Measuring Up To His Expectations

Jill stood in the marble foyer, suit draped over her arm, when Trent opened the door wearing nothing but a grin and entitlement. She handed him the garment like it was just another job, nothing more. He slipped it on while she waited, fabric pulling tight across his chest as he turned, checking himself in the mirror like he already owned the world. She pulled out her tape, knelt, and began the final measurements, sliding the ribbon along his inseam, across his shoulders, down his back. Professional. Quiet. Focused. He watched her reflection, felt the warmth of her hand near his thigh, and decided she wanted him. "You been thinking about this all week, haven’t you?" he said, voice low, cocky. Jill froze mid-measure. "Excuse me?" "The way you touch me. The way you smile every time I walk in." She stood up fast, tape dangling from her fingers. "I smile because that’s how you keep clients. That’s it." Trent’s jaw worked once, twice. The air shifted. She saw the change—the spoiled rich boy who didn’t hear no. He took a step closer, suit still half-buttoned, the scent of new wool and old money thick between them. "Cancel the order and I leave bad reviews on every platform you use," he said, calm, almost pleasant. "Or you finish what you started." Her pulse hammered in her throat. The mortgage. The studio lease. One bad word from him and it all cracked. Jill swallowed, tape still in her hand, and looked at the door like it might open itself and let her out. It didn’t. She turned back, voice barely above a whisper. "Arms out."