Chapter 2: Retail Therapy with a Side of Humiliation
The boutique door swung open with a weighty, silent smoothness that felt expensive. A wall of chilled, perfumed air hit Paula, carrying notes of jasmine and sandalwood. It was a stark contrast to the city’s grimy humidity. The air inside was so still and climate-controlled it felt like walking into a museum.
“Lili, no,” Paula whispered, her voice tight. She hovered on the threshold, her worn sneakers looking blasphemous on the pristine white marble floor. “This place is… this is for people who own yachts.”
“It’s for people with credit cards,” Lili corrected, grabbing her elbow and pulling her inside. “And you, my friend, have a catastrophic life event to fund. Think of it as disaster relief.”
The space was a cavern of minimalism. Racks of clothing were spaced artfully apart, like sculptures. Mannequins with impossibly long limbs and blank faces wore stark, architectural pieces. Soft, ambient cello music drifted from hidden speakers. Two sales associates, a man and a woman, both dressed in head-to-toe black, looked up from behind a sleek limestone counter. Their eyes swept over Lili’s ripped jeans and Paula’s borrowed, hesitant posture. Their smiles were professionally polite, utterly devoid of warmth.
“See? They love us already,” Lili muttered, steering Paula toward a rack of blouses.
“They’re looking at us like we’re here to steal the light fixtures.”
“Then we’d better give them a show.” Lili started flicking through garments, her fingers barely grazing the fabrics. She pulled out a silk camisole the color of champagne. “This. Feel this.”
Before Paula could protest, Lili took her hand and pressed her fingers against the material. It was shockingly soft, a liquid coolness that slithered against her skin. Her own—Max’s—hands, now smaller and paler, looked clumsy against the delicate fabric.
“It’s… soft,” Paula said, the understatement feeling pathetic.
“It’s a hundred times better than that sad cotton thing you’ve got on. Your new skin deserves better.” Lili tossed the camisole over her arm and moved on, a hunter gathering prey. She added a pair of trousers with knife-sharp creases, a draped jersey dress that looked like a collapsed parachute, and a blazer that probably cost more than Paula’s monthly rent.
Then she stopped at a circular rack of lingerie.
Paula’s stomach tightened. “No. Absolutely not.”
“It’s the foundation,” Lili said, her tone infuriatingly reasonable. “You can’t build a house on a shaky foundation. And that bra I gave you is a temporary solution at best. This is structural engineering.” She held up a confection of red lace and satin. It was a bodysuit, intricate and barely there. “And this… this is for when you want to feel like a secret agent.”
“I feel like a hostage,” Paula whispered, her face heating.
Lili just grinned and added it to the growing pile in her arms. She marched toward the fitting rooms, a territory marked by heavy velvet curtains. The female associate, whose name tag read ‘CHLOE’, glided over.
“Can I start a room for you?” Chloe asked, her eyes doing a quick, appraising inventory of the clothes Lili was holding. They lingered on the red bodysuit.
“We’re fine,” Lili said, her voice bright and unshakeable. “Just need a space to play.”
Chloe’s smile was a thin, pressed line. She gestured to a spacious fitting room, pulling the curtain back with a theatrical flourish. “Of course. Let me know if you need any… sizes.”
The curtain fell shut, enclosing them in a soft, muffled silence. The room was large, with a plush velvet ottoman and three full-length mirrors angled to provide a devastating, inescapable panorama.
“Okay,” Lili said, dumping the clothes on the ottoman. “Start with the trousers. Get a feel for how real clothes are supposed to fit on that new chassis.”
Paula’s hands were trembling. She fumbled with the button of the yoga pants, her fingers still feeling alien. She stepped out of them, the cool air of the room hitting her bare legs. The unfamiliar landscape of her body was reflected back at her from three different angles. She couldn’t escape it.
The trousers were a nightmare of fasteners—a hidden hook, a delicate zipper. She finally got them on and they whispered up her legs, the fabric heavy and luxurious. They fit perfectly, tapering to her ankles in a way that made her legs look longer, more elegant. It was a disconcerting feeling. The clothes here were designed for this, for bodies like the one she was trapped in. They didn’t just cover; they sculpted.
“Turn around,” Lili commanded from where she sat on the ottoman, phone already in hand.
Paula turned. The person in the mirror was a stranger, but a sophisticated, put-together one. The panic in the eyes was the only thing that belonged to Max.
“See? You look… capable. Like you could fire someone and feel good about it.”
