She gets ready for her assignment

Jillian Everly left Captain Warren’s office with the folder tucked under her arm, her legs moving on autopilot. The precinct hallway felt longer than usual, the fluorescent lights harsher. She kept her head down as she passed her father’s desk, offering only a quick wave. Joe smiled at her with that mix of pride and worry she knew too well, but she couldn’t stop to talk. Not right now. One word from him and the careful mask she was wearing might crack.

The drive to the undercover apartment passed in a blur of stoplights and racing thoughts. Her hands shook on the steering wheel. By the time she pulled into the parking lot of the nondescript building, her stomach was in knots. She sat in the car for five full minutes, engine off, staring at the steering wheel. This is really happening. I’m really doing this.

The apartment was small and impersonal—beige walls, basic furniture, and a closet already stocked with clothes chosen by Miriam. It smelled faintly of fresh paint. Jillian locked the door, slid the deadbolt, and leaned back against it, letting out a long, shaky breath. “Okay, Chloe Donnelly. Time to meet you.”

She kicked off her sensible flats and padded into the bedroom. The folder landed on the bed. She flipped it open again, reading the cover story until the words blurred. Twenty-five. Bartender. Bad breakup. Looking for a fresh start. It was all neatly typed, complete with a fake driver’s license showing her own face but a different name. She touched the photo. I look so young. She was young. Only a year out of the academy. Most of her life had been textbooks, training drills, and quiet nights studying case files. Dating had been two boyfriends total—both gentle, both long-term, both nothing like the world she was about to walk into.

She stood in front of the closet and slid the doors open. The department had done their job too well. Bright colors, short hemlines, low necklines. Nothing like the practical jeans and blouses she preferred. Her fingers trembled as she sorted through the hangers. A black pleated skirt caught her eye—short, maybe mid-thigh. She pulled it out, then reached for a red tank top that looked two sizes too small. The material was soft but thin. Finally, she found a pair of black strappy heels with a three-inch lift. She laid everything on the bed like evidence on a table.

Jillian sat down heavily beside the clothes. Her mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Applying to be a stripper. The phrase alone made her cheeks burn. She had never even been inside a strip club. On patrol she’d driven past plenty—neon signs, tinted windows, men lingering outside—but she’d always averted her eyes, feeling a strange secondhand embarrassment. Now she was preparing to walk in and ask for a job taking her clothes off for strangers. What would that mean for her? Would she have to dance on a pole? Grind? Let men stare at her body up close? Touch the pole in ways that left nothing to the imagination?

She thought about her limited experience with intimacy. Her first boyfriend, Tyler, had been sweet. They’d dated for eight months in college before she’d felt ready. It had been awkward, gentle, and over quickly. The second, Ryan, had lasted almost a year. He made her feel safe, desired even. But it had always been in the dark, under sheets, just the two of them. Private. Loving. The idea of parading herself under bright lights, in front of dozens of eyes, made her feel exposed in a way that went bone-deep. She was naive about this world. She knew it. Her father had raised her with strong values, and the academy had drilled professionalism and boundaries into her. This assignment shattered every boundary she had.

“What if I freeze?” she whispered to the empty room. “What if I can’t do it? What if Abrianna sees right through me?”

She stood up and paced. The nervousness was so unlike her. On the streets as a beat cop, she’d faced down hostile suspects, domestic calls that turned ugly, and long night shifts that left her exhausted but proud. She had earned her detective shield through hard work and determination. But this? This felt like stepping off a cliff. Undercover meant becoming someone else entirely. Chloe Donnelly wouldn’t blush and look away. Chloe would own the room. Or at least pretend to.

Jillian picked up the skirt again and stepped into it. The fabric slid up her toned legs and settled high on her thighs. She turned in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door. It was shorter than anything she’d worn since a high school dance. She sucked in a breath and pulled the red tank top over her head. The material clung to her torso, stretching across her chest. Her breasts looked fuller, rounder, pushed up by the tight cut and thin straps. She adjusted the neckline, but it still dipped low, showing cleavage she rarely displayed. The reflection staring back at her was striking—curvy, confident-looking, nothing like the fresh-faced rookie she still felt like inside.

Next came the heels. She slipped them on and practiced walking across the carpet. Her ankles wobbled at first. She caught herself on the dresser, laughing nervously. “Get it together, Jillian. Chloe. Whatever.” She walked the length of the small bedroom again and again until her steps grew steadier, hips swaying naturally to keep balance. The motion made the skirt swish and her chest move in the tank top. She stopped and studied herself critically. The outfit made her boobs look really good—there was no denying it. The red fabric contrasted with her pale skin and red hair, drawing the eye exactly where she probably needed it to go for this assignment.

She sat on the bed again, knees pressed together, and let the doubts flood in. I’m going to walk into that club like this. Looking like this. Men would stare. They might catcall. She’d have to smile through it, maybe flirt, all while trying to get close to Abrianna Castellano—a woman involved in drugs, slavery, and murder. The thought of Abrianna’s interest in women made her stomach flip. Jillian had never even kissed another woman. The closest she’d come to that kind of attention was polite compliments from female friends. Now she might have to use her body, her youth, and her looks as a weapon. It felt dirty. It felt necessary.

Tears welled up, but she blinked them back. “Sasha’s been in there six months,” she said aloud, voice cracking. “She might be hurt. She might be dead. Marco’s waiting for her. Dad raised me to finish what I start. I can’t back out. I won’t.”

She stood up and paced again, heels clicking. Each step reinforced the new reality. She practiced lines from the file. “Hi, I’m Chloe. I’m looking for work. I dance a little. I learn fast.” She tried a smile in the mirror—nervous at first, then forced it wider, brighter, sexier. She tilted her head, letting her red hair fall over one shoulder. She practiced bending slightly at the waist, watching how the tank top shifted. The nervousness didn’t vanish, but something else grew alongside it: resolve.

She thought about her training. Observation. Adaptability. Control. She could do this. She had to. For the first time since leaving the precinct, a small spark of the confident detective flickered. She wasn’t just some naive girl playing dress-up. She was Jillian Everly, daughter of Joe, academy graduate, and now Detective Chloe Donnelly on the most important assignment of her young career.

One more look in the mirror. The short skirt showed off her legs. The heels lengthened her silhouette. The tank top hugged every curve, especially her chest, making her look bold and inviting. She ran her hands down her sides, smoothing the fabric. “You look the part,” she told her reflection. “Now act it.”

The clock on the wall showed she still had time before she needed to leave for the Pink Panther. She sat down again, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply— in for four, hold for four, out for four. She visualized success. Walking into the club. Getting the job. Finding a way to Sasha. Bringing the whole Castellano operation down. She pictured her father’s proud face when she returned with a solved case.

The nerves were still there, fluttering wildly in her chest. She was young. She was inexperienced. She had never done anything remotely like this. But she was also brave. Determined. And she refused to let fear win.

Jillian stood up, grabbed a small purse with her fake ID and emergency cash, and took one last steadying breath. “Time to go, Chloe. Let’s do this.”

She locked the apartment door behind her and walked carefully toward her car in the heels, the short skirt brushing her thighs with every step. Her heart pounded, but her chin stayed high. The real test was coming, and she was as ready as she could possibly be.