Chapter 2: Breakfast and a Fitting
The morning light through the leaded windows was too bright. Jimena blinked, disoriented, the weight of the unfamiliar duvet confusing her for a moment. Then it settled: the velvet canopy, the groaning pipes, the scent of lavender and spice trapped in the silk sheets. She was here. Silvia’s.
A soft knock preceded the door opening. Silvia entered, already dressed in a severe tweed skirt and blouse, carrying a tray. Her eyes scanned the room and settled on Jimena with a focus that felt like a physical touch.
“You slept late,” Silvia said, not unkindly. She set the tray on the bedside table. Steam curled from a porcelain cup of tea. “I let you. The transition is taxing. How do you feel?”
“Okay, I think,” Jimena said, pushing herself up. The sheets slipped, and she quickly pulled the duvet to her chest, suddenly aware of the thin pajama top. Silvia’s gaze followed the movement, lingering.
“Good. We’ll establish a proper schedule tomorrow. For today, we’ll ease in.” She turned and opened the vast mahogany wardrobe. “I took the liberty of selecting something for you. Your old clothes… well, they weren’t suitable for your new life.”
She pulled out a blouse. It was a soft, buttery silk the color of cream. It was also, Jimena saw immediately, very small. And cut low.
“It’s beautiful,” Jimena said, because it was, and because she was trained to be grateful.
“It will complement your complexion. Put it on. I’ll wait.”
There was no question in the statement. Jimena hesitated, clutching the duvet. Silvia didn’t move, her expression placid, expectant. Slowly, Jimena swung her legs out and stood, keeping the blanket wrapped around her torso like a shield. She could feel Silvia watching the shape of her hips, the curve of her bottom beneath the flannel pajama bottoms.
“The blouse, Jimena.” The voice was firmer now.
Jimena let the duvet fall. She kept her back turned as she fumbled with the pajama buttons, her fingers clumsy. She heard a slow, deliberate exhale behind her. Slipping the silk over her head was a struggle. The material whispered over her skin, clinging instantly. It was tight across her back, tighter across her bust. She couldn’t fasten the top two buttons; the panels of fabric simply wouldn’t meet.
“Let me.”
Silvia was there before Jimena could protest. Her hands, cool and dry, brushed Jimena’s trembling fingers away. She stood very close. Jimena could smell her perfume, that musky vanilla, and beneath it, the faint, sour note of an aging body.
“See? A perfect fit.” Silvia’s voice was hushed, reverent. Her knuckles grazed the swell of Jimena’s breasts as she pretended to assess the collar. She didn’t try to force the buttons. She left them open, her fingertips tracing the exposed line of Jimena’s sternum, the little constellation of freckles there. “Sometimes constraint is the highest form of beauty. It highlights what is precious.”
Jimena held her breath. The touch was like the one from last night, but clearer now, in the harsh daylight. It felt intentional.
“There,” Silvia said, finally stepping back. Her eyes were dark, pupils wide. “Now, breakfast.”
The kitchen was a spectacle of warm wood and gleaming surfaces. Sunlight fractured through the crystal chandelier, scattering rainbows over the marble island where a spread was laid: pastries, fruit, a pot of jam that looked like garnets.
“Sit,” Silvia instructed, pointing to a stool. It positioned Jimena directly in a shaft of light.
Jimena perched, painfully aware of the blouse gaping with every slight movement. She tried to hunch, but Silvia tutted.
“Posture, dear. You have a lovely figure. No need to hide it in my home.”
Silvia busied herself with the tea, her movements precise. She placed a pain au chocolat on Jimena’s plate. “Eat. You need your strength.”
Jimena took a small bite. It was flaky and rich, too rich. She felt queasy.
“You look absolutely delicious this morning,” Silvia said, leaning against the counter opposite her, her own tea untouched. “That color. That fabric. It’s as if it was made for you.” She paused, letting the words hang. “Or you were made for it.”
“Thank you for the clothes,” Jimena mumbled, staring at her plate. The compliment felt sticky, wrong.
“It’s my pleasure. To provide. To see you presented as you ought to be.” Silvia moved then, coming around the island. She reached out, her hand moving toward Jimena’s face. Jimena flinched, but the fingers only went to her collar, adjusting it minutely. The back of Silvia’s hand brushed against the upper curve of Jimena’s breast, skin on skin this time.
Jimena jerked as if shocked.
“A little uneven,” Silvia murmured, her eyes fixed on where her hand had been. She didn’t move it away. Her thumb stroked once, slowly, along Jimena’s collarbone. “You’re so soft. Like the silk. Only warmer.”
The room was silent except for the hum of an expensive refrigerator. Jimena’s heart hammered against her ribs. She didn’t know what this was. A motherly gesture? It didn’t feel like any motherly touch she’d ever known. It felt like being examined. Savored.
“I…” Jimena started, but no words came.
Silvia finally withdrew her hand, smiling a small, tight smile. She looked satisfied, like she’d confirmed something. “Finish your breakfast, darling. We have the whole day ahead. I thought we might measure you for more clothing. Properly. Every inch.”
Jimena looked down at the flaky pastry, her appetite gone. The scent of butter and sugar cloyed in the air, mixing with the perfume and the new, scary feeling coiling in her stomach. Last night’s touch in the dark could have been an accident. This, in the brilliant morning sun, was not.
She whispered, “Okay, Ms. Silvia.”
And she took another bite, chewing without tasting, feeling the weight of Silvia’s stare on every exposed inch of her skin, a blueprint being committed to memory.