Page 20 of Broken Doll

I raise an eyebrow. "So I fuck it out of him?"

“Yes.” She steps further into the room, her movements precise, economical. Nothing wasted. "He'll be at the Meridian Hotel tomorrow night. Charity gala for some children's foundation—his pet cause. You'll be there as a plus-one for one of our assets. Make contact. Charm him. Take him upstairs."

"And then?"

"And then you get the code. Whatever it takes." She looks at me, really looks, her eyes like ice chips boring into mine. "But remember—you're not there to get off with him. You're there to get information. Keep your head clear.”

I pout. “All work and no play? Where’s the fun in that?”

“This isn’t about having fun, Landry. Orgasms release endorphins and momentarily relax the mind. You’re no good to us dead. Stay sharp, stay focused and live long enough to get paid. Got it?”

“Jesus, I got it Fraulein Fun-killer, calm down,” I grumble. “Is that all?”

Something flickers across Sienna's face—disapproval? Amusement? Impossible to tell with her.

"This isn't the club, Landry," she says, my name like a knife between her teeth. "This isn't some random hookup you can walk away from. This is your job now. Do it well, or you won’t come back."

The threat hangs in the air between us, heavy and sharp. I swallow, nodding once. "Fuck the code out of him, don't get caught. What’s next?”

“Now that your mental game is prepared, time to transform you into Reese’s wet dream. Let’s go.”

Six hours later, I'm in a corporate salon —a gleaming sanctuary of brushed steel and spotless mirrors that makes Rodeo Drive salons look like backwater truck stops. This isn'tabout becoming pretty. This is about becoming lethal. Every inch of me is being weaponized for the male gaze.

They don't ask me what I want—they tell me what I need. And I let them.

Because this isn’t about taste. This is about strategy.

Stylists, makeup artists, wardrobe techs. Nobody introduces themselves. Names don’t matter here. Only function.

I sit where I’m told, spine straight, palms flat against my thighs like I’m waiting for execution or rebirth.

They don’t speak much, and neither do I. But I watch. I watcheverything.

The lipstick options laid out in rows like weapons. The way the lead stylist squints at Victor Reese’s profile photo on the monitor before nodding at shade #42—deep, rich crimson with a blue base. Power red. Sex red. The color of calculated temptation.

She doesn’t explain her choice, but I get it. I saw the same photo—his mistress in a dress the exact hue, his ex-wife’s anniversary lipstick a match. Details. This place runs on them.

The makeup goes on in layers—smoky eyes sharp enough to slice, contour so precise it carves new bone structure into my face. Lashes like black silk fans. Brows arched to look mildly intrigued, mildly cruel.

I watch it happen. How each brushstroke rewrites the woman I was.

They choose a brunette wig—not the platinum bombshell I wore for fun, not the warm golden tones of his past wives. No, this is deliberate. Rich espresso waves, luxurious and sleek. Sexy, but not obvious. Dangerous, but elegant. I realize, with a strange jolt, it mirrors the hair of the escort he booked twice last year under an alias. I remember it from the file.

They’re not building a fantasy. They’re reconstructing his idealthreat—the woman who excites him because she could ruin him.

And I’m not giving directions. I’m learning whytheychoose what they do.

Because this isn’t a makeover. This is combat prep. And I’m the fucking payload.

The dress is emerald silk. Not the clingy, cheap club kind. This fabric floats when I walk, shimmers when I shift. It moves like money. Someone references a Monet painting in his office—I remember it from the dossier—and I realize they’re playing to his subconscious. I’m not just beautiful. I’m tailored. I’mtriggeringhim.

Sienna slips in behind me as they adjust the pendant—an emerald teardrop on a delicate chain—and murmurs, “His mother wore one just like it.” I nod, throat dry. I’d seen the same family photo.

The final touch is scent. Not something floral and flirty. This is base note seduction—amber, musk, smoke, and something sharp beneath it, like heat rising off steel.

“Nothing that lingers on sheets,” one of them says. “We want her to disappear like smoke on the wind.”

I file it all away. Every tactic. Every choice. They’re turning me into a weapon. And the wild thing?

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