“I feel like a fraud.”
“Everyone in clothes this expensive is a fraud. That’s the point.” Lili snapped a picture. “For the archives.”
The process repeated with the jersey dress, which draped over her new curves in a way that felt both concealing and revealing. Then Lili shoved the champagne camisole and the new, proper bra at her. “Foundations. Go.”
Changing into the lingerie was a fresh hell. The bra was an engineering marvel of wires and lace, and it took her three tries to get the hooks clasped. When she finally did, the support was undeniable, lifting and shaping her chest in a way that was both more comfortable and more terrifyingly definitive. The camisole felt like water against her skin. She stared at the reflection. A red-haired woman in expensive, delicate underwear. The disconnect between the image and her internal screaming was so vast it felt like a physical chasm had opened in the floor.
“Okay, good. Now the pièce de résistance.” Lili’s voice was gleeful.
She held up the red lace bodysuit.
Paula shook her head, backing away until her shoulders hit the cool mirror. “No. Lili, I can’t.”
“You can. It’s just fabric. And it’s just me.” Lili’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. “Look, this is happening. You can’t debug your way out of this body. The only way out is through. So let’s go through. Put it on.”
The words ‘the only way out is through’ landed with a dull, heavy thud in Paula’s chest. They felt true. Horrifyingly true. With numb fingers, she took the bodysuit. The lace was scratchier than the silk, intricate and unyielding.
She stepped into it, pulling the thin straps over her shoulders. The fit was snug, a second skin of crimson lace that left very little to the imagination. It cupped her breasts, narrowed at her waist, and hugged her hips. It was the most exposed she had ever felt, a dramatic, scandalous declaration of a femininity she did not own.
Her hands flew up, instinctively crossing over her chest, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of her upper arms.
“Oh, come on, don’t do the cover-up,” Lili groaned. “Uncross your arms. Look at it.”
Hesitantly, Paula let her arms fall to her sides. The reflection was a shock. The woman in the mirror was alluring, powerful in a way that felt completely foreign. The red of the lace against her pale skin, the sharp contrast with her fiery hair… it was a look. A statement. And the panic in her eyes now had a new, confusing companion: a flicker of something that wasn’t entirely revulsion.
“Whoa,” Lili whispered, and this time there was no mockery in her voice. She lifted her phone and took a picture. The shutter click was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Delete that,” Paula said, her voice weak.
“No can do. This is for science. This is the ‘before’ picture. Before you get used to it.” Lili stood up and came to stand beside her, looking at their reflections. The punk and the pin-up. “See? It’s just a body, Paula. It’s a really, really good one. You might as well learn to drive it.”
Before Paula could respond, the velvet curtain rustled and was pulled aside a few inches. Chloe the associate stood there, her gaze sweeping over Paula in the red bodysuit with clinical detachment. “Is everything fitting… adequately?” she asked, her tone implying she already knew the answer.
Paula’s face burned with a humiliation so complete it felt like a physical force. She wanted to vanish.
“Everything’s perfect,” Lili said, stepping smoothly in front of Paula, blocking Chloe’s view. “We’re just about done here.”
Chloe’s thin smile returned. “Excellent. I’ll be at the counter when you’re ready.” She let the curtain fall back into place.
The moment she was gone, the defiant energy seemed to drain from Lili. She let out a long breath. “Okay. Point made. Get dressed.”
Paula didn’t need to be told twice. She all but ripped the bodysuit off, the lace catching on her skin. She pulled her own clothes back on—the soft yoga pants, the simple t-shirt, the denim jacket. The familiar cotton felt like a reprieve, a return to a quieter, less demanding version of this nightmare.
When they emerged from the fitting room, Chloe was waiting. “Will we be taking anything today?”
“Just the experience,” Lili said with a bright, fake smile. “It was incredibly informative.”
Chloe’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes turned to ice. “Of course. Have a lovely day.”
They pushed through the heavy door and back out into the city’s noisy embrace. The sun was too bright, the traffic too loud. Paula felt raw, every nerve ending exposed.
“Well, that was brutal,” Lili said, fishing a pack of gum from her pocket and offering Paula a piece. “But necessary. You survived.”
Paula took the gum, her hands still unsteady. She unwrapped it and put it in her mouth, the burst of mint a sharp, clean sensation cutting through the lingering taste of perfume and shame. She looked down at herself, at the ordinary clothes hiding the new, unsettling body beneath. The memory of the woman in the red lace was seared into her mind. A confident ghost. A possible future.
