Skin in the Game

[Danielle]

Skin in the Game

The elevator doors closed behind me, sealing me in a silent, mirrored tomb. My reflection stared back—Denise Holt, nineteen, with a high school diploma still stiff from its casing, now standing in a thrift-store dress and gripping a security badge like a lottery ticket she never meant to buy. The elevator hummed as it ascended, and my stomach dropped with the motion. What had Mr. Roberts meant by that cryptic comment about a Supreme Court ruling? I should have asked, but his tone—low, urgent, as if he were handing me a loaded gun—left no room for questions. "You're the best candidate," he’d said. "Given the circumstances."

When the doors slid open, sunlight flooded in. The 42nd floor was nothing like the cramped back office where I spent my days sorting files. Here, the air smelled of leather and jasmine, the floor so polished I could see my hesitant footsteps reflected in it. At the far end, behind a desk carved from a single slab of black stone, sat Chloe Howell. She didn’t look up as I approached.

"Ms. Holt," she said, her voice smooth and unreadable.

"Y-yes, ma’am," I stammered, my fingers twisting together.

Finally, she lifted her gaze—sharp, assessing, as if she could see every unpaid bill, every late-night worry scribbled in the margins of my life. "Robert tells me you’re adaptable."

"I—I try to be."

She took a slow sip of coffee before speaking again, her words deliberate. "You’ve heard of Vernon v. NLRB?"

I swallowed. "No, ma’am."

Her lips curled—not quite a smile. "The Supreme Court ruled last week that corporate dress codes can be waived under First Amendment protections if they interfere with an employer’s ‘artistic or expressive vision.’" She set her cup down. "Which means, in this office, I decide what authenticity looks like."

A beat of silence. My pulse thundered in my ears.

"The position pays sixty dollars an hour."

Sixty—my breath caught. Four times my rent. Enough to stop borrowing. Enough to fix things.

But then she continued.

"If you want this job, you’ll learn to never wear clothing in this office again."

The words hung between us, heavy as a blade. I opened my mouth, then closed it, my dress suddenly feeling like a suffocating second skin.

Chloe leaned forward. "You’re hesitating. That’s fine. Walk away now if you’re not ready."

But I couldn’t. Not when my brother needed new shoes. Not when my mom’s voice cracked every time she said, ‘We’ll manage.’

My hands shook as I reached for the first button.

One by one, they came undone. The fabric slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. My bra followed, then my panties—cotton, practical, the kind bought in bulk. The air was cool against my bare skin, my face burning.

Chloe watched, unblinking. Then she nodded toward a steel lockbox embedded in the wall. "Everything goes in there. Keys. Phone. Distractions."

I obeyed, stuffing my belongings inside. The latch clicked shut with a sound like a prison door.

"Good." She tossed me a keycard. "Coffee. Lobby vendor. And Denise?"

I turned.

"Make it perfect. Or the next one comes from the café across the street. Outside."

Hours later, my skin still prickled with the ghost of stares—from the security guards, the receptionist, the men in suits who didn’t look but didn’t look either. When the lockbox finally clicked open, I reached inside—and froze.

My phone was there. My keys. But my clothes—my dress, my underwear—were gone.

Chloe’s voice cut through the silence. "In this position, you’ll forget you ever wore clothes in your life."

I turned. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Toss out everything you own. Not a request." Her gaze didn’t waver. "If you’re going to be my assistant, you’ll be traveling with me—airports, conventions, public places—and you will show zero modesty. Ever."

A beat. Then, softer, almost amused:

"Are you still in, Denise?"

The question wasn’t a question.

It was a test.

And I already knew my answer.

The lobby was still busy—suits rushing toward exits, receptionists packing up, security guards shifting at their posts. My breath hitched as I stepped forward.

The first few steps were the hardest.

The tile was cold under my feet. The weight of eyes pressed against me like hands. A man in a pinstripe suit glanced up from his phone, his gaze flickering over me before looking away—quick, but not quick enough. A woman at the front desk inhaled sharply, then pretended to be engrossed in her monitor. A security guard—one I’d smiled at every morning for months—cleared his throat and stared determinedly at the ceiling.

