Another private event

The summons wasn’t a whisper, but a sharp rap of her knuckles against the frame of the stingray tank's door, where Magi was trying, in vain, to melt into the routine of water and glass.

—Everyone. My office. Now. —May’s voice cut through the hum of the aquarium like a knife. There was no room for questions.

The five of them followed the rhythm of her precise steps through the hallways. Lara did so with a haughty resignation; Cloe with panic already settled in her eyes; Sofia dragged her feet, the blue bruise on her wrist hidden under a dirty bandage. Julia was a silent shadow. Magi closed the procession, her stomach turned into a knot of ice. Her new "role" was an invisible cloak that already weighed more than any uniform.

May’s office smelled of cleanliness and power. On her desk, there were no papers. Instead, five outfits rested there.

They weren't the vulgar bikinis of the aquarium. They were armors of dark silk and metal. Pieces of perverse high couture: black lace thongs with silver threads that knotted at the hips and thighs, minimal ebony satin triangle tops held by chains as thin as sighs, sheer embroidered chiffon robes that would hide nothing. They were elegant, grotesquely expensive, and revealing to the point of obscenity.

—Alexander Vance’s "Siren’s Call," —May announced, with the solemnity of a general before the final battle—. Tomorrow night. A private gathering. The highest level you can aspire to.

Her gaze swept across each pale face, savoring the terror she saw.

—People will be there whose power makes mine look like child's play. Owners of real worlds. To them, you will not be employees. You will be the embodiment of a concept: "Creatures of the Deep on the Surface of Luxury." —She pronounced the words as if they were engraved in gold.

She pointed to the outfits.

—This is what you will wear. Movement, elegance, superficial conversation. No clumsiness. No tears. You are the most exquisite adornment of the most luxurious yacht. Understood?

A deathly silence was the only response.

—Magi —her voice struck her like a dart—. Your function is to ensure the concept is fulfilled. That their posture, their whispers, their glances, reflect the premise. You are the curator of this experience. Do not forget that.

Magi felt every gaze turn toward her. Lara with cold curiosity, Cloe with a silent plea, Sofia with a flash of pure hatred. May wasn’t just selling them; she was forcing Magi to be the jailer who delivered them.

—The reward for an impeccable performance —May continued, lowering her voice to an almost intimate tone— will be proportional to the level of the event. Imagine, finally, settling real debts. —Her gaze settled on Magi—. Failure, on the other hand, would be… inconceivable. For everyone.

The threat hovered in the room, as heavy and dark as the silk of the bikinis.

—Try on the outfits. Adjust whatever is necessary. Magi, supervise. I want an aptitude report in one hour —May ordered, and left the office, leaving them alone with the black silk and the betrayal.

For a moment, no one moved. Then, Lara was the first. She took the most elaborate set, featuring a vine of black crystals climbing up the leg, and headed to the corner to change without a word.

Cloe broke into silent tears, her droplets falling onto the black satin she held with trembling hands.

—I can’t… I can’t put this on again… —she sobbed.

Sofia looked at her with contempt.

—Shut up —she spat—. Or do you want them to paint your other wrist? —She showed her own bandage with rage.

Julia simply took her assigned piece, a design of straps that looked like ritual bandages, and began to undress with a vacant stare.

And Magi remained in the center, with May’s tablet in her hands, feeling the weight of delegated authority like a crown of thorns. She had to do it. She had to ensure every thread, every buckle, was perfect. She had to sell them the dream of the depths while preparing them for the void of someone else's luxury.

—Let’s go —she said, and her voice sounded strange, borrowed, with an echo of May’s coldness—. We have one hour. Cloe, stop crying. You’ll ruin the fabric.

The words left her mouth before she could stop them. And in the reflection of the office's dark window, for a second, she didn’t see her own face, but May’s, smiling.