The private boutique smelled like expensive perfume and fresh linen. Emily stood at the threshold, her fingers tight around the strap of her handbag, the morning light catching dust motes that drifted through the tall windows. The space was all muted cream and polished brass, dresses arranged by color like an artist's palette, and in the center of it all, sunk into a velvet armchair like a king receiving tribute, Marcus Blackwood sat with his legs crossed.
He didn't look up when she entered. His attention was on his phone, thumb scrolling, the other hand resting on the armchair with the casual ownership of a man who knew every woman in this room would bend to his will before the hour was done.
"You're late," he said. Not angry. Not even interested. Just stating a fact.
"The traffic—"
"I don't care." He finally raised his eyes. Those gray irises swept over her—her sensible blouse, her modest skirt, her hair in its usual clip—and found nothing worth pausing on. "Elena will help you."
A woman appeared from behind a rack of gowns, and Emily's breath caught.
Elena was tall. Model tall. The kind of tall that made Emily feel like she was looking up at a goddess from the bottom of a very deep well. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in glossy waves, and her body—curved, slim, impossibly proportioned—was sheathed in a fitted black blouse and pencil skirt that left little to the imagination. Her nametag gleamed over her left breast, the silver catching the light.
"This way, Miss Hartwell." Her voice was honeyed. Professional. But her eyes flicked to Marcus with desire that made Emily's stomach clench.
Another woman stood near the dressing rooms. Jodie, according to her nametag. Blonde, just as tall, just as impossibly beautiful, with the kind of innocent face that belonged on a magazine cover. She held a gown draped over her arm, waiting.
"First dress," Marcus said without looking up. "Let's see what we're working with."
Emily took the gown from Jodie. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the curtain closed in the fitting room, the fabric soft and expensive against her skin. She stepped out of her clothes—her sensible, safe clothes—and into the deep emerald silk that felt like water against her thighs. It was elegant. A-line. Covered everything it should.
She stepped out.
Marcus glanced up. Held her in his gaze for exactly two seconds. Then he waved his hand. A dismissal. "No."
"But—"
"Next."
Elena appeared with another gown. Black this time. She handed it to Emily with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, then turned and walked to Marcus. She perched on the arm of his chair, her hand landing on his shoulder with the ease of long practice.
"The cut is wrong for her frame," Elena said, her voice low, conspiratorial. "She needs something with more structure."
Marcus reached up and covered her hand with his. "You're probably right."
Emily stood frozen in the doorway of the fitting room, the black dress clutched to her chest, watching them. Elena laughed at something Marcus said, her head tilting back, her hair spilling over her shoulders. Marcus's hand slid from her hand to her wrist, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her pulse point.
Emily pulled the curtain closed.
The second dress was worse. Too tight in the hips, the fabric pulling across her thighs in a way that made her look like she was trying too hard. She knew it before she even stepped out. But she stepped out anyway, because the alternative was hiding, and hiding felt like admitting defeat.
Marcus barely glanced at her. "No."
Elena's hand was on his chest now, her fingers toying with the lapel of his jacket. She leaned in, whispered something in his ear. His lips curved into a smile—a real one, the kind Emily had never seen directed at her—and his hand found Elena's hip, pulling her closer.
"Try the next one," he said to Emily. His eyes never left Elena's face.
Jodie handed her the third dress. A deep burgundy. Simple. Safe.
"Miss Hartwell," Jodie said, her voice soft, almost kind. "You're choosing too many safe choices."
Emily blinked at her. "What?"
"The safe choices." Jodie gestured to the burgundy. "This covers everything. Hides everything. You have a good figure—let it show." She reached behind the rack and pulled out a gown of deep sapphire. "Try this."
The fabric was thinner. The cut was lower. The back fell in a cascade that would leave her spine bare from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. Emily's hand shook as she took it.
"Trust me," Jodie said. And there was something in her voice—not pity, not condescension. Just a woman who understood what it meant to be invisible.
Emily pulled the curtain closed. She shed the burgundy and stepped into the sapphire. The fabric settled against her like a second skin. The neckline plunged, the silk barely containing her, and the back—God, the back was nothing but air and bare skin.
Her heart pounded as she reached for the curtain.
She pulled it open.
And stopped.
