Lingerie

The email came through on Tuesday.

Nikki read it twice, thumb scrolling up and down while she stood at the kitchen counter. Dominic's signature block was simple — his name, the studio address, a phone number. The message itself was brief:

Next shoot is lingerie. Friday 9 AM. You're welcome to bring Brad or a guest if it makes you more comfortable.

She typed back before she could second-guess: Brad's on site all week. I'll be there alone.

Friday morning she pulled into the parking lot twenty minutes early. The sky was gray, the kind of overcast that made everything look soft and muted, and she sat in the car with the engine off and her hands on the wheel until her knuckles went white.

The studio door was unlocked. She stepped inside and the familiar smell hit her. The big windows let in the flat gray light and the space felt smaller than she remembered, more intimate, the corners crowded with equipment she hadn't noticed before.

Dominic was at the laptop, scrolling through something. He looked up and nodded. "You're early."

"Traffic was light."

He didn't call her on it. Just gestured toward the rack of garments in the corner — six or seven sets of lingerie on padded hangers, all of them in plastic sheaths. "Marisol's in the back. Greta's your fitter today. She's running late but she'll be here in ten. Client rep's name is Alison. She's done this a hundred times."

"Good to know."

Nikki hung her coat on a hook near the door. She was wearing jeans and a loose sweater, comfortable, easy to take off. The kind of outfit that said I'm ready but I'm not thinking about it.

Marisol came out and did her face in eight minutes, light and natural, mostly eyes. "You've got good skin," she said, which was the same thing she'd said last time. "The camera loves you."

Greta arrived at 9:07. She was tall, broad-shouldered, with short gray hair and reading glasses on a chain. She didn't introduce herself — just walked to the rack, pulled out the first garment bag, and said, "Let's see what we're working with."

Nikki changed behind the screen. The first set was black lace, a bralette and high-waisted briefs, delicate and expensive-looking. She stepped out and Greta's hands were on her before she could take a breath — fingers hooking the band, adjusting the straps, pulling the fabric tighter at the sides.

"Breathe," Greta said. "You're holding."

Nikki exhaled. Greta pulled the band tighter and pinned it. The metal tip of the pin scraped against her rib and she flinched.

"Sorry. Almost done." Greta stepped back. "Okay. Good. Walk around, see how it settles."

Nikki walked to the full-length mirror. The bralette sat higher now, the underwire pressing into the underside of her breasts. She looked good. She also looked like she was wearing armor.

"All right," Dominic said. "Let's start."

The first few frames were stiff. She knew it before he said anything — her arms stayed too close to her body, her shoulders hunched forward, her chin tucked like she was waiting for someone to tell her she was doing it wrong.

"Relax your shoulders," Dominic said.

She dropped them. The bralette shifted. She felt exposed in a way that the sundress hadn't managed — this was deliberate, this was intended to be seen, and the weight of that intention pressed down on her like a hand.

"Look at me. No — don't look at me like you're asking permission. Look at me like you're deciding if I'm worth your time."

She tried. Her face did something stiff and she saw him lower the camera.

"Take a breath," he said. "Shake it out."

She shook her arms. Rolled her neck. The room was quiet except for the hum of the laptop and the distant sound of traffic.

"Think about your husband," Dominic said. "Think about how he looks at you when you're wearing something he likes."

She thought about Brad. About the way his jaw tightened when she walked out of the bedroom in something new. About the sound he made last week when she climbed on top of him in the armchair.

Then she thought about how Ruben stared at her throughout the entire first shoot.

Her shoulders dropped.

"Better," Dominic said. Click. "Turn around. Look back at me over your shoulder."

She did it slowly. Deliberately. She let the movement take its time — the rotation of her torso, the lift of her chin, the moment her eyes found his through the viewfinder.

The shutter clicked and kept clicking.

"There you go," he said. "That's the one."

The second set was white — a sheer bodysuit with floral embroidery, the kind of thing that was more structure than fabric. Greta pinned the straps, adjusted the gusset, and Nikki stood in front of the mirror and watched herself disappear into the garment.

She was better this time. Not good, but better. She found angles that worked — a three-quarter turn, a hand on her hip, a slow drag of her fingers along her collarbone. Dominic circled her and she let him, let the camera follow her, let the attention settle over her like a blanket.

Ruben was at the laptop. She could feel his eyes on her, could see him leaning forward in his chair. He wasn't pretending to work anymore. Neither was Alison, who had put her phone down and was watching with the flat, professional interest of someone who'd seen a hundred models.

"One more look," Dominic said. "Then we're done with the first round."

The third set was red — a push-up bra and cheeky panties, the bra heavily padded, almost armor-like. Greta pinned the band and adjusted the cups and Nikki felt like she was wearing a costume. She posed. She turned. She did what she was told. But something was missing, and Dominic could feel it.

"You're thinking too much," he said. "Stop performing and start being."

"I don't know how to be in lingerie."

"Then don't be in lingerie. Be in your bedroom. Be in front of a mirror. Be anywhere except here."

She closed her eyes. Found the feeling. Opened them.

The fourth set was a deep burgundy mesh — a bralette and matching high-waisted panties, the fabric delicate and almost translucent. Greta pinned the band at the back, adjusted the straps, and then pulled the pin to tighten the side seam.

The fabric tore.

It was a small sound — a sharp, clean rip — and then the elastic gave and the bra strap went slack. Greta swore under her breath.

"The hell," she muttered. "It's a sample. It's sewn for a smaller ribcage and this is the only one in the line."

