Chapter 4: Day two meeting
The walk down the corridor to Harding's office felt endless. Stacy’s footsteps echoed like gunshots in her own ears. The open V of her blouse seemed to amplify every sound, every breath. She could feel the air conditioning directly on the exposed skin above her lace camisole, a constant, chilling reminder. She imagined eyes on her back, burning holes through the silk.
The executive wing was quieter. Thicker carpet swallowed sound. Harding’s door was heavy wood, sleek chrome handle. She hesitated, her hand hovering. The clock in her head screamed: late. She knocked. Too soft. She cleared her throat, knocked again, sharper.
“Enter.” Harding’s voice, muffled but distinct.
She pushed the door open. The sheer scale of his office hit her first. Towering windows framed a dizzying cityscape, the afternoon sun glinting off glass skyscrapers. Stark abstract paintings hung on the walls – bold slashes of red and black. The air smelled of leather, expensive cologne, and faintly, cigars. Harding sat behind a vast expanse of glass-topped desk, a sleek, angular sculpture in black steel. He wasn't looking at his monitor. He was looking directly at her, a slow appraisal starting at her sensible heels, traveling up her legs, lingering on her skirt, then fixing on the open neckline of her blouse.
“Stacy.” His voice was smooth. Warm. Approving. “Come in. Shut the door.”
She obeyed, the soft click of the latch sounding final. The vast space suddenly felt suffocatingly small. She walked towards the desk, acutely aware of his gaze tracking her, resting heavily on the exposed triangle of skin, the hint of cream lace beneath the pale blue silk. She stopped a few feet away, clasping her hands in front of her, trying to hide their tremor.
“Richard said you were making excellent progress,” Harding began, leaning back in his luxuriant leather chair. His eyes didn’t leave her chest. “Veronica’s lessons. He thought they’d resonate. Seems he was right.” A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn’t friendly. It was acquisitive. “You look… different today, Stacy. More confident. More… open.”
He emphasized the last word, letting it hang. Stacy felt her cheeks burn. The cream lace felt like sandpaper against her skin. She forced herself to look at his face, past the sharp jawline, meeting his eyes for a fleeting second. They were dark, unreadable. Calculating.
“I’m… trying to learn, Mr. Harding,” she managed, her voice thin. “To be more… effective.”
“Effectiveness is key,” he agreed smoothly. He stood up, tall and imposing in his perfectly tailored suit. He walked around the desk, not towards her, but past her, towards the windows. He surveyed his domain. “Veronica understood that. Understood the tools at her disposal.” He turned, leaning back against the glass wall, silhouetted against the bright skyline. His gaze swept over her again, deliberate, lingering below her chin. “You have potential, Stacy. Significant potential. I’m glad you’re embracing it. Adapting so… readily.”
He pushed off the glass, closing the distance between them in two strides. He was suddenly too close. She could smell the sharp tang of his cologne, see the faint lines around his eyes. He reached out, not towards her face, but his fingers brushed lightly, almost incidentally, against the fabric of her blouse where it gaped open. A shiver, involuntary, treacherous, ran down her spine. He didn’t touch skin. Just silk. But the intent was palpable.
“Good girl,” he murmured, the words dropping like stones. His eyes held hers. “Eager to please.”
The phrase, the implication, froze her. Good girl. Like training a pet. Her throat tightened.
He stepped back, gesturing towards the door with a tilt of his head. “Walk with me, Buttons. I need to speak with Marketing. You should see how the other side operates.”
Buttons? The ridiculous nickname, infantilizing and crude, landed like a slap. It referenced the buttons she’d dared to undo. Her blush deepened, spreading down her neck. She felt simultaneously exposed and reduced.
“O… okay, Mr. Harding,” she whispered, turning woodenly towards the door.
He moved behind her as she took a step. His large hand landed firmly on the small of her back. Proprietary. Guiding. She flinched at the contact but kept walking, focusing on the door handle. His hand slid lower, following the curve of her spine down towards her hips as they moved.
Just as her hand reached for the cool chrome, his grip shifted. His fingers splayed, pressing firmly, deliberately, into the swell of her right buttock through the fabric of her skirt. It wasn't a pat. It was a strong, possessive squeeze. The kneading pressure Veronica had endured on screen. Real. Heavy. Shocking in its intimacy. His thumb dug slightly into the curve.
He pushed the door open for her. The hand lingered that fraction of a second too long, fingers tightening once more, before falling away as she stepped through the doorway into the bright, exposed corridor.
Stacy stopped dead. Her skin burned where his hand had been. The imprint felt seared onto her flesh. The bustling office sounds – phones, chatter, keyboards – rushed back in, a meaningless din. She stood frozen in the hallway, staring straight ahead, unable to move, unable to breathe. Harding brushed past her, his cologne a sharp reminder.