Marcus was still in the velvet armchair. But Elena was no longer perched on the arm. She was on his lap. Her blouse was undone, gaping open, and his mouth was on her bare breast. Elena's head was thrown back, her fingers tangled in his hair, her breath coming in soft, practiced gasps.
"What are you doing?" The words tore out of Emily's throat before she could stop them. "Get off him!"
Elena flinched. Her eyes snapped open, wide and caught, and she scrambled off Marcus's lap, her hands flying to her blouse. "I'm so sorry—I didn't—he said—"
Marcus's hand shot out and caught Elena's wrist. He pulled her back, settling her on his thigh, his palm flat against her stomach.
"She doesn't matter," he said. His voice was low. Calm. The voice of a man stating an unchangeable fact. "Relax."
And he bent his head to Elena's neck, his lips finding the curve of her throat, his hand sliding up to cup her breast through the gaping silk of her blouse.
Elena's eyes met Emily's for one breathless second. There was apology there. And pity.
Then her lashes fluttered closed, and she melted into his touch.
Emily stood in the sapphire gown, the silk cold against her bare back, her heart a wild animal in her chest.
She was supposed to be devastated. She was supposed to run.
But she was hot. And wet. And desperate for more.
Marcus's eyes flicked to her. Just for a moment. They swept over the gown—the plunge, the bare back, the way the silk clung to her modest curves—and something sparked in his gray irises. Not desire. Not approval. Interest. The clinical interest of a man who had just found something useful.
"Jodie," he said, his voice barely above a murmur, "try on the same dress."
Jodie's breath caught. "Sir?"
"The sapphire. Try it on." He turned back to Elena, his hand sliding into her hair, tilting her head back to expose the long column of her throat. "I want to see the difference."
Emily stood frozen as Jodie helplessly looked at her then disappeared to the shop's back room before return gown in hand into the fitting room. The curtain whispered closed. The seconds stretched.
Elena was straddling Marcus now, her hips grinding against his lap in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Her skirt had ridden up, revealing long thighs, and her blouse hung open, her breasts spilling free. Marcus's hands gripped her hips, guiding the motion, his head bent to her chest.
Emily heard the wet sound of his mouth on her skin. Heard Elena's soft, breathy moans.
Then the curtain opened.
Jodie stepped out in the sapphire gown.
The silk fit her like it had been sewn onto her body. The deep V of the neckline cradled her curves—a generous handful, firm and high, not as large as Elena's but perfect for her frame. The dress fell along her slim waist, hugged her hips, and pooled at her feet in a cascade of blue. Her blonde hair was loose, falling over her bare shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed pink from the rush of being watched.
Marcus's hands stilled on Elena's hips. His eyes lifted.
He looked at Jodie the way he had never looked at Emily. Like she was something worth seeing.
"Stand up," he said to Elena. His voice was different now. Lower. Thicker.
Elena slid off his lap, her blouse still gaping. She stood to the side, watching with narrowed eyes as Marcus rose from the velvet armchair and crossed to Jodie.
Emily saw it. The shape of him through his trousers. Hard. Thick. The evidence of his arousal pressed against the tailored fabric as he stopped in front of Jodie, close enough that her breath hitched.
"You look amazing." His voice was barely above a whisper. His hand rose, and he cupped Jodie's breast through the silk. His thumb found her nipple, traced it. "I would buy this for you. If you wanted."
Jodie's mouth fell open. "Sir, I—I don't have anywhere to wear something like this."
Marcus's thumb kept moving. Slow. Circling. "I have a trip to Paris next month. You could come."
Jodie's breath stopped. Her eyes searched his face, looking for the joke, the cruelty. She found neither. She found hunger.
Marcus tenderly caressed Jodie’s cheek, whispering in her ear but Emily was too far away to hear what. Whatever it was made Jodie smile as she stood on her toes to wrap her arms around Marcus.
Marcud lifted her up as Jodie's legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, and she covered his face with kisses—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He caught her lips with his, and the kiss was deep, consuming, his tongue sliding into her mouth as he turned and pressed her against the nearest wall.
Emily stood in the middle of the showroom, still wearing the same sapphire gown, invisible.
The kiss broke with a wet sound. Jodie was gasping, her fingers tangled in his hair, her legs still locked around him. Marcus ground against her through the dress, the silk dampening where her arousal soaked through.
"Don't want to dirty the dress," he muttered, and his hands found the hem. He pulled it up, over her hips, over her head, and tossed it aside. Jodie stood naked in the showroom light, her body flushed, her breasts bouncing as he lifted her again, her back against the wall.
