Chapter 4: Shopping Spill
The boutique smelled like money and vanilla. Not the cheap, cloying vanilla of candles, but something deeper, mixed with the crisp scent of starched silk and the faint, clean tang of ozone from climate control. Racks of lace and satin stood like exotic flora, and the mannequins were works of art, their torsos impossibly curved, their postures poised in silent, haughty judgment.
Angelina felt a flicker of the old anxiety, a ghost of herself that wanted to shrink. She silenced it with a deliberate, swaying step forward, her new heels clicking on the polished concrete. She was wearing the only thing that sort of fit: a stretchy black tube dress that clung to every new inch of her, the hem riding higher than she’d intended. Ben followed, a step behind, already holding a few hangers she’d casually handed him.
“We need foundations,” she announced, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. A sales associate with a razor-sharp bob and a tape measure draped like a necklace glided over, her eyes doing a rapid, professional assessment.
“Of course, madam. This way.”
The fitting room was a curtained alcove larger than their bathroom at home. A tri-fold mirror waited, cruel and comprehensive. Ben stood awkwardly just outside the curtain as the associate, whose name tag read ‘Clarissa,’ brought an armory of bras. They were artifacts of engineering: wide bands, reinforced straps, cups that looked like they could hold cantaloupes.
“Try this one first,” Clarissa said, handing her a beige monstrosity. “Our largest standard size.”
Angelina shimmied out of the dress, letting it pool at her feet. She caught her reflection and paused. The numbers on the mirror at home were one thing. This was another. The light here was perfect, clinical, highlighting the dramatic sweep of her back, the full, heavy curve of her stomach, the way her hips flared from a waist that, while thicker, was still noticeably narrower. She was a collection of bold, undeniable geometries.
She fastened the bra. The band cinched, but the cups… they were a joke. Her flesh spilled over the top and sides, the center gore floated an inch off her sternum.
“Nope,” she called out, a sing-song note in her voice.
Clarissa’s head appeared through the curtain, her professional mask flickering. “I see. Let me get the next range.” She disappeared.
Angelina looked at herself, squished and contained. It felt like a dare. She unhooked it, tossing it on the plush velvet stool. The relief of her body springing free was immense. She just stood there, naked in the triple mirror, turning slightly, admiring the raw, unbound weight of herself. She heard Ben’s shuffling feet outside.
“You okay in there?” he murmured.
“Just peachy,” she trilled.
Clarissa returned with three new options, all in black. “These are our specialized line. They should provide more coverage.”
Angelina tried the first. Better. The band was firm, supportive. But still, the fullness of her was too much. The silhouette was rounded, but she could see the pressure lines forming at the edges.
“Getting warmer,” she mused, running her thumbs under the wires. They dug in just beneath her arms.
She was wrestling with the third one, a complex piece with six hooks, when she heard a familiar laugh. It was a rich, bubbling sound, effortless and confident. It cut through the hushed store tones like a bell.
Angelina froze, one arm through a strap. She leaned, just a fraction, to peer through the gap in the curtain.
There, across the store by a display of silk kimonos, was Zara.
She was taller in person. More substantial. Her hair was a waterfall of honey-blonde, and she wore a simple cream-colored bodysuit that showcased every legendary curve. She was talking to another associate, holding up a scrap of crimson lace, her expression one of amused critique. She was a god here. This was her temple.
A bolt of pure, sharp adrenaline shot through Angelina. The old urge would have been to hide, to close the curtain. The new one demanded an audience.
She finished hooking the bra. It was the best yet, but still not right. It didn’t matter. She snatched her tube dress and pulled it back on, not bothering to smooth it fully. She swept the curtain aside with a dramatic rustle.
“Ben, hold these,” she said, thrusting the rejected bras into his already-full arms. Then she took a breath, pitched her voice into its highest, airiest register, and called out.
“Ohmygod! Zaraaa!”
Heads turned. The associate with Zara looked up. Zara herself turned, her perfectly sculpted brows lifting in polite, vaguely familiar inquiry.