I kept walking. Head high. Shoulders back. Zero modesty.

The automatic doors slid open.

Outside, the city was alive—honking cabs, chatter, the golden wash of late afternoon sun. And me, naked in the middle of it.

A group of college kids froze mid-laugh. One whispered something to his friend, who elbowed him. A woman pushing a stroller blinked, then deliberately turned away. A construction worker whistled—not at me, but at the sheer audacity of it. My skin burned, but I didn’t slow down.

Sixty dollars an hour. Sixty dollars an hour.

The apartment door creaked open.

"Denise?" Mom’s voice came from the kitchen. "That you?"

I didn’t answer.

Footsteps. Then—

"Jesus Christ."

She stood in the hallway, dish towel in hand, mouth open. Behind her, my little brother, Tyler, peered around her hip, his eyes widening.

"Denise, what the hell?!" Mom’s voice cracked.

"I got a promotion," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"A promotion?" She gestured wildly at me. "They fired your clothes?!"

Tyler giggled. Mom shot him a look, and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

"It’s legal now," I said. "The Supreme Court ruled—"

"I don’t care what the Supreme Court ruled!" She threw the towel down. "You can’t just—just exist like this! What about winter? What about stairs?!"

I swallowed. "It’s part of the job."

"The job?" Her laugh was sharp, disbelieving. "Baby, no job is worth—" She waved a hand at all of me. "This!"

Tyler tugged her sleeve. "Mom, can I be naked too?"

"No."

Silence. Then—

"Denise." Mom’s voice dropped. "Tell me you’re quitting."

I looked at her—at the worry lines, the faded robe, the way her hands trembled just slightly. I thought of the eviction notice on the fridge. Of Tyler’s shoes, held together with duct tape.

"I can’t," I whispered.

Her face crumpled.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, slowly, she turned away.

"Fine," she said, voice thick. "But you’re not sitting on the couch."

Dinner was awkward.

Tyler kept giggling. Mom refused to look at me. The chair was cold against my bare skin.

When my phone buzzed—a text from Chloe—I flinched.

"Conference in Chicago next week. Pack nothing."

I put the phone down.

Across the table, Mom stared at her mashed potatoes like they held the secrets of the universe.

"Mom," I started.

She held up her hand. "Not now, Denise."

I exhaled. Nodded.

Outside, the city hummed—unaware, uncaring.

And I sat there, naked, wondering what the hell my life had just become.

The bedroom door creaked as Mom stepped inside. I was kneeling on the floor, stuffing the last of my jeans into a garbage bag when I felt her presence behind me. I didn’t turn around. My throat was tight.

For a long moment, she just watched. Then, softly:

"You need help?"

I paused, my fingers gripping the fabric of an old t-shirt—one I’d slept in for years. My shoulders trembled just slightly before I nodded.

Without another word, Mom knelt beside me. She picked up a sweater—gray, frayed at the cuffs, something I’d worn constantly last winter—and held it for a second before folding it neatly and placing it in the bag.

We worked in silence. Socks. Bras. The floral sundress I’d worn to graduation. Piece by piece, my old life disappeared into black plastic.

"So," Mom finally said, her voice careful, "this job… is it worth it?"

I glanced at her. The anger from earlier was gone, replaced by something softer—curiosity, concern.

"It's sixty dollars an hour," I said. "Full benefits. Travel."

She let out a low whistle. "That’s… a lot."

"Yeah."

Another pause. Then, hesitantly: "And they can really… do this? Just… have you walking around like—" She gestured vaguely at me.

"The Supreme Court says they can."

Mom shook her head, muttering something about "damn judges" under her breath before reaching for another pile of clothes.

But as we kept packing, something shifted. The tension in my shoulders eased. Mom’s questions came easier—what exactly will you be doing? Will you have to travel far?—and my answers flowed naturally.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t crossing my legs anymore. Wasn’t angling my body to hide. I was just… sitting. Casual. Comfortable. One knee up, the other stretched out, no different than if I’d been in pajamas.

