The package had arrived ten minutes before by a private courier in a dark blue van that bore no identifying marks beyond its license plate. I didn't need a signature to know my employer, Collin Stark, had sent the "gift." Letting the card fall onto the bedspread, I reached into the box and fingered the surface layer of fabric. Breathtaking even to the touch, the top outfit had been cut from a pale gold silk chiffon. I lifted it from the box and walked to the mirror. It looked like something a queen would wear on her honeymoon, rather than the frumpy, oversized junior secretary to the CEO of Stark International. Senior secretary, I mentally corrected. Collin Stark had promoted me Tuesday after fucking me senseless and informing me that Janice Green, his then current senior secretary, would be retiring on Friday. Trying to forget the events of the last week and my sexual capitulation in Stark's office, I held the fabric against my jeans and sweatshirt. I shook my head, my ash-brown hair softly rustling against the thick fleece of my top.