“Yeah,” Paula said, the word barely a whisper. She tucked her hands into the pockets of the denim jacket, her fingers brushing against the receipt from the coffee they’d bought hours ago, a lifetime ago. “I survived.”
But as they walked down the street, she could still feel the phantom embrace of the lace, a whisper against her skin that promised nothing was ever going to be simple again.
The memory of the red lace was a hot brand on her mind, a stark contrast to the mundane reality of the discount sportswear store they’d just entered. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off polished linoleum floors and racks of brightly colored compression fabrics. The air smelled synthetically clean, like new rubber and antiseptic.
“Gym clothes?” Paula muttered, trailing a hand over a rack of leggings. “I’m not going to a gym.”
“It’s not about the gym,” Lili said, not looking up from a hanger holding a shockingly neon sports bra. “It’s about being ready. What if you need to run? What if you spontaneously decide to take up yoga to manage your overwhelming existential crisis?” She tossed the bra at Paula. “Try it. And these.” She added a pair of black leggings.
In the fitting room, a cramped cubicle with a scratched mirror, Paula wrestled the clothes on. The sports bra was a brutal compression garment, flattening her chest into a firm, unyielding panel. She felt strapped in, secured. The leggings stretched like a second skin over her hips and thighs, revealing every contour with a ruthless honesty the boutique’s trousers had politely avoided.
She stared at her reflection, a compact, athletic stranger. The clothes were functional, powerful in a way that felt completely separate from the lace bodysuit’s blatant invitation. This was a different kind of uniform. “I look like I’m about to storm a corporate obstacle course,” she said to her reflection.
“Good!” Lili’s voice came from the other side of the door. “That’s the point. Now you’re ready for anything from a spin class to a zombie apocalypse. Come on, let’s go. The beach is calling.”
“The beach isn’t calling,” Paula said, changing back into her street clothes. The soft cotton felt like a lie after the compressive grip of the activewear. “It’s November.”
“And? Women don’t only need bikinis in July. They need them for vacations, for sudden hot tub invitations, for the principle of the thing.” Lili was already marching toward the swimwear section, a determined glint in her eye.
She held up a triangle top and a tiny pair of tie-side bottoms, both a deep emerald green. Paula felt a fresh wave of dread, colder and deeper than the boutique shame. This wasn’t about looking alluring for someone else; this was about standing nearly naked in a room, alone, acknowledging the body as a factual, exposed thing.
The swimsuit fitting room was colder. Paula’s hands were clumsy with the strings, tying the halter behind her neck, the thin fabric doing a pathetic job of covering anything. The bottoms were a mere suggestion. She turned, a slow, agonizing rotation in front of the mirror. Her skin was pale, a landscape of unfamiliar slopes and planes, dotted with freckles she’d never seen before.
There was no hiding here. No blazer to button, no dress to drape. Just her. The body the app had built. It was the most vulnerable she had ever felt.
“You still breathing in there?” Lili called, her voice slightly muffled.
Paula didn’t answer. She just stared, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides. The woman in the mirror was a complete stranger, and she was permanent. The finality of it was a physical weight in her gut.
She changed back into her clothes, the process feeling like she was armoring up against herself. When she emerged, she shoved the green bikini at Lili. “No.”
Lili took it, her expression unreadable. She didn’t argue, just placed it back on the rack and selected a simple, black one-piece instead. “Compromise,” she said, and her tone held no victory.
The final stop was a department store, a vast, overwhelming maze of commerce. Lili guided them to the dress section, pulling out a little black dress, a floral sundress, and a tailored sheath. “Every woman needs a uniform for every occasion,” she stated, piling the options into Paula’s arms. “You don’t want to be caught at a funeral in gym clothes or at a wedding in a bikini.”
Paula’s protest was a weak sigh. “Why does everything require a different costume? It’s exhausting.”
“It’s not a costume, it’s context,” Lili corrected, steering her toward yet another fitting room. “You think your old hoodies and jeans were neutral? They were a costume for ‘I don’t try’. Now you have to try. Because people see this,” she said, gesturing at all of Paula, “and they make assumptions. You might as well control the narrative.”
In the fluorescent glow, Paula slipped the black sheath dress over her head. It zipped up the back, a smooth, silent closure that transformed the chaotic form of her body into a single, elegant line. It was armor of a different kind. Severe. Professional.