Mom noticed. I saw her glance, then quickly looked away—not in discomfort, but in surprise. Like she’d just realized I wasn’t uncomfortable.

The last bag was tied shut.

"Well," Mom said, standing with a groan, "dumpster?"

I nodded.

We carried the bags downstairs together, the night air cool against my skin. The dumpster lid clanged shut, finally.

Back in my room, the emptiness was startling. No laundry piled in the corner. No hangers in the closet. Just bare walls and bare skin.

Mom lingered in the doorway. "You’ve got a big day tomorrow," she said finally.

"Yeah."

She studied me for a long moment. Then, with a small, resigned smile:

"Keep your head high, Denise." A pause. "And… you look great in your skin attire."

The words shouldn’t have meant so much. But they did.

I grinned. "Thanks, Mom."

She shut the door behind her.

Alone, I stretched out on the bed—no pajamas to change into, no sheets to fuss over. Just me.

Tomorrow, the world will stare.

But tonight?

Tonight, I was already forgetting what it felt like to wear clothes at all.

I woke at 6:00 AM to silence.

Not the usual muffled sounds of Mom banging pans or Tyler’s cartoon laughter. Just the hum of the AC and the weight of yesterday pressing down on me.

No clothes to put on.

The realization hit like a punch. My closet yawned empty, hangers stripped bare. Only Mom’s note remained on the dresser:

"Coffee’s in the thermos. Don’t let her break you."

I traced the words. Break me? Chloe hadn’t even started.

The platform froze when I stepped onto it.

Whispers coiled around me like smoke. “Is that—?” “Oh my God.” A teenager fumbled his phone, scrambling to record before his friend hissed, “Dude, she could sue your ass!”

I kept my eyes on the tracks. Sixty dollars an hour.

The train doors opened. A wall of bodies in suits and skirts instinctively parted—not to let me in, but to avoid me. Space cleared around the naked girl like I was contagious.

A woman in nurse’s scrubs met my gaze. For a second, I thought I saw pity. Then she turned away.

The security guards’ usual banter died when I approached.

“Ms. Holt.” Javier’s voice was flat. He didn’t see my eyes as he scanned my keycard. “Elevator’s to your left.”

No “How’s it going?” No “Crazy weather, huh?” Just the silent judgment of a man who’d seen me in a Christmas sweater three months ago.

The elevator ride up was worse. A man in a pinstripe suit lunged for the stairs rather than share the car with me.

She was waiting, perched on her obsidian desk with a file in hand—fully dressed in a tailored pantsuit.

“Denise.” A slow once-over. “You slept in the buff, I hope?”

My cheeks burned. “Yes.”

“Good.” She tossed me the file. “Memorize this. You’ll need it for Chicago.”

I caught it against my chest. “Chicago?”

“Thursday. My 8 AM keynote at the Innovate Summit.” She smirked. “You’ll be onstage with me. Holding my notes. Naked.”

The floor tilted. “You never said—”

“I own your image now.” She plucked a pen from her pocket and tapped it against my collarbone. “Every stare, every headline—it all reflects on me. So no slouching. No fidgeting. And for God’s sake, never cover yourself.”

The intercom buzzed. “Ms. Howell, Legal’s here about the Times inquiry.”

Chloe didn’t move. “Well? Go make my coffee. And Denise?”

I turned.

“From now on, you don’t sit unless I do.”

The coffee scalded my palms, but I didn’t flinch.

Chloe liked it at 185°F—"Any cooler and it’s swill." I’d learned that the hard way when she’d dumped the first cup I brought her into the trash, right in front of me. "Try again, Denise. And stand up straight."

I adjusted my posture, hyper-aware of the way my bare feet stuck slightly to the polished floor. The office hummed around me—keyboards clacking, hushed conversations, the occasional muffled laugh—but no one spoke to me. Not since the first day.

