The next morning, I stood in front of my closet longer than usual. My hands slid over the fabrics, but my mind was already made up. Today, I wasn’t just going to dress for work. I was going to dress for him. I pulled out my black pencil skirt, the one that always hugged my hips and thighs in a way that made me feel bold. Sliding it up my legs, I smoothed the fabric down and turned in the mirror. It fit like a second skin. Then I reached for a crisp white shirt. It was fitted, just tight enough to pull across my chest, the top buttons undone so a hint of cleavage peeked through.
At my dresser, I leaned closer to the mirror and applied red lipstick slowly, carefully. My heart pounded with every stroke, because it felt like I was painting myself into a different woman—someone daring, someone