She looked at the collective pile of clothes on the floor of the stall—the leggings, the one-piece, the dresses. A whole new wardrobe for a whole new person. A whole new life she hadn’t asked for.
At the checkout, Lili made her pay. “It’s your card. Your money. Makes it real.”
Paula swiped the credit card that still said ‘Max Thorne’. The machine beeped its approval. The cashier handed over the bulging bags, their weight pulling unnaturally at her shoulder, a new and unfamiliar strain. She looked at the receipt, the long list of items that were now hers. Gym clothes. A swimsuit. Dresses.
“I feel like I’m preparing for a war,” Paula said quietly, hefting the bags as they stepped back out into the cooling evening air.
Lili slung an arm around her shoulders, a solid, comforting weight. “You are,” she said, her voice losing its earlier sharpness. “It’s just a quiet one. And it happens every day.” She gave Paula a slight squeeze. “Now let’s go home. You need to learn how to walk in heels.”
The apartment door clicked shut, sealing them in the familiar scent of ozone and dust. Paula dropped the shopping bags with a grunt, the weight of her new life thudding onto the floor. Her shoulders ached from the unnatural pull of the straps.
“Don’t just stand there,” Lili said, kicking off her boots. “The education continues. We’re doing the full unpacking ceremony.” She began pulling garments from bags, a flood of new fabrics onto the couch. “Every single thing. You need to know what it is, how it works, and why it exists.”
Paula stared at the mountain of clothes. The sleek black dress, the punishing sports bra, the emerald green bikini she’d rejected. It was a landscape of potential humiliations. “I think I’d rather debug the recursive loop again.”
“Tough.” Lili held up the black one-piece swimsuit. “Lesson one: getting into this without dislocating a shoulder.” She demonstrated the contortionist act of stepping into it and pulling it up, her movements efficient. “Your turn.”
It was a clumsy, graceless process. Paula got tangled, the damp nylon clinging to her legs, and she had to brace a hand against the wall to steady herself. When she finally wrestled it into place, the suit felt like a full-body glove, compressing and revealing in equal measure. She felt sealed in.
“See? Not so bad. Now the dresses.” Lili tossed the little black dress at her. “Zipper in the back. That’s your new nemesis.”
Paula struggled with the zipper, her new reach shorter, her fingers fumbling behind her back. She finally got it, the sound a sharp whisper in the quiet room. The dress hugged her frame, a simple, elegant shape that felt nothing like her. She looked at her reflection in the dark TV screen, a ghostly, sophisticated figure staring back.
“Okay, walk. Not like you’re sneaking to the bathroom. Shoulders back. Hips forward. It’s a pivot, not a shuffle.”
Paula took a stiff step, then another. The dress moved with her, a fluid entity she was only borrowing. “This feels performative.”
“Everything’s a performance,” Lili said, snapping a picture with her phone. “You just had the luxury of ignoring it before.”
They moved through the pile for what felt like an eternity. The tailored sheath dress was stern and professional. The floral sundress was soft and unsettlingly pretty. Lili made her practice walking, sitting, and even bending over in each one, a crash course in inhabiting a form. “You don’t want to flash the whole boardroom because you forgot how to pick up a pen,” Lili quipped, demonstrating a graceful knee-bend.
After two hours, the couch was a riot of discarded possibilities. Paula’s new muscles ached from the unfamiliar postures. A faint sheen of sweat cooled on her lower back. “I’m done,” she announced, her voice thin with exhaustion. “My brain is full.”
Lili surveyed the mess, then nodded. “Alright. Shift change.” She rooted through the bags and pulled out the softest items they’d bought: a pair of fleece pajama pants dotted with cartoon aliens and an oversized, hooded sweatshirt. “Here. The uniform for not giving a shit.”
Paula didn’t need to be told twice. She peeled off the sundress, the air cool on her skin, and pulled on the pajamas. The fleece was blissfully soft, the sweatshirt a comforting sack that swallowed her whole. For the first time all day, her body wasn’t being sculpted or assessed. It was just… there.
“See? Better than your sad boy hoodies,” Lili said, already changing into her own worn-thin sleep shorts and a tank top. She collapsed onto the couch and grabbed the remote. “Movie time. My pick. No arguments.”
Paula sank into the other end of the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs. The day’s trauma had left her numb, a hollowed-out shell. She was too tired to care what they watched. “Fine. Just nothing with explosions.”
“No explosions,” Lili agreed, a sly note in her voice as she navigated Netflix. She selected a thumbnail featuring two people in a passionate, dramatic embrace. The title, something in elegant cursive, promised sophisticated European romance. “See? Art.”