Angelina began moving toward her. She didn’t walk; she ambled, a bounce in each step that made everything jiggle. The tight dress protested. She felt the eyes of the store on her—Clarissa’s wary gaze, Ben’s tense admiration from behind, the other customers’ thinly veiled curiosity. She focused only on Zara.
“Hi! It’s me, Angelina! From the forums?” Angelina said, arriving in a cloud of her own scent and barely-contained energy.
Recognition dawned on Zara’s face, followed by a slow, appraising scan that moved from Angelina’s face, down the straining neckline of her dress, to her hips and back up. It wasn’t judgmental. It was analytical. Like a sculptor assessing a promising block of marble.
“Angelina. Wow. Look at you,” Zara said, her voice a warm, smoky contrast to Angelina’s squeal. “You’ve been… busy.”
“I know, right?” Angelina giggled, placing her hands on her hips and pushing her chest out slightly. She glanced back at Ben, who was stranded like a pack mule by the fitting rooms. “Ben’s been, like, feeding me soooo much. I can’t even stop. Look!” She turned a little, showcasing her profile. “Nothing fits! I’m popping out of everything. It’s crazy!”
Zara’s smile deepened, showing white teeth. She reached out, her fingers cool and sure, and pinched the fabric of Angelina’s dress at the shoulder seam. She gave a gentle, testing tug. “This is fighting a losing battle, sweetie. You’re beyond ready-to-wear here.” She let go and took a half-step back, her gaze sweeping over Angelina again. “What are you on, the Titan protocol?”
The term was insider, from the deepest forums. It was the aggressive, high-calorie plan Angelina had essentially Frankensteined together for herself. Hearing it from Zara’s lips was a validation that stole her breath.
“Um, kinda? I mixed the Titan with the late-stage Bloom matrix,” Angelina confessed, the bimbo act slipping for a second into genuine nerdy passion.
Zara nodded, impressed. “Bold. It’s working. Your lat development is coming in nice. Shoulders, too. That’s where you see the real structural change.” She leaned in a little, her perfume enveloping Angelina. “The bras here won’t work. You need custom. There’s a place two blocks over, they’ll do a wire cast for you. Tell them I sent you.”
Angelina felt dizzy. A wire cast. Custom. It was the next league. “Really? Ohmygod, thank you!”
“Of course. We have to support each other, right?” Zara’s eyes flicked past her to Ben. “He’s cute. Devoted?”
“Like a puppy,” Angelina said, the act returning with a wave of possessive pride.
“Good. You’ll need that.” Zara’s expression turned serious, though her eyes still sparkled. “Listen, the next few months… it gets intense. The cravings, the aches, the sheer volume of it all. Your mind changes along with the body. Don’t fight it. Lean into it. The hunger is a compass.”
Angelina just nodded, mesmerized.
Zara picked up a business card from a nearby counter and scribbled on the back. “My direct. Text me if you hit a plateau or just feel weird. It happens.” She handed it over, her fingers brushing Angelina’s. The touch was electric.
“Thank you,” Angelina said, her voice suddenly small, real.
Zara winked, the goddess returning to mortal play. “Now go get that cast done. And for god’s sake, buy a bigger dress on the way out. That one’s basically a misdemeanor.” She laughed her beautiful laugh again and turned back to her silk kimono.
Angelina floated back to Ben. Her heart was hammering. She took the business card, holding it like a holy relic, and tucked it into her palm.
“Everything okay?” Ben asked, his voice soft.
She looked at him, at his arms full of lace and satin that was already too small for her. She thought of Zara’ assessing eyes, the promise of a wire cast, the phrase the hunger is a compass.
“Better than okay,” she said, her voice low and steady now, all pretense gone. She took the hangers from him and dumped them unceremoniously on a nearby chair. “We’re leaving. There’s another store.”
“Did you find something?”
“No.” A smile touched her lips, fierce and hungry. “I outgrew this place.”
She walked out, her head high, the card clutched tight in her fist. The door chimed behind them. She didn’t look back at the mannequins. She didn’t need to. Their perfect, static forms were already history. She was the blueprint now. And she was just getting started.