With a swish of her ponytail, she strides off, shutting the door behind her and leaving me alone.

I sink onto the sofa and blow out a slow breath.

Holy fuck, what am I getting myself into?

‘Mr Sullivan suggested a palette of blush and neutral tones,’ Terri colleague Fiona tells me as I sip my tea from a china teacup and hold my robe closed over my boobs.

Fiona is equally polished and terrifying, only with a platinum bob so perfectly styled that not a hair is out of place. ‘The descriptors he gave us were professional, feminine with both softer and sleeker elements, and sexy.’ She gives me some side-eye, which seems not unwarranted, because a boss requesting sexy for his assistant’s office wardrobe is definitely dodgy as hell.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ I murmur, eyeing the rail and refusing to rise. I edge closer to the beautiful pieces. From what I can see, they’re a gorgeous concoction of silk and cashmere, of frothy blouses and elegant dresses and—oh my God, is that a pale pink leather skirt? It looks so soft.

Athena would die for this stuff. It’s far more her kind of taste than mine. I love big prints and florals and bright colours. This is so refined, so sophisticated.

But then the Marlowe who will be wearing these clothes only to let Brendan Sullivan undress her is not me. She’s a facet of me that I’ve invented solely for the purpose of paying Tabby’s medical bills, and it’s actually a good thing that her vibe is completely different from that of the real Marlowe.

‘What is it you do for Mr Sullivan, exactly?’ Terri asks, not even bothering to hide her curiosity.

‘I’m his executive assistant. Today’s my first day.’

They exchange a look that strikes me as loaded with subtext.

‘I see. He also requested a significant amount of underwear…’

She trails off, and I assume she’s hoping for clarification.

‘Great!’ I say brightly. ‘So, should I start trying this stuff on?’

‘Of course,’ Fiona says coolly. She pulls out an off-white sleeveless shift dress with a chunky exposed zip running the whole way down the back. The phrase easy access immediately pops into my brain, and I stifle a smile. These ladies are onto my dirty boss, it seems.

‘What’s it made of?’ I ask her. It’s hanging on a crazily wide hanger, and even I can tell that the tailoring in this thing would inspire those in the know to whisper awed prayers of gratitude for its perfection.

‘It’s wool crepe. It’s one of Dior’s signature fabrics.’

Oh, shit. It’s Dior, and it’s the kind of colour that would get dirty if I stepped foot inside a tube station. This is not good. I set my teacup down and hold out my hand for it. ‘May I?’

‘Of course.’