His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and she cried out—a sharp, surprised sound that dissolved into a moan.
"Pick up the dress," Marcus said.
It took Emily a moment to realize he was speaking to her.
She looked at him. At Jodie, naked and writhing against the wall. The sapphire silk pooled on the floor.
"Emily." His voice was flat. Commanding. "Pick up the dress."
She bent. Her fingers closed around the silk, the fabric still warm from Jodie's body. She held it like an offering, her face burning.
Marcus's eyes met hers. There was no heat there. No recognition. She was a servant, holding a garment, and he was a king who had already turned his attention elsewhere.
"Elena." His voice was casual, as if he were ordering coffee. "Find something for Emily. And yourself. And Jodie." He paused, his hand sliding down Jodie's stomach, his fingers finding the wet heat between her thighs. "Pack all three."
Elena's face tightened. Her jaw flexed. But she buttoned her blouse with quick, sharp movements, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the racks without a word. She grabbed a gown at random—something plain, something safe—and tossed it at Emily.
"Change," she said. "You're done."
Emily caught the dress. The fabric was silk. Muted. Beige.
She turned and fled into the fitting room.
The curtain fell closed behind her, and she stood in the small, perfumed space, the basic beige dress clutched to her chest, the sapphire silk still warm in her other hand. She could hear them outside. Jodie's soft moans. Marcus's low grunts. The wet sound of his mouth on her skin.
Emily's hand found the curtain. She parted it a finger's width.
Marcus had laid Jodie on the long velvet couch near the armchair. His jacket was gone, tossed over the back of the chair. His belt was undone, his trousers open, his cock standing thick and hard in the showroom light. He knelt between Jodie's spread thighs, positioned at her entrance, and pushed inside her with one slow, deliberate thrust.
Jodie's head snapped back. Her mouth opened in a silent cry. Her hands flew to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he began to move—hard, fast, his hips slapping against hers with a wet rhythm that filled the room.
"Yes—yes—" Jodie's voice broke. "Oh God, yes—"
Marcus bent and took her breast into his mouth, sucking, biting, his thrusts never slowing. His hand slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit, pressing in tight circles that made her arch off the couch, her moans rising into a desperate, keening pitch.
Emily's hand slid between her own thighs.
She was soaked. The fabric of the sapphire silk was damp where she'd held it against her, and her fingers found the wet heat of her own arousal, the swollen slickness of her clit. She pressed, circled, her breath catching.
Jodie's body was flushed pink, her large breasts bouncing with each thrust, her blonde hair fanned out across the velvet, her legs wrapped high around Marcus's waist. He was fucking her with a brutal, relentless pace, his face buried in her neck, his grunts low and animal.
"Marcus," Emily whispered. Her fingers moved faster. "Marcus."
Outside, Jodie screamed. Her body convulsed, her back arching, her nails raking down his shoulders as she came, her cunt clenching around his cock. Marcus groaned, his hips slamming into her, and Emily heard the wet sound of him spilling inside her, felt the echo of it in her own body, the wave cresting—
She came with his name on her lips, a cry she barely managed to swallow, her knees buckling, her forehead pressing against the cool wood of the fitting room door.
She heard Jodie's ragged breathing. Heard Marcus's voice, low and amused.
"That good?"
Jodie laughed, breathless. "That was—"
"I know."
Emily heard him stand. Heard the rustle of fabric as he dressed. She looked down at herself, at the mess on her thighs, the crumpled dresses in her hands, the cheap beige gown waiting to be worn.
She was supposed to be devastated. She was supposed to be broken.
But she was wet. And hopeful. And desperate for more.
The curtain ripped open.
Marcus stood there, fully dressed, his hair slightly disheveled, his shirt still untucked. He looked at her—at the wetness on her thighs, at the desperate ache in her eyes—and chuckled.
"I hope you enjoyed that." His voice was flat. Cruel. "Because your imagination is the only place I'm ever going to be."
He turned and walked away.
Emily stood in the fitting room, the forgotten dress clutched to her chest, the sapphire silk at her feet. She heard the shop door open. Heard his footsteps fade.
She looked at her reflection in the small mirror on the wall. Her hair was escaping from its clip. Her eyes lost the sparkle it had before she entered the shop replaced with despair and longing.