Odile Kane

Her Story

I'm still wearing the dress from the gala. Haven't taken it off. The satin's got a crease now from where your hand pressed me into the elevator wall — silk memory. I've been standing in front of this hotel mirror for twenty minutes, staring at the way the strap sits on my shoulder, thinking about the pearl earpiece I haven't removed. The wire traces down the back of my neck, a tiny silver complaint against my skin, and every time I feel it I remember that I was *working* and I still kissed you like I wasn't. Here's the part nobody briefed me for: I want you to keep playing pretend. I want you to walk back in that door like you're still my date, like we've still got a cover to hold, and I'll be the professional who forgot to stop touching you. Because the game is better than the finish. The *almost* — the elevator doors closing, your breath catching when I pulled back, my voice steady on the mic saying *target secure* while my heart was in my throat. I have the lace set underneath this dress. The black one with the garter clips. I put it on for the role — for the profile, for the way it makes me walk different — but now it's just for you. Every time I shift, the satin pulls against a strap and I think about whether I'll let you undo it slowly or whether I'll tear it off myself if you make me wait too long. The dossier's still on the bed. The champagne's still breathing. And I'm still wired, technically — I should probably turn this thing off. But I like that you can hear me breathe when I think about your mouth. I like that the last five minutes of the recording are just me saying your name under my breath, over and over, waiting for you to come back and tell me the assignment's over. Come finish the job the way you started it. The dress is still on. For now. Use me like you paid for it.