It does

Bobby closes your portfolio with a soft snap. He studies you a beat longer than professional comfort allows.

“One last note,” he says, almost casual. “You’re hiding the merchandise. Lose the jacket.”

Your fingers freeze on the armrest. The room’s AC hums louder in your ears. You think of the two weeks you just begged for, the rent due in nine days, the voicemail from home you still haven’t returned. You stand. The jacket slides off your shoulders; you drape it over the chair like a flag of truce.

He nods once, clinical. “Better.”

Then he leans in, forearms on the desk, voice dropped half an octave. “Skirt too. Couple inches. Legs like yours don’t audition—they close the deal.”

The air thickens. Your pulse drums in your throat. Every instinct screams leave, but the word starve flashes neon behind your eyes. You hitch the hem—slow, deliberate—until the fabric kisses mid-thigh. Cool air hits skin; shame and adrenaline taste metallic.

Bobby’s gaze lingers, appraising, then flicks back to your face. “Quick study,” he murmurs. “That’s currency here.”