Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Behind the main hanger is a lingerie insert that makes me stop short. A nude lace bra with sheer detailing that’s somehow both tasteful and suggestive, and matching thong panties folded into a white mesh envelope like they’re classified documents.
“Did he... measure me in my sleep?” I wonder aloud, holding the bra against my chest. It looks exactly my size. This is either impressive or terrifying. Possibly both.
The bottom of the bag has a zipped pouch containing—what else?—nude Louboutins. Each shoe is individually wrapped to prevent scuffing, because God forbid these $1,000 foot-torture devices get a scratch. At least they’re not red this time. Progress?
Tucked into the blouse sleeve is a small white velvet drawstring pouch. Inside: a thin gold chain necklace so delicate it’s barely visible, diamond stud earrings that whisper “expensive” rather than scream it, and—thoughtfully—backup earring backs.
“The Giovanni Bavga Starter Kit: How to Look Like You’ve Never Had a Thought of Your Own,” I narrate to myself.
In a side pocket, I find a ziplock pouch with makeup instructions in Giovanni’s handwriting: “Matte finish only. No gloss. Keep lips neutral. Do not use shimmer.”
“Thanks for the creative freedom, Project Runway,” I snort, examining the contents: blotting papers, a compact, and a brand-new rose matte lipstick still in its box.
Laid flat at the base of the bag is a white leather clutch with no strap—because apparently Giovanni thinks women never need their hands free. The interior is already loaded with his corporate card, a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill, a backup lipstick, a tampon (at least he acknowledges basic biology), Advil, and a mint.
“The perfect accessory for the woman who has no identity of her own,” I mutter, snapping it closed.
And then, the pièce de résistance: a Post-it note inside the bag flap, in Giovanni’s handwriting: “Don’t embarrass me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty,” I say to the empty room.
This isn’t just an outfit. It’s a complete aesthetic takeover from the skin out. Giovanni’s vision of controlled feminine professionalism, heavy on the controlled. The only thing missing is a remote that allows him to operate my facial expressions.
Nine minutes left.
No problem. I’ve got this. I’ll just transform into Giovanni’s White Vision Barbie and pretend I don’t have a brain, personality, or dignity left to surrender.
The perfect crime family accessory, coming right up.
I slip into the clothes with mechanical precision, each item feeling like another layer of armor rather than fabric. The starched-cotton blouse is buttoned up to the exact modest height I know Giovanni expects—not too high to seem prudish, not too low to seem available. The skirt hugs my waist with an expensive grip that feels vaguely like handcuffs.
I fasten the delicate gold chain around my neck, its weight almost imperceptible but somehow still restrictive and the diamond studs slide into my earlobes with a cold precision that matches the clinical nature of this entire ensemble.
Unwrapping my hair from the towel, I release a cascade of damp waves that immediately threaten to destroy his vision of polished perfection. I locate the wall-mounted hands-free hairdryer, put it on high, and let the warm air blast downward as I tilt my head, trying to maximize efficiency.
Meanwhile, as my hair attempts to dry, I open the makeup compact and begin applying foundation with practiced strokes. Multi-tasking my ass off because I’m down to five minutes now. I blend and pat and smooth, all while angling different sections of my hair toward the dryer’s relentless stream.
The lipstick—that specific rose matte shade that Giovanni deemed appropriate—is the final touch. Not too bright to suggest independence, not too nude to appear unprepared. The perfect middle ground of feminine submission packaged in a designer tube.
Two minutes left. I turn the hair dryer off, feeling the sudden silence press against my eardrums. My hair isn’t perfectly dry, but it’ll have to do. I drag a wooden-handled brush through the still-damp waves, working methodically from root to end, watching as each stroke transforms my unruly mane into something more controlled, more acceptable, more Giovanni-approved.
The brush’s teeth catch on a small tangle, and I wince, carefully working it free before continuing my meticulous grooming ritual.
When I’m finished, I set the brush down with a soft click against the marble countertop and take a good long look at myself in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is polished, presentable, and utterly unfamiliar—a carefully constructed façade wrapped in expensive fabric and subtle makeup.
Her eyes, my eyes, seem to silently ask questions I’m not ready to answer about who exactly I’m becoming in this fourth-floor attic bedroom, in this house, in this strange new life where every chain I’m wearing right now has been chosen.
Fifty-nine seconds. No time for existential crises when you’re on the clock.
I get my phone from my tote bag, toss it into the clutch next to the mint and the Advil, and smooth the skirt one final time before bolting from the room like I’m escaping a burning building.