Harding brushed past her, his cologne a sharp reminder. Stacy stood frozen. The imprint of his hand burned on her skirt.
The office hummed around her. Keyboards clacked. Phones shrilled. She felt invisible. Exposed. The silk at her chest felt suddenly flimsy, inadequate armor. She wanted to shrink into the drab carpet. Run. Hide.
Harding’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. "Marcia! My office. Now." He didn’t look back at Stacy. His focus snapped across the bullpen. "I need your particular set of skills on the Kensington brief."
Marcia sprang up from her desk near the window. Eagerness radiated off her. "Of course, Mr. Harding! Right away!" Her thin white blouse offered zero concealment as she bounced towards him. Unrestrained, her ample breasts rippled visibly beneath the flimsy material with each step.
Stacy watched, rooted. Marcia’s smile was bright, uncomplicated. She passed Stacy without a glance, radiating a practiced confidence Stacy couldn’t fathom. A wave of cheap floral perfume followed her. Harding held his office door open. Marcia sailed inside, her hips swaying deliberately.
The heavy door began its slow, solid swing shut. Just before it sealed, Stacy caught a fleeting glimpse through the narrowing gap. Marcia was already leaning far over Harding’s immense glass desk. Her posture was exaggerated, submissive. Offering. Harding stood close behind her. His hand hovered near the small of her back.
Then the latch clicked. Solid. Final. The polished wood blocked the view. Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. Stacy stared at the closed door. The elevator doors slid open down the hall with a soft chime. She didn’t move. The burning on her hip intensified. She felt sick. Hollow. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry insects in her skull.
The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry insects in her skull. That solid click of Harding's door echoed louder than any noise in the bullpen. Stacy stood rigid, the imprint of Harding’s grasp still a phantom pressure on her hip. Hot. Violating. Stale coffee and ozone filled her nose.
"You okay, new girl?" A voice cut through the haze. Brad from Logistics leaned around his monitor, chewing gum. His eyes flickered down to her open blouse for a fraction too long. "Looked like Harding was giving you the grand tour. Or the squeeze."
Stacy flinched. "Fine," she rasped, the word scraping her throat raw. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the top button of her blouse. It resisted. She pushed past Brad, gaze fixed on the safety of her own cubicle, the framed photo of her dad offering no comfort. Her sensible heels clicked sharply on the floor.
Her cubicle felt flimsy. Exposed. She sank into her worn chair, its creak familiar but suddenly pathetic against Harding's sleek leather throne. The cream lace camisole Veronica had suggested felt coarse against her skin now, a sweaty trap. She stared at her reflection in the dark monitor screen. Pale face. Wide eyes. The careful makeup felt like a garish mask. Good girl. Harding’s words slithered back.
Someone laughed loudly nearby. Janice from Accounts, leaning over Todd’s desk, her low-cut top gaping as she pointed at his screen. Todd grinned, eyes fixed below her collarbone. Janice’s laugh was bright, unconcerned. Stacy looked away, nausea churning. Had she looked that… eager? That exposed? Did they all see Harding’s handprint?
Her own reflection mocked her. Conservative blouse, now half-unbuttoned like Veronica’s sheer monstrosity. The picture of confused ambition. The photo of her dad smiled steadily from the desk corner. He’d been so proud she’d landed this internship. What would he think of ‘Buttons’? The humiliation flared white-hot. She slammed her palms down on the desk. Files jumped.
The vibration startled her back. Her hands stung. She sucked in a breath, ragged. Think. Think. Veronica commanded attention effortlessly. Harding respected her. Or wanted her. Or used her. The lines blurred sickeningly. But she got results. Stacy looked down at her own conservative black skirt, the sensible fabric suddenly feeling like sackcloth. Drab. Invisible. Except to Harding’s grasping hands. She needed… something else. Something Veronica had. Not the sheer blouse. Not that. But power. Visibility. Control. Armor.
She remembered the brisk efficiency of Veronica fielding those executives in the video, her sheer blouse a deliberate flag, demanding recognition. Not shame. Authority. Was that it? Could fabric be a tool? A shield, not just a target? Stacy traced the collar of her blouse. Her fingers brushed the lace beneath. It felt cheap. Defeated. Veronica wouldn't wear cheap lace. Veronica wouldn't freeze in a hallway.
The rest of the afternoon crawled. Every footstep behind her made her shoulders tense. Every glance felt loaded. She caught Richard Harding watching her twice from his own glass box, a speculative look in his eyes. She kept her head down, fingers flying over the keyboard, inputting meaningless data with fierce concentration. The silk clung uncomfortably. Her waistband dug in. She felt scrutinized. Dissected.
