Chapter 1: First Impressions

The rideshare pulled up to the curb outside a building that looked like it belonged in a glossy magazine spread about modern architecture. Ingrid gathered her bag and thanked the driver in a voice that came out quieter than she intended. Glass and steel stretched upward for maybe ten floors, reflecting the morning sun in ways that made her squint.

She stepped out onto the sidewalk. Her cardigan hung open. Without thinking about it, her hands moved to pull the fabric closed across her chest, tugging until the edges overlapped by several inches. The building's revolving door waited ahead. She walked toward it, keeping one hand pressed against the cardigan to hold it in place.

The lobby temperature dropped at least fifteen degrees the moment she stepped inside. Air conditioning hummed somewhere overhead. Everything smelled like expensive cleaning products and new carpet. The floor was actual marble, which seemed excessive for an advertising company that employed maybe fifty people according to the research she'd done. Her shoes clicked against it as she crossed toward the reception desk.

Two women sat behind the marble counter. Both looked up from their computer screens at exactly the same moment, which was either rehearsed or an extremely weird coincidence. They wore identical outfits: white blouses that fit tightly enough to show every curve, paired with navy pencil skirts. The blouses had necklines that plunged lower than anything Ingrid had ever worn to a professional setting. Actually, lower than anything she'd worn anywhere.

The brunette on the left smiled. "You must be our new intern."

Ingrid nodded. She shifted her bag to her other shoulder, keeping her cardigan clutched closed with her free hand. "Yes. Ingrid Bergström."

"ID, please." The brunette held out her hand.

Ingrid fumbled in her bag for her passport. The blonde receptionist leaned forward over the desk during this process, making deliberate eye contact when Ingrid finally looked up. Her blouse gaped open even more with the movement.

"Wow." The blonde's smile widened. "You'll fit right in here."

The brunette took Ingrid's passport and began typing information into her computer. The blonde continued staring, her gaze dropping to Ingrid's chest in a way that wasn't subtle at all. Then she glanced at her coworker and raised her eyebrows. The brunette looked up from her screen, following the blonde's line of sight, and both women shared a smile that made Ingrid's stomach twist.

Ingrid pulled her cardigan tighter. The brunette went back to typing. Her fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, entering data from the passport with practiced efficiency. After a minute, she paused and looked up again.

"We need your bra size." She said this in the same tone someone might use to ask for a phone number. "For uniform allocation purposes."

The words took a moment to process. Ingrid stared at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Your bra size." The brunette picked up a pen, hovering it over a form on her desk. "We provide all clothing for employees during work hours. Everything needs to be sized correctly."

Heat crawled up Ingrid's neck. She glanced around the lobby, but no one else was there. Just her and these two women who were both watching her with expressions of polite expectation.

"Um." She swallowed. "Thirty-four H."

The brunette's eyebrows shot up. She wrote the information down, then turned her head toward the blonde without looking away from Ingrid. "Did you hear that? Thirty-four H."

The blonde whistled softly. "That's impressive." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in a way that pushed her own chest up and forward. "I'm only a G cup. Jessica's going to love her."

The brunette printed something from her computer. A small machine whirred to life, producing a plastic security pass with Ingrid's photo on it. The photo must have come from her application materials. She didn't remember providing one, but apparently she had. The brunette clipped the pass to Ingrid's cardigan, her fingers brushing against the fabric near Ingrid's collarbone.

"There you go." The brunette stepped back. "All set."

The blonde stood up from her chair. She smoothed her skirt down over her hips, taking her time with the motion. "All our company-issued clothing is precisely tailored to showcase our employees' assets." She made air quotes with her fingers around the word 'assets,' grinning while she did it. "You'll see what I mean soon enough."

Ingrid nodded without knowing what else to do. The blonde gestured toward a hallway that branched off from the main lobby. "Come on. I'll take you to orientation."

The hallway had the same marble flooring as the lobby. Framed advertisements lined the walls, showcasing products Ingrid vaguely recognized from late-night television: perfume, watches, athletic wear. The blonde walked ahead, her heels clicking in a rhythm that seemed deliberately performative. Her hips swayed with each step.

"I'm Chloe, by the way." She didn't turn around to say this, just kept walking. "Been here about eight months."

"Nice to meet you." Ingrid followed a few paces behind, still clutching her cardigan closed.