The movie began quietly, all soft lighting and murmured dialogue. Paula let her head loll back against the cushion, her eyes half-closed. It was about a writer in Paris, tangled in some complicated relationship. She watched the scenes of cafes and rain-soaked streets, her mind drifting to the cold, humming servers in the next room.
Then the tone shifted. The writer and her lover argued in a beautifully lit apartment, the tension crackling. The fight dissolved into a desperate, hungry kiss against a wall. The camera lingered on their hands, on the frantic need in their movements.
Paula shifted uncomfortably. The fleece of her pajamas suddenly felt abrasive. She took a slow sip of water, focusing on the cool liquid in her throat.
The scene didn’t fade to black. It unfolded with a raw, unflinching intimacy. The sound of breathing, the slide of fabric, the arch of a back. It was visceral and real, nothing like the sanitized sex scenes she’d absently watched in a dozen action movies. This was about sensation.
A strange, warm tension began to coil low in her stomach. It was a foreign feeling, a deep, physical hum that was entirely separate from her whirling thoughts. Her skin felt hypersensitive, the weight of the blanket a distinct pressure, the soft brush of the sweatshirt against her nipples a startling point of focus.
She crossed her arms, trying to ignore it. This was just physiological. A random, meaningless reaction. But the feeling persisted, a low thrum building in the unfamiliar core of her, a deep, internal ache that demanded attention. Her breath hitched.
The apartment door clicked shut behind them, muffling the city's restless hum. Shopping bags tumbled to the floor with a crinkling sigh, spilling fabric across the hardwood. Lili kicked off her boots and immediately started rifling through the haul.
"Okay," she said, shaking out an emerald silk blouse like a matador's cape. "First lesson: buttons are your enemy now. Get used to that."
Paula stared at the growing pile, exhaustion creeping into her unfamiliar joints. "Do we have to do this now?" A strand of red hair—her hair—stuck to her lip. She blew it away with a puff of air that still felt wrong coming from these lungs.
Lili ignored her, holding up the black sheath dress they'd bought on sale. "This? This is your interview armor. It says 'I'm competent but not threatening.' Memorize that zipper location—you'll be fighting it blind every time."
She tossed it at Paula's head.
The next two hours dissolved into a blur of fabric tags and muttered curses. Lili made her rotate through every outfit, critiquing each like a drill sergeant: "Shoulders back—no, not like you're about to tackle someone." "Stop walking like you're wearing a diaper." "That bra clasp goes in the front first, then spin it—Jesus, how are you worse at this than my twelve-year-old cousin?"
Paula's fingers fumbled with the delicate clasp of the new lingerie, the lace whispering against skin that wasn't—that was—hers. The full-length mirror showed every mistake in merciless detail: the straps twisted at her shoulders, the slight gap where the cups didn't quite sit flush.
"See?" Lili adjusted the fit with two sharp tugs. "Now you're not spilling out like bad Jell-O."
The sports bra came next, a tight embrace that compressed her chest into something manageable. Paula exhaled, surprised by the relief. "It's like... a seatbelt."
"Yeah, well, enjoy needing one every damn day now." Lili flopped onto the couch, finally satisfied. "Okay, enough suffering. Sweatpants time."
They changed into stolen hoodies and ragged pajama bottoms, the kind of clothes that used to be Max's default uniform. The fabric hung differently now, pooling at her narrower hips, the sleeves swallowing her smaller hands whole.
Lili commandeered the remote. "Movie. No arguments." The Netflix menu glowed blue across their tired faces.
Paula caught the glint in her eye too late. "Wait—"
The screen filled with two actors already tangled in a heated kiss, shirts half-unbuttoned, hands sliding into waistbands with practiced ease. Lili smirked. "Educational."
Paula grabbed a throw pillow, gripping it like a shield. Her face burned. "This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." Lili cranked the volume as moans spilled from the speakers.
On screen, a woman arched her back, fingers digging into her partner's shoulders. Something twinged low in Paula's gut—not disgust, not exactly. A flicker of recognition, like hearing a song she'd forgotten she knew.
She crossed her legs tightly, suddenly hyperaware of every point where fabric brushed against skin. The sensation wasn't unpleasant. That was the worst part.
Lili's grin widened. She didn't say a word.
The movie played on, bodies moving in the dim light, and Paula sat very still, drowning in the quiet riot of her own borrowed nerves.