I was a ghost. A naked, silent ghost.

The subway was worse in the evening. Rush hour meant bodies packed tight, the press of strangers’ briefcases and elbows against my skin. A man in a wrinkled suit accidentally brushed his hand against my hip. When I glared, he smirked. "Watch where you’re standing, sweetheart."

My phone buzzed as I stepped onto the platform.

Mom: Did you eat today?

I hadn’t. Chloe had scheduled back-to-back meetings, and I wasn’t allowed to leave unless she dismissed me.

Me: Yeah.

A lie. But Mom didn’t need to know that.

Tyler was waiting when I opened the door.

"Denise! You’re trending on TikTok!" He shoved his phone in my face. A clip of me walking through the lobby zoomed in and slowed down, with the caption: "Corporate America is getting WILD."

I pushed past him. "Not now, Ty."

Mom stood at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled like garlic and cheap canned tomatoes. She didn’t turn around. "You missed dinner."

"I wasn’t hungry." Another lie.

She finally looked at me, her gaze flickering over my bare shoulders before settling on my face. "You’re pale."

"I’m fine."

"You’re not fine." The wooden spoon clattered against the pot. "You’re killing yourself for a woman who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire."

I flinched.

Tyler’s grin faded. "Mom—"

"No." She jabbed the spoon toward me. "You think I don’t see what this is doing to you? You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You flinch every time someone looks at you."

My throat tightened. "I’m handling it."

"Bullshit."

Silence.

Then, softer: "Quit, Denise."

I shook my head.

She exhaled, long and slow. "Then at least sit-down and eat something."

I hesitated. The chair would be cold against my skin. The table would press into my thighs. The air would feel too heavy.

"I’m not hungry," I repeated and walked away.

The next morning, Chloe called me into her office before I could even set down her coffee.

"Change of plans." She didn’t look up from her laptop. "We leave for Chicago tonight."

I blinked. "Tonight? But the summit isn’t until—"

"I’m aware." She snapped the laptop shut. "But the Times wants an exclusive. You’ll give it to them."

My stomach dropped. "Me?"

"You’re the story, Denise." She stood, circling me like a shark. "The girl who gave up everything for ambition. The perfect little corporate puppet."

Her fingers brushed my shoulder. I didn’t pull away.

"Be at the airport by 8. And Denise?"

I waited.

"Wear nothing but confidence."

I didn’t go home.

Instead, I sat on a bench outside the office, staring at my phone.

Mom: Where are you?

Tyler: Did you forget your key again?

I didn’t answer.

The truth? I couldn’t face them. Not after last night. Not when I knew what came next.

Chicago. The interview. More stares. More whispers. More control.

My thumb hovered over Chloe’s contact.

One call. One "I quit."

But then what?

Back to minimum wage. Back to duct-taped shoes and eviction notices. Back to nothing.

I stood up.

And walked toward the airport.

The driver’s question lingered in the air like a struck match.

"Do you want to be controlled, or do you want to own the skin you’re in?"

For the first time in days, I didn’t hesitate.

"Thanks."

I stepped out of the car, bare feet meeting the pavement. The night air was cool, the airport lights blinding. And then—

Clarity.

A lifetime of Denise Holt flickered behind my eyes: childhood summers skinny-dipping in the creek, changing for gym class without a second thought, and sleeping naked long before Chloe Howell ever demanded it.

I was never meant to wear clothes.

The realization hit like a lightning strike. This wasn’t submission—it was shedding a lie I’d never agreed to.

Heads turned as I crossed the terminal. Whispers rose like steam.

"Is that—?"

"Holy shit, she’s naked—"

"Somebody call security!"

I kept walking. Shoulders back. Chin high. No modesty. No shame.

A TSA agent stepped into my path, face flushed. "Ma’am, you can’t—"

"Vernon v. NLRB," I said, sweet as poisoned honey. "First Amendment protected expressive conduct. Would you like my lawyer’s number?"

He backed down.

