want.
Sure, it's anything on the menu at this mid-range restaurant, but it's still intoxicating.
No wonder rich people are so annoying and bossy.
I sip my cappuccino. Pull out my cell. Check the image again.
A tight crop of my thigh, hip, waist. My hand on the curve of my hip, pushing the black fabric down my leg.