When the clock finally hit 5:03 PM, Stacy moved. Fast. She stuffed files into her bag, clicked her monitor off, grabbed her cardigan. She didn’t look at Harding’s door. Didn’t look at Marcia’s empty desk. The elevator ride down was stifling silence. Strangers stood too close. She smelled Harding’s cologne on someone else.
Outside, the city air hit her face, cool and sharp with exhaust. She breathed deeply, trying to purge the office air. The sun was low, casting long, distorted shadows. People streamed past, anonymous. Free. She walked, not towards the subway, but towards the gleaming facade of the department store down the block – the one Veronica Hayes probably shopped in. Her sensible heels clicked a determined rhythm on the pavement. Practical armor sucked. She needed better.
The department store doors hissed open, engulfing Stacy in a blast of chilled, perfumed air. It smelled like money and aspiration. Marble floors gleamed under harsh spotlights. Mannequins posed in impossible angles, draped in fabrics that shimmered, clung, or revealed. Stacy felt instantly out of place in her sensible skirt and half-buttoned silk blouse. A sales associate glided over, her own sharp black dress whispering against her stockings. "Finding everything?" Her gaze flicked over Stacy, assessing, not unkindly.
"Lingerie," Stacy blurted, too loud. Her voice sounded thin in the vast space. "And... blouses. Work things." She gestured vaguely, uselessly.
"Executive level?" The associate smiled, a practiced curve. She didn't wait for an answer, turning on a stiletto heel. "Follow me. Veronica Hayes shops this section." The name hung in the air, a challenge, a lure. Stacy trailed her past racks of structured suits, her sensible heels clicking discordantly on the polished floor.
They stopped in a mirrored alcove bathed in unnervingly flattering pink light. Garments hung like exotic plumage. The associate’s hand swept over a row. "Foundation first. Power comes from within, darling. Start here." She pulled out a set: a bra and briefs in electric blue lace, sheer panels strategically placed. Beside it, stockings the colour of midnight, topped with delicate black lace and thin black straps designed to clip to garters. "Support and statement. Essential."
Stacy touched the blue lace. It felt surprisingly soft, yet strong. Nothing like her practical cotton. The sheer cups promised exposure. Her fingers trembled slightly. "And... the rest?"
The associate moved like a predator through its habitat. She plucked hangers. A blouse in the palest, thinnest peach silk, almost translucent. Another in emerald green, equally sheer, designed to hang open over a contrasting camisole or bra. "Visibility," the woman murmured, holding the peach silk against Stacy’s shoulder. The light bled right through it. "A calculated reveal. Authority whispers, honey. It doesn't shout." She added a skirt: short, knife-pleated black wool. "Legs are assets. Show them. Confidence is the shortest skirt." She held Stacy's gaze. "Try them. See how they feel. See who you feel."
The changing room was a mirrored cell. Stacy locked the door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood. Harding’s hand squeezing her buttock flashed in her mind. Marcia’s unrestrained bounce. Veronica’s effortless command on the screen. She unbuttoned her blouse with clumsy fingers, the silk feeling suddenly cheap and sad. Off came the conservative skirt, the sensible underwear. She stood in the cold cubicle, exposed under the harsh lights, looking at her own reflection: curves she’d always hidden, skin that felt too pale. Vulnerable.
She picked up the electric blue bra first. The lace was cool, the structure firm. She fastened it, adjusting. Her reflection shifted instantly. Lifted, defined. The sheer panels revealed the upper curves. Not hidden. Showcased. She clipped the midnight stockings to the matching garter belt, the thin straps pulling taut against her thighs. The sensation was unfamiliar, restrictive yet oddly empowering. Anchoring. She stepped into the short black skirt, zipping it up. It ended several inches above her knee. Her legs looked longer, different.
Finally, the peach silk blouse. It slid over her skin like cool water. She buttoned it slowly, leaving the top two open. The electric blue lace beneath blazed through the sheer fabric, a vibrant secret impossible to miss. She stared. The woman in the mirror wasn't the intern from this afternoon. This woman held her shoulders back. Her gaze, while still uncertain, held a flicker of something else. Defiance? Calculation? The colours were bold. The lines were short. The fabrics were sheer. It felt less like surrender, more like… arming herself. Armor made of silk and lace.
She bought it all. The blue lace set. The black stockings and garter. Three sheer blouses – peach, emerald, and a daring crimson. Two more short skirts – one charcoal grey, one navy. The associate folded each item with reverence into thick cream paper, placing them carefully into large, glossy bags. The transaction was swift, the amount staggering. Stacy handed over her card, her hand steady.
Outside, the city lights were coming on. The heavy bags bumped against her legs as she walked. Each thump was a reminder. The peach silk rustled against the bag. The sidewalk stretched before her, leading towards the subway, towards tomorrow. She adjusted her grip on the handles.