She stood near the VIP check-in, phone in hand, already mid-diatribe with some poor underling. Then she saw me.

Her gaze dragged up my body—slow, possessive, triumphant—and for the first time, I didn’t shrink under it.

"There you are," she purred. "My naked assistant."

I met her eyes. "Yours?"

A beat of silence. Her smile faltered just a fraction.

Then I grinned, wild and unburdened. "Let’s get on that plane."

First class. Champagne. Endless stairs.

Chloe watched me over the rim of her glass. "You’re different."

"Am I?" I stretched, languid as a cat, letting the overhead light trace every curve.

"You weren’t this comfortable yesterday."

I sipped my drink. "Yesterday, I thought I was being stripped. Today?" A shrug. "Turns out I was being freed."

Her fingers tightened around her glass. I’d surprised her.

Good.

Somewhere over Ohio, it hit me:

Chloe didn’t own me.

She’d handed me the key to a cage, but I was the one who’d chosen to lock myself inside. The power had always been mine—I’d just forgotten how to wield it.

I glanced at her. She was typing furiously, brow furrowed, utterly unaware of the revolution happening six inches away.

Poor Chloe.

She’d wanted a puppet.

She’d created a queen.

The hotel suite was too quiet after the chaos of the airport.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, Chicago’s skyline glittering below, and video-called the only person who’d ever seen me truly naked—long before Chloe Howell entered my life.

Mom answered on the second ring. Her face filled the screen, worry lines deepening as she took in my bare shoulders, the way I held myself now—unapologetic, grounded, free.

"Denise? What’s—"

"I remember," I said, cutting her off. My voice didn’t shake. "The creek behind Grandma’s house. How you’d let me run wild there all summer. No swimsuits, no shame."

A beat of silence. Then—

Mom’s breath hitched. "Oh, baby."

I told her everything.

How the driver’s question had cracked me open. How the pavement under my bare feet felt like coming home. How I’d realized—with sudden, vicious clarity—that I’d spent nineteen years playing a role until Chloe handed me the script I was born to follow.

"They made us forget, Mom." My thumb traced the hotel glass, cold against my skin. "All those years of ‘cover-up’ and ‘be decent’—it was never mine."

Mom stared at me for a long moment. Then, quietly: "You sound like your father."

The air left my lungs.

Dad. The man who’d gardened nude at midnight, who’d fought the HOA over their “no bare feet” rule, who’d died when I was too young to understand why people called him "eccentric" like it was an insult.

"He’d be proud of you," Mom whispered.

I pressed my forehead to the glass and cried.

By the time we hung up, the city lights had blurred into golden streaks.

Mom’s final words echoed in my bones:

"Give ‘em hell, Denise."

I turned—and froze.

Chloe stood in the doorway.

How long had she been there? How much had she heard?

Her expression was unreadable. "The Times moved up the interview. We leave at ten."

I didn’t move. "No."

A flicker of surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Tell them tomorrow." I held her gaze. "Tonight, I’m resting."

The silence stretched taut.

Then Chloe smiled—sharp, approving, dangerous. "Well, well. Look who finally grew a spine."

She tossed me a room service menu. "Order whatever you want. My treat."

The door clicked shut behind her.

I stared at the menu.

Sixty dollars an hour.

First-class tickets.

A suite with a view.

Chloe thought this was enough to buy me.

But some things—skin, pride, legacy—aren’t for sale.

I picked up the phone.

Not for room service.

For the Times reporter.

"Meet me tonight," I said. "And bring a recorder."

continue. When my boss entered the room she was shocked that I handled the interview The door slammed open.

Chloe stood there, her usually flawless composure fractured—eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief. The reporter, a sharp-eyed woman named Rebecca Cole from The New York Times, barely glanced up from her notes.

"Ms. Howell," Rebecca said smoothly, "your assistant has been quite illuminating."

Chloe’s gaze flicked to me—bare, unflinching, legs crossed casually in the plush armchair—then to the recorder spinning between us. For a heartbeat, I saw something raw flicker behind her polished mask: fear.

