The next morning, Ava reached the office fifteen minutes early. The black stilettos from yesterday's "lesson" clicked sharply against the marble floor. Her legs still ached from standing for hours, but she refused to show it.
She had barely settled at her desk when a woman appeared. Tall. Elegant. Silver hair swept into a perfect chignon. Blue eyes sharp enough to take in every detail of Ava's appearance.
"You must be Miss Lane," the woman said, her French accent crisp and precise. "I am Colette Moreau, Mr. Drake's corporate stylist."
Ava blinked. "Corporate stylist?"
"Mr. Drake asked me to help you select professional attire. He believes presentation is essential for executive assistants." Colette's voice was matter-of-fact, though her expression carried a flicker of sympathy. "Shall we?"
Before Ava could respond, Colette was already striding toward the elevator. With little choice, Ava followed.
Two floors down, a private suite waited—fitting rooms, tall mirrors, racks of clothing Ava had never imagined existed inside the building.
"This is… a lot," Ava murmured, her fingers brushing across silk blouses and tailored blazers.
"Mr. Drake is particular about his company's image," Colette replied carefully. "He wants his team to reflect the same excellence as his business."
For the next hour, Ava tried on outfit after outfit—tailored blazers, elegant dresses, polished separates. All professional. All expensive. None she could have ever afforded herself.
"This one," Colette said, holding up a navy dress with clean lines and a modest neckline. "Classic. Professional. Perfect for—"
The intercom crackled. Lucien's voice cut through the air. "Too conservative."
Both women startled. Ava's cheeks burned. He could see the fitting rooms—through the monitors.
Colette's jaw tightened, though just slightly. She lifted another dress, a black sheath—still professional, but more fitted, more striking.
"Better," his voice came again. "That will work."
Ava looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was stunning, refined, appropriate for the office. Yet she felt strangely exposed. He was watching. Judging. Choosing.
"This feels wrong," she whispered.
Colette's expression softened. "Mr. Drake can be… demanding. But the clothes are yours to keep. They'll serve you well in your career, wherever it may lead."
Her tone carried something unspoken. A hint that this job did not have to last forever.
When Ava changed back into her own clothes, Colette packed several outfits neatly into garment bags.
"One more thing," she said quietly. "You have lovely hair. Don't be afraid to wear it in ways that make you feel confident. Professional. Yourself."
The intercom crackled once more. "Miss Lane, return to your desk. And Miss Moreau—we're done here."
In the elevator ride back, Colette pressed a business card into Ava's hand. "If you ever need advice—about styling or anything else—don't hesitate to call."
Back at her desk, Ava hung up the new clothes. She tried to focus on her work, but the thought lingered—she was being shaped, little by little, into someone else's idea of who she should be.
Her phone buzzed. A new message lit the screen:
Tomorrow, wear the black dress. Professional appearance builds confidence. – L.D.
Ava stared at the text. Gratitude tugged at her—the clothes were beautiful, expensive, far beyond anything she could afford. Yet unease settled just as heavily. Every gesture carried a thread of control.
Her mind drifted to her mother's medical bills, the stability this job promised, the doors it might open. Security had its weight.
But then she heard Colette's voice again in her memory: wherever your career leads.
The words stuck. Maybe it was time to decide where she wanted it to lead. And whether that path included living inside someone else's carefully crafted image of her.