Page 99 of His Good Girl

The lobby was bright and polished and indifferent. I crossed it with my employee badge clipped to my blouse and the tote heavy against my shoulder. The security guard nodded. I nodded back like a woman who had not packed two possible futures next to a travel-size deodorant.

I went to the restroom off the lobby and changed into the skirt.

Then I changed back.

Then I stood in the stall with my forehead pressed briefly against the cool metal door and then I changed into the skirt again.

The black fabric slid up over my hips with a sound that seemed much too loud in the empty restroom. I tucked in the ivory blouse, smoothed the waistband, stepped into the heels, and looked at myself in the mirror.

This was all too much.

I changed back into the trousers so fast I nearly caught the hem under my shoe.

A woman came in while I was halfway through buttoning the navy blouse again. I froze in the stall like a fugitive. She washed her hands, hummed three notes of some song, checked her lipstick, and left. I waited until the door closed, then burst into muffled, hysterical laughter.

This was insane.

This was completely insane.

I checked the time. I had twenty more minutes.

I changed into the skirt one last time and removed my underwear.

I did not let myself think too much about that last part. Thinking would have ruined me. Or stopped me. Or made me sit down on the bathroom floor and call Jules, which was functionally the same thing. I folded the gray trousers and navy blouse with shaking hands and shoved them into the bag. I fixed my hair, reapplied my lipstick, washed my hands even though they were clean, and took a long moment to stare at myself.

The woman in the mirror looked pale.

My phone buzzed.

Jules:Report.

Me:I brought both.

Jules:Cowardly but sensible.

Me:I changed three times.

Jules:Iconic and concerning.

Me:I’m wearing it.

I started to hyperventilate.

Jules:Breathe.

A second later:

Jules:Also walk slowly. That skirt deserves narrative tension.

I laughed under my breath, locked my phone, and left the restroom before I could change my mind a fourth time.

The elevator ride to forty-seven felt endless.

I stood alone in the mirrored box with my tote hooked over one shoulder, hands folded in front of me, watching the floor numbers climb. Twenty-one. Twenty-eight. Thirty-six. Forty-two. Forty-seven. Then the doors opened.

And there he was.

He wasn’t waiting directly in front of the elevator. That would have been too obvious, too theatrical, and too unlike him. He stood near Benjamin’s desk with a file in one hand, speaking to Dana and Marcus, his dark suit immaculate, his expression serious. Benjamin sat at his workstation, tablet in hand, already looking over because Benjamin’s instincts were demonic.