The first stopis a store called LUNA on Nicollet, and I don’t know how to describe it except that the mannequins are better dressed than anyone I’ve ever met. The whole space smells like exclusivity and pink peonies, and the lighting is so good it makes you look airbrushed. Hunter walks in first, all CEO-casual, and the staff materialize instantly, swarming him with the precision of trained dolphins.
He gestures for me to follow. “This is Daisy,” he says to the manager, a tall woman in black with a platinum bob. “She’s getting a new wardrobe. Whatever she wants.”
The woman glances at me, then at the shirt, then at my legs, and then just beams. “We’ll take care of her,” she purrs. “Would you like a drink while you wait, Mr. McCarren?”
He declines, of course, but the staff still show him to a lounge area, all velvet and leather, and he sits back with his phone, pretending to work but watching me the entire time.
I follow the manager to the back, where they hand me a flute of something pink and bubbly and start plucking dresses from the racks. They don’t even ask my size; somehow, every single thing fits perfectly, clinging to my body like it was made for me. It’s a blur of textures: velvet, silk, sequins, leather, the kind of fabric you want to handle because it’s so exquisite and fine.
Every time I put on something new, I’m sent out to model for Hunter. The first dress is navy, tight, the neckline one hair away from a wardrobe malfunction. He raises an eyebrow, then nods. “Keep.”
The next is a white sheath, pure and innocent except for the slit up to my hip. He doesn’t blink, just says, “Keep.”
Then a red one, so thin it’s basically lingerie. I step out, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t even flinch. “Keep,” he says, voice low. I wonder if he’s even seeing the dresses, or if he’s just undressing me with his eyes.
The manager brings out shoes, with heels higher than skyscrapers. Hunter picks a pair of black stilettos with crystal straps. “Walk for me,” he commands, and I do, my ass swaying, the entire staff turning away politely.
It’s all a little unreal. By the time we get to accessories, I’m half-drunk from the champagne and the attention. I try on a necklace, heavy as a shackle, and Hunter comes over to fasten it himself. His fingers are cool against my neck, but the way he looks at me makes me feel hot, almost feverish.
“You look perfect,” he whispers, voice barely above the music. “This is like a collar. It makes people know that you belong to me.”
My pulse hammers. “But does it mean I get to keep you, too?”
He laughs, and for a second, the CEO mask slips and he’s just a guy, amused and maybe a little undone.
“Try on a few more items for me,” he says. “Please.”
I do. I try on everything they bring, dresses so short they’re practically belts, a pantsuit that makes me look like a dominatrix, even a floor-length ball gown, pale pink and covered in glittering beads. Every time I come out, he just nods, “Keep. Keep. Keep.”
When it’s done, the staff starts bagging up the haul—three racks, at least. I can’t help but ask, “Are you sure about all of this?”
He nods, blue eyes fixed on mine. “Absolutely. You deserve nice things, Daisy. Get used to it.”
I watch him, the way his jaw flexes when he says it, and I get this weird twist in my gut. Like maybe this is more than a game.
Maybe Hunter actually cares.
But why? Therein lies the mystery of this gorgeous, arresting man.
The next stopis a lingerie store called La Coquette, and from the second we walk in, I know it’s trouble.
The air is sweet with perfume and something else—leather, maybe, or the scent of secrets. The space is lush, all dark velvet and gold trim, and the displays are decadent. It’s the only word for it, with mannequins in lacy bras, silk tap shorts, corsets with boning that turn girls into hourglasses.
The salesgirl greets us at the door, eyes wide as she recognizes Hunter. “Mr. McCarren, welcome back.”
“Just browsing today,” he says, but then he turns to me and his gaze gets dangerous. “Daisy needs some pieces for her new wardrobe.”
The salesgirl—maybe twenty-five, with a blonde bob and bright pink lips—gives me a quick once-over. “Absolutely,” she breathes. “Follow me.”
She leads us to the back, where the lighting is soft, the music is pure vibrato. There are racks of lingerie, some so tiny they’re basically dental floss. Hunter walks beside me, and every time I touch a fabric, he leans in, making suggestions.
“Try this,” he says, plucking a bralette made of sheer black mesh.
“What about this one?” I tease, holding up a pink demi-cup with matching garters.
He grins. “All of them.”
The salesgirl brings over a handful of boxes and urges me into the dressing room. It’s huge—mirrored on three sides, with a velvet chaise and a thick curtain for privacy. She closes me in, and I stare at the armful of lingerie, not sure where to begin.