Then she smiled.

"Of course she has." Chloe strode forward, her heels sinking into the carpet as she claimed the seat beside me. "Denise is full of surprises."

Rebecca’s pen hovered. "She tells me this wasn’t your idea. The nudity, I mean."

A beat of silence. I could almost hear Chloe’s mind racing—calculating damage control, weighing my sudden defiance against the PR gold of a liberated young woman choosing her skin.

"It was a collaboration," Chloe said, at last, her voice honeyed. "Denise merely needed the right… environment to flourish."

Rebecca arched her brow. "And the Supreme Court ruling? Convenient timing?"

"Isn’t all progress?" Chloe countered, but her fingers twitched against her knee.

I uncrossed my legs, letting the movement draw their attention. "Ask her why she hired me," I said, watching Chloe’s jaw tighten. "Ask her why she picked the girl from the mailroom with the eviction notice pinned to her cubicle."

Rebecca’s eyes gleamed.

Chloe laughed—a bright, brittle sound. "Ambition recognizes ambition."

"No," I said softly. "You recognized desperation."

The room held its breath.

Then Chloe did the smartest thing she could’ve done: she leaned back and let me win.

I woke to sunlight and the hum of a text:

Chloe: Lobby at 20. Keynote prep.

No threats. No reprimands. Just business.

I stretched, rolling my shoulders against the sheets. Last night had changed everything—and nothing. Chloe still owned my contract and still held the keys to my family’s survival. But now? Now she knew I could burn her empire down with a single interview.

The balance of power had shifted.

And it showed.

At the summit, I was flawless.

Not just obedient—transcendent.

When Chloe took the stage, I followed, barefoot and unashamed, carrying her notes like an offering. The crowd gasped, then murmured, then leaned in. Cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled.

And Chloe?

She glowed.

Because I wasn’t just her naked assistant anymore.

I was her masterpiece.

Her revolution.

Q&A Aftermath

"How does it feel?" A journalist shoved a mic in my face as we exited the green room. "To be the face of corporate bodily autonomy?"

Before I could answer, Chloe slid between us, her hand resting possessively on my bare hip. "Denise doesn’t speak for the company unless I approve the messaging."

I smiled sweetly. "But my lawyer does."

Chloe’s grip tightened—just for a second—before she laughed for the cameras. "She’s joking, of course."

"Am I?"

The crowd tittered nervously.

Chloe’s smile never wavered as she steered me away, her whisper scalding my ear: "You’re enjoying this."

"Aren’t you?" I shot back.

Because that was the game now.

Every step I took—through airports, boardrooms, press scrums—was a performance we choreographed. She wanted the world to see her power. Fine.

But they’d also see mine.

That Night

The hotel phone rang at 3 AM.

"Pack your things," Chloe said, no greeting. "We’re flying to Milan."

I sat up, sheets pooling at my waist. "Why?"

"Dolce & Gabbana wants you in their next ad campaign." A pause. "Clothing optional."

I could hear the smirk in her voice.

"Sixty dollars an hour?"

"Six hundred."

The number hung between us, glittering and lethal.

I exhaled. "Send the jet."

_________________

Epilogue: Skin Deep

Mom framed the first Times article.

Tyler made me sign his copy of Forbes ("You’re next to Elon Musk, Denise!").

And Chloe?

She bought a penthouse with a walk-in safe—where she locked my old thrift-store dress behind glass.

"A reminder," she said, tracing the faded fabric through the pane. "Of what you were before I found you."

I pressed my palm to the cool surface, leaving a ghostly imprint.

"Funny," I murmured. "I don’t remember being lost."

Outside, the city stretched endlessly—alive, untamed, waiting.

I stepped into the elevator.

The doors closed.

And for the first time in my life, I was exactly where I belonged.

The End

[TheRevenant]

Impressive work. I love how she took control of her destiny.

[Dormouse]

I like stories where the "victim" turns out to take control of being naked and finds it freeing.

[skai0]

Great story