Chapter 3 - Seraphine
The boutique sat on the corner of Fifth and Marrow. From the outside, it looked more like a museum than a store—floor-to-ceiling windows, mannequins posed like living art, draped in silk, leather, and lace.
The bell chimed as I stepped inside.
The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled like she’d been waiting for me all morning. She was tall, blonde, and dressed in a fitted black pencil skirt that probably cost more than my rent. “Welcome to Velvette.” Her voice was warm, practiced. “First time here?”
I hesitated, already feeling out of place in my jeans and oversized sweater. “That obvious?”
Her smile softened. “Only because you’re too tense, darling. This place is meant to make you feel powerful, not small.” She came around the counter and extended a manicured hand. “I’m Amara. What are we looking for today?”
“Something… bold.” I paused, searching for words. “Something that says I belong in places people don’t think I do.”
Her brows lifted with interest. “Mmm. I like you already.” She gestured toward a set of double doors that led deeper into the boutique. “Come with me. I have just the thing.”
The back of the store was another world—soft lighting, velvet curtains, walls lined with corsets and dresses that looked like they belonged in forbidden fairytales.
Amara ran her fingers along the rack as we walked. “Tell me about the occasion.”
I hesitated. “A… high-end club. Exclusive. Invitation only.”
Her smile turned knowing. “Ah. That kind of club.”
Heat crept up my neck. “You could say that.”
“Well,” she said, flipping through hangers, “you’re in good hands.”
She pulled out a long black dress made of soft, supple leather. It hugged the mannequin’s frame perfectly, with a deep V that stopped just short of scandalous. “This one,” she said, holding it up to me, “is confidence in physical form. It molds to your body like a second skin.”
I swallowed. “I… don’t know if I have the body for it.”
Amara tilted her head, eyes sharp. “You have a body. That’s all that matters.” She gestured toward a velvet-draped fitting room.
Inside, the lighting was soft and golden, the kind that made even exhaustion look like a glow. I peeled off my clothes and slipped the dress over my shoulders. It was cool at first, smooth as water. Then it tightened—shaping, defining, emphasizing every curve I usually tried to hide.
When I looked up into the mirror, I barely recognized myself.
The red hair that usually looked wild and unkempt now spilled like molten copper over the black leather. My freckles stood out like constellations against pale skin. My waist curved in ways I’d never allowed myself to admire.
Still, the old thoughts crept in—too soft, too wide, too much.
I whispered it without meaning to. “I look ridiculous.”
Amara’s voice came from just outside the curtain. “You look like a woman who stopped apologizing.”
I stepped out hesitantly. She turned, eyes sweeping over me, and smiled. “Beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” I echoed, skeptical.
She nodded, walking a slow circle around me. “And powerful. You see that curve right there?” She brushed her hand near my waist, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth. “That’s not something to hide, sweetheart. That’s art.”
My throat tightened. “I’m not used to being called that.”
“Then get used to it,” she said simply. “Now—let’s add options.”
For the next hour, she had me try on pieces that felt like different versions of myself:
A wine-red satin corset paired with a sheer lace skirt that floated with every movement.
A black mesh bodysuit with a high neck and open back that made my skin prickle with something between fear and thrill.
A deep emerald dress that shimmered like dragon scales, slit up one thigh, the fabric clinging to my hips and falling in waves.
Each outfit revealed a little more of something I’d forgotten I had—confidence, maybe. Fire.
By the time I stepped out in the final one, a dark velvet number with a plunging neckline and gold buckled straps along the waist, Amara just whistled softly.
“Darling,” she said, eyes wide, “if you walked into a room wearing that, people would kneel.”
I laughed, embarrassed but strangely exhilarated. “You really think so?”
She met my gaze in the mirror. “I know so.”
For a moment, I saw what she saw. A woman who didn’t apologize. Who didn’t shrink. Who looked like she could walk into the kind of place that chewed people up and come out standing taller.
But then the doubt crept back in. “What if I still don’t belong?”
Amara smiled softly, adjusting the strap on my shoulder. “Belonging isn’t something you ask for, love. It’s something you take.”
Her words hit deeper than she probably intended.
By the end, she clasped her hands. “You, my dear, are a goddess in disguise. But—” she snapped her fingers—“we’re missing one thing.”
I blinked. “What’s that?”
“Your armor,” she said. “The kind of outfit that makes men twice your age step out of your way without knowing why.”
Before I could protest, she was already pulling pieces from another rack. A crisp white silk blouse dipped modestly just above the chest. A high-waisted black pencil skirt that cinched at the waist. She added a thin leather belt and a charcoal blazer.
When she handed me the ensemble, I frowned. “This is… very CEO Barbie.”
Amara grinned. “Exactly. Now go on.”
I slipped into it, buttoning the blouse, smoothing the skirt down my thighs. The moment I looked in the mirror, I stopped.
It was like slipping into another skin—this one didn’t shout, it commanded. My posture straightened, my chin lifted. For once, I looked like I didn’t just belong in the newsroom—I looked like I ran it.
Amara let out a low whistle when I stepped out. “Now that is the woman who gets what she wants.”
I smiled despite myself. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” she said, adjusting the collar of my blazer. “You’ve got fire, Seraphine. You just needed clothes that could keep up.” She placed a gentle hand on my arm. “Power doesn’t mean you stop doubting yourself, love. It just means you learn to walk through the doubt anyway.”
I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Thank you. Really.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, leading me to the counter. “I’m about to make your day.”
She began ringing everything up. I tried not to wince at the total, but Amara caught the look and gave me a smile.
“Lucky for you,” she said, typing something into the register, “I get an employee discount. Thirty percent off.”
My eyes widened. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said with a wink. “But I want to.”
When I handed her my card, she slid something across the counter—a small black business card embossed with her name and number in gold script.
“If you ever need help again,” she said softly, “or just want to grab coffee, call me.”
I smiled, genuinely this time. “Thanks.”
She handed me my bags. “Now go out there and make people move when you walk by.”