Chapter 3: The Interview
The chrome elevator doors slid open onto Mri’s penthouse office, revealing a panorama of glittering city lights that felt like a cruel joke. Betty stepped onto the cool marble floor, her sensible heels clicking too loudly in the vast silence. She clutched a cheap department store bag containing the lingerie Mri had demanded: cheap lace, flimsy straps, things that screamed desperation. Her own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows looked pale, swallowed by the sleek, sterile opulence. Mri wasn’t at his imposing glass desk. He leaned against the window frame, silhouetted against the urban sprawl, a crystal tumbler in hand. He didn’t turn. "Show me."
Her fingers trembled as she unzipped the bag, pulling out the scraps of black lace and sheer mesh. "It's... it's what you asked for," she stammered, holding up a flimsy bra and matching thong. The air conditioning chilled her skin beneath her conservative blouse and skirt.
Mri finally turned. His gaze raked over the lingerie, then dismissed it, landing squarely on her face. A slow, predatory smile spread. "Adequate for now. Put it on." He gestured towards the minimalist leather sofa near his desk. "Here."
Betty froze. "Here? Now?" Panic tightened her throat. "Someone could walk in..."
"Precisely the point," Mri murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink. His eyes were dark pits. "Consider it... acclimatization. Your new uniform starts now. Strip."
The command hung in the air, cold and absolute. The triple salary flashed in her mind, warring with the raw humiliation clawing at her insides. Roger’s exhausted face, the mortgage notice, the suffocating fear of losing everything – they pushed her forward. Hands shaking violently, Betty unbuttoned her blouse. The silk slid off her shoulders, pooling on the floor. She avoided Mri’s stare, focusing on the distant lights as she unhooked her plain beige bra. Her breasts felt heavy, exposed in the cool air. She fumbled with her skirt zipper, letting it fall. Stepping out of it, she stood in her sensible cotton briefs, feeling utterly vulnerable. Finally, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down her legs, kicking them aside. Naked except for her heels, she stood trembling, arms instinctively crossing over her chest.
Mri’s gaze was a physical weight, traveling slowly from her flushed face down her trembling body. He didn’t speak, just watched, savoring her discomfort. After an agonizing silence, he nodded towards the lingerie she’d dropped. "Put it on."
Relief warred with deeper shame. At least she wouldn’t be completely naked. She bent, trying to shield herself, and picked up the flimsy garments. The cheap lace scratched her skin as she fastened the bra; it offered minimal coverage, her nipples visibly taut against the sheer fabric. The thong felt like a flossy afterthought as she stepped into it and pulled it up. It dug into her hips, the narrow strip at the back vanishing between her cheeks. She straightened, feeling more exposed than ever. The lingerie wasn't concealment; it was a frame.
"Better," Mri stated flatly, though his eyes held no warmth. He walked towards his desk, the sound of his polished shoes echoing. "Now, sit." He pointed to the high-backed leather chair behind his desk – his chair. "We have paperwork."
Betty hesitated, the cold leather seeming like a trap. But she obeyed, padding barefoot across the marble. The chair was huge, swallowing her slight frame. The cool leather pressed against her barely-covered ass and thighs. Mri leaned over her, placing a thick contract on the glass surface. His expensive cologne enveloped her, cloying and invasive. His finger tapped a clause buried in dense legalese. "Initial here. Standard confidentiality." His breath brushed her ear. "Disclosure of your... specific duties... carries severe penalties."
Her hand shook as she picked up the heavy Montblanc pen he offered. She scrawled her initials, the ink bleeding slightly. It felt like signing away her soul. Mri straightened, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. "Good girl." He moved to the front of the desk, leaning back against it, facing her. He crossed his arms, his gaze deliberately dropping to the triangle of lace barely covering her mound. "Now, let's discuss your first week's... performance objectives." A cruel amusement danced in his eyes. "Tell me, Betty... do you feel lucky?"