Chloe stopped at a door near the end of the hallway. The nameplate read "Orientation Room 2." She pushed it open and gestured for Ingrid to enter.

The room was small. Windowless. A table sat in the center with two chairs positioned on opposite sides. A large screen was mounted on the far wall, currently dark. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in harsh white brightness.

"Someone will be with you shortly." Chloe smiled one more time, then pulled the door shut.

Ingrid stood next to the table. She set her bag down on one of the chairs, then changed her mind and picked it up again. Sitting seemed premature when she didn't know how long she'd be waiting. The room was so quiet she could hear her own breathing.

She counted the ceiling tiles. Twelve across, eight deep. Ninety-six total. The lights buzzed louder when she paid attention to them. She pulled out her phone to check the time, but there was no signal inside the room.

After what felt like ten minutes but could have been three or twenty, the door opened. A woman in her late twenties entered briskly. She wore a tailored blazer over a cream-colored blouse, paired with black trousers that looked expensive. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She carried a three-ring binder that had to be at least three inches thick.

"Ingrid." The woman closed the door behind her. "I'm Jessica, from Human Resources. Please, sit."

Ingrid pulled out the chair and sat down. Jessica took the seat across from her, placing the binder on the table between them with a heavy thud. Her posture was perfectly straight. She folded her hands on top of the binder and smiled.

"Welcome to the company." Jessica's voice had a rehearsed quality to it, like she'd said these words hundreds of times before. "We're very excited to have you join our team. Your portfolio showed exceptional promise."

"Thank you." Ingrid kept her hands in her lap.

Jessica opened the binder without breaking eye contact. She flipped through several pages, each one protected by a clear plastic sleeve. When she reached a section marked with a blue tab, she stopped and rotated the binder so Ingrid could see it.

"Let's begin with our Collaborative Intimacy Policy." Jessica's finger traced down the page, landing on a paragraph dense with text. "At our company, we believe that strong interpersonal connections lead to better creative output. To facilitate this, all employees are required to maintain ongoing lesbian partnerships with at least one colleague."

The words didn't make sense at first. Ingrid read the paragraph Jessica was pointing to, then read it again. Required. Mandatory. Lesbian partnerships.

"I'm sorry, what?" Ingrid looked up from the page.

Jessica continued as though Ingrid hadn't spoken. "These partnerships include scheduled bonding sessions, both private and observed, as well as public displays of affection during standard work hours. The goal is to create an environment of openness and shared intimacy."

She flipped to the next page. This one had a chart showing different days of the week with time slots blocked out in various colors. "Bonding sessions are typically scheduled for Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, with additional spontaneous encounters encouraged throughout the week. Supervisors may request demonstrations of partnership compatibility at any time."

Ingrid's throat felt tight. She tried to swallow, but it didn't help. "I don't understand. This is a job. An internship."

"Yes." Jessica smiled again. "And part of that job involves full participation in our workplace culture." She turned several more pages, reaching a section with photographs. "Now, let's discuss presentation standards."

The photos showed women in various outfits. All of them wore tight clothing. Blouses that strained across chests, skirts that ended well above the knee, dresses that clung to every curve. Beneath each photo was a caption: "Acceptable." Below that, measurements and specifications were listed in small print.

Jessica tapped one of the photos. "Hair must be styled daily. Makeup is mandatory and subject to inspection each morning. We have specific guidelines for foundation, eye shadow, lipstick, and blush. Natural looks are not acceptable. We expect visible effort."

She flipped to another page showing a color chart for nail polish. "Manicures must be maintained weekly at the on-site salon. Chip-free polish in approved colors only. Nude tones are generally preferred, though seasonal variations are permitted with supervisor approval."

Ingrid stared at the chart. There had to be forty different shades of beige and pink, each one labeled with a code number.

"Daily inspections ensure compliance." Jessica's voice remained perfectly even, like she was explaining how to use a photocopier. "Corrections happen immediately, regardless of location or audience. If your lipstick has faded by midday, you'll be asked to reapply it in front of whoever happens to be present. If your blouse is wrinkled, you'll change into a fresh one. These standards exist for everyone's benefit."

Jessica stood and walked to a tall cabinet built into the wall. Ingrid hadn't noticed it earlier. She opened the doors, revealing hanging garment bags and shelves stacked with boxes. After a moment of searching, she pulled out one garment bag and returned to the table.

