Chapter 8: Separate Trials

The elevator doors slid open onto the fourth floor, and Nathan—trapped in the lush, unfamiliar curves of Arabella Montclair—was shepherded down a plush-carpeted hallway by a chattering trio.

“God, Bella, we thought you’d never get here,” said the one with the high ponytail—Zoe, he’d gathered. “The fall rush events are already insane.”

“Totally,” agreed the brunette, Tori, scrolling through her phone. “You missed, like, three mixers.”

“And Leo Dempsey was asking about you,” added the third, a redhead named Sasha with a smirk. “Persistently.”

Nathan’s mind raced. He could only hum in vague acknowledgment, his focus entirely on not tripping over the delicate straps of Arabella’s sandals. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, a gauntlet of potted plants and abstract art. Finally, Zoe stopped before a door marked 412 and tapped a keycard. The lock chimed, and she pushed it open.

Arabella’s dorm room wasn’t a room; it was a studio apartment. A large window offered a view of Washington Square Park, and the space was decorated in tasteful, expensive neutrals. A king-sized bed dominated one area, opposite a sleek sitting nook and a kitchenette. Three massive closets lined one wall.

“Home sweet home, princess,” Tori said, flopping onto a cream-colored sofa. “Now, spill. What’s the first-night fit? We’re hitting up that new speakeasy under the bookstore at nine.”

Nathan stood frozen in the doorway, the enormity of the question paralyzing him. An outfit. He had to choose an outfit. From a woman’s closet. He stared at the closet doors as if they were the gates to a labyrinth.

“Bella?” Sasha prompted, her smile fading into curiosity. “You okay? You look… spacey.”

“Jet lag,” Nathan muttered, the excuse feeling thin. He walked toward the closets, his new hips swaying in a motion he still couldn’t control. He pulled open the first door.

It was a riot of color and fabric. Dresses in silks and satins, blouses with complicated draping, pants in cuts he didn’t have names for. The second closet held shoes—heels in every height and color, delicate flats, boots. The third was accessories: scarves, belts, handbags that looked like sculptures.

How does anyone decide? he thought, a cold sweat prickling under the bodysuit’s seamless neckline. The idea of putting on any of these complicated, constricting items made his skin crawl. He felt the weight of Arabella’s breasts, the strange, empty smoothness between his …