Not really. She is interrupted while undressing.

A sharp knock on the dressing room door startled Winona just as she was about to reach for her overalls. She tensed, her urgent need still pressing at her bladder, as a voice called from the other side.

"Miss Ryder? We need the outfits back. Can you pass them out?"

Winona hesitated, glancing down at herself. Stark naked. She swallowed, glancing toward the outfits she had just removed. There was no getting around this—she had to hand them over.

"Uh, yeah! Just—one second!" she called back, quickly gathering up the clothes. Moving to the door, she cracked it open just enough to slip the outfits through, keeping the door firmly between herself and the outside world. A hand reached in, took the clothes, and then the person outside briskly walked away without another word.

With a relieved sigh, Winona shut the door, turning back toward where she had left her overalls. Except—they weren’t there.

A small knot of confusion twisted in her stomach. She turned, scanning the dressing room with a quick, darting glance. They had to be here somewhere. They had to be. She always left her clothes in a neat pile whenever she changed.

Her eyes flicked to the bench. Empty.

The hooks on the wall? Nothing.

She crouched down, peeking under the small bench in case they had somehow fallen. But the floor was bare. Her breath hitched as she quickly checked behind the door, inside the small storage cubby, even lifting up the cushion on the seat.

Nothing.

Her pulse quickened. This wasn’t possible. She had them when she walked in. They had to be here. But no matter how many times she checked the small room, the answer remained the same—her overalls were gone.

A nervous, shaky breath escaped her lips as she wrapped her arms around herself, her mind racing for a solution. She tried to think—had she accidentally handed them over with the photoshoot outfits? Were they left somewhere else?

But no matter how she turned it over in her head, one thing remained terrifyingly clear—

She was completely naked. Trapped. And her bladder was now sending sharper, more urgent signals with every passing second.

Winona Ryder considered her options.

Option one: make a run for her car in the garage. It was risky—she’d have to dart through at least one hallway and hope to not bump into anyone. But the car offered privacy, a quick escape, and maybe even a towel in the backseat.

Option two: find a bathroom first. She thought she had spotted one earlier when she arrived—down the hall, past the break room, not far from where she’d entered through the side door. It was closer than the garage, but deeper inside the building. More eyes. More risk.

(Note: This chapter was written with the help of ChatGPT.)