This wasn't shopping; it was a re-dressing of the doll.
The flagship boutique of Vance Luxe was a cathedral of glass and gold, its marble floors gleaming under recessed lighting, its racks lined with garments that cost more than most people's homes. The store had been cleared, the doors locked, the staff reduced to a handful of silent, black-clad attendants who moved like shadows. Elara stood in the center of the private salon, a raised dais surrounded by three-way mirrors, the diamond choker at her throat catching the light like a warning. Her reflection stared back from every angle, a stranger in a black dress that no longer felt like hers.
Damien lounged in a velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other, his navy suit impeccable, his dark eyes fixed on her with the intensity of a man appraising a masterpiece. A tablet rested on his knee, but he hadn't glanced at it once. This was his domain, his vision, and she was the canvas. The attendants hovered at the edges, their arms laden with garments he'd pre-selected, their faces blank masks of deference.
"Strip," he said, his voice low, commanding, a velvet blade that cut through the silence.
Elara's hands trembled as she reached for the zipper of her dress, the sound of the metal teeth loud in the hush. The black fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but the choker and a pair of silk panties, the air cool against her exposed skin. Her cheeks burned, humiliation scalding her, but Damien's gaze didn't waver, his expression one of clinical assessment, as if she were a machine he was calibrating.
The first attendant approached, holding a cream silk blouse and a tailored pencil skirt. Elara reached for them, but Damien raised a hand, stopping her. "No," he said, his tone dismissive. "Too conservative. She's not my assistant anymore. Next."
The attendant vanished, replaced by another with a sapphire wrap dress, its neckline plunging, its hem high. Elara slipped it on, the fabric clinging to her curves, accentuating every line of her body. She turned to the mirror, her reflection a stranger—elegant, exposed, a trophy. Damien's eyes raked over her, slow and deliberate, cataloguing every detail.
"Better," he said, his voice low, "but not enough. The color washes her out. Next."
One by one, the outfits came—emerald silk, black lace, gold lamé—each more luxurious, more revealing than the last. Elara modeled them all, her movements mechanical, her body a puppet under his command. He dismissed her choices with a wave of his hand, his selections tighter, bolder, designed to scream expensive possession. A white cashmere sweater dress that hugged her hips, a black leather skirt that barely reached mid-thigh, a backless halter gown in midnight blue that left her spine bare to his gaze. Each time, he made her turn, lift her arms, walk across the dais, his eyes assessing her from every angle, his pen scratching notes in the margins of his tablet.
"Spin," he ordered at one point, his voice sharp. She obeyed, the hem of a scarlet sheath dress flaring, the fabric so tight it felt like a second skin. His gaze lingered on her legs, her waist, the curve of her neck where the choker gleamed. "Good," he murmured, almost to himself. "But the neckline's wrong. It hides too much."
The attendants scrambled, producing a new dress—a crimson cocktail gown, its bodice corseted, its skirt slit high on one thigh, the neckline a daring plunge that framed the choker like a crown. Elara slipped it on, the silk cool against her flushed skin, the corset cinching her waist until she could barely breathe. She stepped onto the dais, her reflection a vision of opulence and captivity, the dress a declaration of ownership.
Damien stood, his movements fluid, predatory, and circled her slowly, his eyes never leaving her body. He stopped behind her, his hands settling on her bare shoulders, his fingers warm against her skin. The mirrors reflected them both—him, tall and commanding, her, a doll dressed for his pleasure. His gaze met hers in the glass, possessive, triumphant.
"This one," he said, his voice a low growl. "Wear this tonight. We're having dinner with the board members."
His hands slid down her arms, a deliberate claim, his thumbs brushing the edges of the choker. "They all thought I was a fool for marrying my assistant," he murmured, his lips close to her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "I want them to see exactly what I saw. The most beautiful woman in the room, who belongs only to me."
Her heart pounded, her reflection blurring as tears stung her eyes. The dress was a cage, the choker a chain, and his words a brand. She was his trophy, his possession, and tonight, he would parade her before his empire to prove it. The mirrors closed in, the attendants' shadows fading, the world narrowing to the weight of his hands and the gleam of his eyes in the glass.