Zara Du Rose is perched at a pale vintage writing desk in a shadowed room dressed with damask paper and a wire dressmaker's form, her flame-red hair spilling down the back of a long-sleeved black lace dress that clings to every statuesque line of her silhouette. Sheer black stockings disappear beneath the hem, leading down to towering black heels with that unmistakable red sole, crossed at the ankle in cool secretarial discipline. She works the laptop with a practiced, bored kind of focus, the sort of commanding stillness that makes a room behave.

Zara slinks out of her chair and onto the desk, arching across the wood on her knees, the lace of her dress pulled taut over the peachy curve of her bottom as her stockings stretch to the light. She sheds the dress to reveal a wickedly ornate red and black printed lace bra and matching briefs, her porcelain skin luminous against the deep wallpaper, a choker kissed at her throat and her painted mouth parted in quiet command. She settles back into the chair wearing only lingerie, heels, and those thigh-high stockings, crooking one finger against her lips in an unmistakable invitation that says she is entirely in charge of what happens next.