Alison didn't look up from her phone. "It's fine. We comp that all the time. Just do it without the bra."

Nikki's stomach dropped.

"It's a mesh set," Dominic said. "The panties cover enough. And I can paint the bra back in later. I've done it before."

Three professionals. Two of them women. All of them saying it was normal.

Nikki stood very still. Her arms crossed over her chest, her palms pressed against her ribs. The torn bralette hung loose around her shoulders and she could feel the air against her skin where the fabric had given way.

"You okay?" Dominic asked.

She thought about it for a moment. There was a big difference between "see-through" and "topless." She thought about the unedited photos on her phone. The ones Brad didn't know about. The ones she looked at in the dark while he slept. A wave of arousal washed through her.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm fine."

She walked behind the screen and took the bra off.

The mesh bralette slid down her arms and she dropped it on the chair. The panties were still on — high-waisted, burgundy, covering enough that she could pretend it was a bikini. But her breasts were bare, and she could feel the weight of them, the way they moved when she breathed.

She stepped out with her arms crossed.

Nobody said anything.

Greta walked up to her and adjusted the panties — pulled the waistband higher, smoothed the fabric over her hips. Her hands were brisk and professional, and they touched Nikki's ribs and her hip bones and the soft curve of her stomach, and she didn't flinch.

"Good," Greta said. "The line is clean."

She stepped back. Dominic raised the camera.

"Arms down," he said.

Nikki let her arms fall to her sides.

The air hit her chest. Her nipples tightened immediately, and she could feel the flush spreading up her neck, across her collarbone. She didn't move. She stood there with her arms down and let them look.

Click.

"Good. Turn to the left. Chin up. Now drop your chin and look at me from under your brow."

She did it. Her breasts shifted with the movement and she saw Dominic's eyes flick down before the shutter clicked.

Click. Click.

"Put your hand on your hip. No — the other hand. Good. Now slide it up. Slowly. Stop at your rib."

She did it. Her fingers traced the curve of her waist, the bone beneath the skin, and she held the pose while the camera ate her alive.

Ruben had stopped pretending entirely. He was staring at the laptop screen, his mouth slightly open, his hands motionless on the keyboard. She could see the reflection of her own body in the screen — the pale curve of her breasts, the dark centers, the sharp line of her collarbone.

The thought sent heat curling through her belly.

This is for Brad, she told herself. I'm doing this for Brad.

But Brad wasn't here. Brad was on a site somewhere, covered in dust, completely unaware that his wife was standing topless in a studio while two men watched her.

The gap between those two facts — between what Brad thought she was doing and what she was actually doing — was the most exciting thing she'd felt in years.

She started to enjoy the delay.

When Dominic told her to turn, she turned slowly. When he told her to look, she held his gaze a beat longer than necessary. When he asked her to arch her back, she let her spine curve like a question mark, her breasts lifting, her nipples drawing tight against the air.

"Good," he said. "Hold that."

She held it. The shutter clicked. Her skin was hot and her breath was shallow and she didn't examine any of it.

"One more set," Dominic said. "Greta, what do we have left?"

Greta was already at the rack. She pulled out the last garment bag and unzipped it. "Sheer black. Bodysuit. High cut on the legs."

Nikki took it behind the screen and stepped into it. The fabric was almost weightless — a fine mesh that clung to her like a second skin. The cut was high on her hips, the leg openings riding up to the crease of her thighs. The front was lined at the gusset but the rest was transparent, her body visible through the black like a photograph in negative.

She looked in the mirror. She could see her nipples through the mesh. The shadow between her legs. The curve of her waist.

She walked out.

Dominic didn't say anything. He just lifted the camera and started shooting.

She was better now. Her movements were slower, more deliberate. She turned and looked back over her shoulder. She let her hand drift down her stomach and stop just above the waistband. She held her chin up and her shoulders back and let the camera see everything.

"Open the lookbook," Dominic said. "The one on the laptop."

She walked over and he pulled up the brand's catalog — a page of a model in the same bodysuit, her breasts covered by the bra that no longer existed. Dominic clicked a few buttons, dragged a selection, and painted the bra back onto the image of Nikki's body.

She watched him work. Watched the lace appear over her own breasts, the underwire taking shape, the straps materializing out of nothing. He zoomed in on the curve of her chest and filled in the fabric, matching the pattern from the catalog, and in thirty seconds she was wearing a bra that had never existed.

"That's amazing," she said.

"It's a tool." He didn't look up. "I can put you in anything. The only limit is the original shot."

She stood behind him and watched as he finished the edit. The image on the screen looked real — looked like she'd been wearing the bra the whole time. But she knew what was underneath. She knew the truth.

Greta was packing up. She threw the torn bralette on a chair and said, "Keep it. They won't want it back."

Nikki changed behind the screen. She put on her jeans and her sweater and her coat, and she folded the torn burgundy mesh into her bag. The fabric was soft against her fingers, the broken strap dangling loose.

She drove home with her phone in her lap and the bag on the passenger seat. The torn bra was in there. The unedited photos were in there. And in between them, the memory of standing in front of four strangers with her arms at her sides, letting them look.

Brad came home at ten.

He was dirty and tired and he dropped his bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch. She sat down beside him and he put his head in her lap without a word.

"Long day?" she asked.

"Long week." He closed his eyes. "How was the shoot?"

"Good. It was good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He was asleep in six minutes. His breathing evened out, his hand went slack on her knee, and she sat there with her phone face-down on her thigh and the torn bra in her bag by the door.

She didn't move for a long time.