"These are yours." Jessica unzipped the bag slowly. Inside hung a white blouse identical to the ones the receptionists had been wearing, paired with a navy pencil skirt. She laid them both on the table, smoothing out wrinkles that didn't exist. "Specifically sized to company specifications based on the measurements you provided during your application process."

Ingrid looked at the blouse. The fabric was thin. Almost translucent. The size tag read 32C, which was at least three cup sizes smaller than what she actually wore.

"That's not my size." Ingrid pointed at the tag. "I told the receptionist I'm a thirty-four H."

"These are sized to specifications." Jessica repeated the phrase without inflection. "Company policy requires garments that properly showcase your figure. Loose clothing defeats that purpose."

The skirt was equally small. Ingrid could tell just by looking at it that the zipper wouldn't close over her hips. The waistband would dig into her skin. The hem would ride up with every step.

Jessica walked back to the door. She placed her hand on the knob, then turned to face Ingrid one more time. "You have exactly one opportunity to make a choice." Her smile had disappeared. "You can put on this uniform in the changing room next door, or you can collect your belongings and exit the building permanently. You have five minutes to decide."

She pulled the door open and stepped through it. The click of her heels faded down the hallway. The door swung shut, leaving Ingrid alone with the buzzing lights and the too-small clothes lying on the table.

Ingrid sat there for maybe thirty seconds. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her thighs to make it stop, but it didn't work. The blouse seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights, impossibly white and impossibly small.

She stood up. The chair scraped against the floor. She picked up the garments, feeling the slippery fabric between her fingers. They weighed almost nothing.

The changing room was exactly where Jessica had implied it would be. Right next door. Ingrid pushed through the entrance and found herself in another windowless space, this one even smaller than the orientation room. A single chair sat in the corner. A full-length mirror covered most of one wall. More fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, somehow even louder than the ones in the other room.

She set the blouse and skirt on the chair. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror. The cardigan covered most of her shape, which was exactly why she wore it. Underneath was a loose black t-shirt that she'd deliberately chosen this morning for the same reason.

The lights made a sound like angry insects. She closed her eyes, but that made it worse because then she could only hear the buzzing. She opened them again. Her reflection hadn't changed. The clothes on the chair hadn't grown any larger.

Ingrid pulled off her cardigan. Then her t-shirt. The air conditioning raised goosebumps on her skin. She stood there in her bra, staring at herself in the mirror, hating every inch of what she saw. Her breasts looked enormous in the reflection, straining against the beige fabric of her well-worn bra that had never quite fit right no matter how many times she'd been professionally measured.

She picked up the white blouse. The material felt cheap despite how expensive it probably was. When she held it up to her chest, it didn't even come close to covering what it needed to cover. The neckline would plunge between her breasts. The buttons would gap open. Anyone looking at her would see everything.

Her phone was back in the orientation room with her bag. She had no idea how much time had passed. Maybe two minutes. Maybe four. Jessica would be coming back soon to check on her decision.

Ingrid pulled the blouse on anyway. She didn't button it yet. She just held the two sides closed with her hands, looking at how the fabric pulled tight across her shoulders even though her arms were bent inward. When she let go to try fastening the buttons, the material immediately gaped open. She managed to get three buttons closed. The rest wouldn't reach their corresponding holes without ripping the fabric.

The skirt was next. She stepped into it and tried to pull it up over her hips. It got stuck halfway. She tugged harder. The waistband dug into her thighs, creating painful lines in her skin. With significant effort and some hip wiggling that made her feel ridiculous, she got it most of the way up. The zipper wouldn't close. She tried holding her breath and sucking in her stomach, but physics didn't work that way.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The blouse hung open, showing her bra and the valley of her cleavage. The skirt sat askew on her hips, unzipped, barely clinging to her body. Her hair was a mess from pulling the tight blouse over her head. Her face was flushed red.

The fluorescent lights buzzed louder. Or maybe she was just noticing them more now. They created harsh shadows under her eyes, making her look exhausted. The mirror showed everything she'd spent years trying to hide, all of it amplified by clothes that were designed to fail.

She stood there, staring at her reflection, holding the sides of the blouse closed with both hands because letting go meant exposing herself completely. Her breathing came faster. The room felt smaller. The lights felt brighter. Everything smelled like industrial cleaning solution and her own nervous sweat.

Somewhere outside this room, Jessica was probably checking her watch. Counting down the minutes. Waiting to see which choice Ingrid would make.