Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
The rational part of my brain knows that my irritation is absurd—standing for a few hours isn’t exactly torture. Cashiers do it all the time. Waitresses. Catering staff. I’d say half the population stands all day at work. It’s not unusual.
It’s just... the context.
The control.
The casual way he’s established dominance over something as basic as whether I get to sit down.
“And if I refuse?” I ask, though we both know it’s an empty question.
Giovanni doesn’t even bother answering. He simply raises an eyebrow and glances toward the door, reminding me without words that I’m replaceable. That the temp is just a phone call away.
I think about Sister Margaret and the shelter. About my three-week deadline. About my empty bank account and the impossible math of finding an apartment with no job and no references.
I look at the desk again. Standing for a day won’t kill me.
My pride, on the other hand, feels like it’s bleeding out on his expensive hardwood floor.
“Fine,” I say, the word tasting like surrender.
Giovanni’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts. Satisfaction, maybe. Or disappointment that I didn’t fight harder.
Giovanni disappears into his bedroom without another word, leaving me standing alone beside the ridiculous desk. I stare at the gleaming glass surface, trying to figure out if there’s some way to lean against it without looking like I’m leaning. Some way to maintain my dignity while still giving my legs a break during what’s apparently going to be a very long day.
I’m so absorbed in this problem that I don’t notice he’s returned until I hear the sharp click of something hard against the floor.
I look down.
At a pair of shoes.
Not just any shoes— stilettos. The kind that make your ankles scream and your toes curl. The kind with the glossy red bottoms that practically coined the phrase, ‘fuck-me heels’.
Louboutins.
The text message. Did you steal my shoes? My red ‘So Kates’ are missing. Call me.
“You really did steal someone’s shoes!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Oops. I read his text message. The one he doesn’t even know about yet. How many demerits will that cost?
I actually hear his voice in my head saying, Invasion of privacy, one-hundred demerits.
“Borrowed,” he corrects, as if the distinction matters. “Lucia won’t miss them.”
Oh, how wrong he is. She noticed. Whoever she is to him. And he’s going to put this all together the moment he checks his texts or sees her in person. God, with my luck, she’ll call while I’m still here and the whole thing will play out before lunch.
I stare at the heels. Iconic silhouette. Ultra-thin stiletto, steep arch, red leather. The kind of shoes you buy when you want the whole world to know you don’t take a single step without making it hurt. The kind of shoes that announce your arrival before you even enter a room.
“What are these for?” I ask, though I’m already piecing it together, the sick realization crawling up my spine.
Giovanni looks at me with that flat, clinical gaze. “For standing, of course.”
My stomach drops.
I glance from the shoes to the desk to his impassive face, and suddenly everything clicks into horrible focus.
A standing desk.
A pair of stolen high heels.
Punishment.
It’s not just about making me stand all day. It’s about making me stand in those. Impossibly high heels that will have my feet screaming within an hour. That will force my posture into an exaggerated feminine arch. That will make every minute a conscious exercise in discomfort and compliance.
The humiliation burns hot in my chest. This isn’t just about being late. This is about control. About breaking me down in the most gendered, deliberate way possible.
And I signed up for it. I literally signed a contract allowing for “appropriate corrective measures at employer’s discretion.”
I want to throw the shoes at his head. I want to walk out. I want to tell him exactly what kind of man steals women’s shoes for his power games.
But I don’t have anywhere to go.
7
She’s processing—the desk, the contract, the shoes. Every glance, every frown, every furrowed eyebrow is a data point, and I’m collecting them all. The slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. The rapid blinking. The way her throat moves when she swallows her pride.
“Put them on,” I tell her, nodding to the shoes. Not harshly. Just in a tone that demands compliance.
She looks at the red Louboutins again, recognition dawning that they’re too large for her small frame. Lucia is all legs and attitude. Little Miss Take here is compact, precise. The shoes will swallow her feet. Perfect.
She huffs—a small, defiant sound that shouldn’t please me as much as it does. Her eyes scan the room, lock onto the leather couch. She walks over with deliberate steps, sits down, and begins tugging at her worn knee-high boots.