Giovanni’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts. Satisfaction, maybe. Or disappointment that I didn’t fight harder.
Giovanni disappears into his bedroom without another word, leaving me standing alone beside the ridiculous desk. I stare at the gleaming glass surface, trying to figure out if there’s some way to lean against it without looking like I’m leaning. Some wayto maintain my dignity while still giving my legs a break during what’s apparently going to be a very long day.
I’m so absorbed in this problem that I don’t notice he’s returned until I hear the sharp click of something hard against the floor.
I look down.
At a pair of shoes.
Not just any shoes— stilettos. The kind that make your ankles scream and your toes curl. The kind with the glossy red bottoms that practically coined the phrase, ‘fuck-me heels’.
Louboutins.
The text message.Did you steal my shoes? My red ‘So Kates’ are missing. Call me.
“You really did steal someone’s shoes!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Oops. I read his text message. The one he doesn’t even know about yet. How many demerits will that cost?
I actually hear his voice in my head saying,Invasion of privacy, one-hundred demerits.
“Borrowed,” he corrects, as if the distinction matters. “Lucia won’t miss them.”
Oh, how wrong he is. She noticed. Whoever she is to him. And he’s going to put this all together the moment he checks his texts or sees her in person. God, with my luck, she’ll call while I’m still here and the whole thing will play out before lunch.
I stare at the heels. Iconic silhouette. Ultra-thin stiletto, steep arch, red leather. The kind of shoes you buy when you want the whole world to know you don’t take a single step without making it hurt. The kind of shoes that announce your arrival before you even enter a room.
“What are these for?” I ask, though I’m already piecing it together, the sick realization crawling up my spine.
Giovanni looks at me with that flat, clinical gaze. “For standing, of course.”
My stomach drops.
I glance from the shoes to the desk to his impassive face, and suddenly everything clicks into horrible focus.
A standing desk.
A pair of stolen high heels.
Punishment.
It’s not just about making me stand all day. It’s about making me stand inthose. Impossibly high heels that will have my feet screaming within an hour. That will force my posture into an exaggerated feminine arch. That will make every minute a conscious exercise in discomfort and compliance.
The humiliation burns hot in my chest. This isn’t just about being late. This is about control. About breaking me down in the most gendered, deliberate way possible.
And I signed up for it. I literally signed a contract allowing for “appropriate corrective measures at employer’s discretion.”
I want to throw the shoes at his head. I want to walk out. I want to tell him exactly what kind of man steals women’s shoes for his power games.
But I don’t have anywhere to go.
7
She’s processing—the desk, the contract, the shoes. Every glance, every frown, every furrowed eyebrow is a data point, and I’m collecting them all. The slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. The rapid blinking. The way her throat moves when she swallows her pride.
“Put them on,” I tell her, nodding to the shoes. Not harshly. Just in a tone that demands compliance.