Chapter 1

Hello. My name is Kiera Hoover. I’m twenty-six, newly single, and still living in my childhood home. But the first thing you should know about me is that I find most fabrics to be a barrier to living. They are a muffled, man-made experience between my skin and the world.

So right now, I am sitting completely naked in a wicker chair on my back porch, having traded the false comfort of cloth for the genuine textures of woven wicker and the soft, humid air. I’m sipping iced tea and watching the light dance through the Spanish moss on the old oak tree in my yard, feeling more connected than any garment has ever allowed me to feel.

The second thing you should know is that I’m not a radical. At least, I didn’t set out to be one.

The air in Virginia Beach this morning is a thick, salty blanket, the kind that makes fabric feel like a prison sentence. Out here, in the quiet neighborhood of Great Neck Point, the only sounds are the distant cry of gulls and the rustle of the live oaks. My skin is breathing, every pore open to the humid kiss of the Chesapeake Bay breeze. This is my father’s house. It’s also, for now, my sanctuary.

It started with my dad, Wayne Hood. Yes, Hoover is my mother’s name; a story for another time. Dad is the pastor of a little nondenominational church off Birdneck Road, a man whose faith is as deep and steady as the Atlantic horizon. Last month, when the Virginia legislature began its fiery debates on the Personal Freedom Act, our community—like most—splintered into factions. Most of his congregation saw the idea of legalized nudity as a one-way ticket to societal collapse, a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah right here on the Boardwalk.

But my dad ... he stood in the pulpit, his kind face etched with conviction, and said, “We are fearfully and wonderfully made. To live in the body God gave you, without shame, without the artifice of status or fashion ... is that not living as He truly intended? Is this ‘evolution’ of human freedom not something to be grateful for?”

You could have heard a pin drop. Then the whispers started.

Later that night, over a dinner of she-crab soup, I asked him, “Do you really believe that? Or is it just a theological argument?”

He looked at me, his eyes the same shade of sea-glass green as my own. “I believe it, Kiera. I believe we’ve hidden ourselves from each other, and in doing so, we’ve hidden from God.”

So, I made a choice. With his blessing, I decided to support him in the most tangible way I could. I stopped wearing clothes. At home, at first. The freedom was ... profound. It wasn’t sexual; it was architectural. It was about the lines of my hips, the strength in my thighs, the map of freckles across my shoulders—all of it just mine, without commentary from denim or polyester.

Then, I started venturing out here, to the porch. Mrs. Mattie Gay, our eighty-year-old neighbor, nearly dropped her watering can the first time she saw me. She just blinked, adjusted her wide-brimmed hat, and said, “Well, Kiera. It’s a warm one, isn’t it?”

That’s Virginia Beach for you. Polite, even in the face of a minor revolution.

But the quiet can be deceiving. The storm is gathering on the horizon. I feel it in the wary look Eliza Lara gave me at the church picnic last week. I read it in the blistering editorials from that blowhard councilman, Preston Hutchinson. Just yesterday, I saw it in the sleek, black car that slowed to a crawl as it passed the house.

I didn’t know the man driving, but his gaze felt like a brand. I met his eyes, refusing to look away, refusing to shrink. He drove off, but the violation lingered. I later found out from Shanice that it was Francesco Mathews, a man who owns half the nightlife on the oceanfront. She said he’s trouble wrapped in a designer suit, and that I was, in her words, “poking a bear with a very short stick.”

“Why does it have to be all or nothing, Kiki?” she’d asked, her voice thick with concern.

But it does. For me, it does. This isn’t about making a statement to the world. It’s about finally feeling at home in my own skin, in my own city. I love the gritty feel of the concrete on the Fishing Pier under my feet at dawn. I love the shock of the cold water at First Landing on an autumn morning. This body is my vessel for experiencing it all.

The PF bill hasn’t even passed yet, and already the cracks are showing. Some forces, like Hutchinson, want me to be quiet, to be small, to be covered. There are others, like Francesco Mathews, I suspect, who want to use my body for their own ends.

But as I sit here, the sun warming my skin, I make you a promise, reader: They have no idea who they’re dealing with. This is my life, my skin, my story, and I’m just getting started.

The first crack in my newfound peace came not from a stranger, but from a friend. Shanice Castro stood in my doorway, a bag of bagels from Bodo’s in one hand and a look of pure, unadulterated panic on the other.

“Kiera, put some pants on. We need to talk.”

“Good morning to you, too, Shanice,” I said, stepping aside to let her in. “No, I don’t think I will.”

She stomped past me into the kitchen, her heels clicking a staccato of frustration on the tile. “This isn’t funny anymore. Do you know what Mario Hughes is saying?”

I leaned against the counter, the cool quartz a pleasant contrast against my skin. “Officer Hughes? That he wishes he’d given me a ticket for littering when he had the chance?”

“He’s telling people at the station that you’re a public disturbance waiting to happen. That he’s just ‘waiting for you to slip up’ so he can make an arrest.” She pulled out a cinnamon raisin bagel and began slicing it with aggressive precision. “He’s not on your side, Kiki. He sees you as a problem to be solved.”

I sighed, reaching for a mug. “He sees a law that hasn’t been broken yet. My property, my body. It’s simple.”

“Nothing is simple here! This is Virginia Beach, not a nudist colony in France.” She finally looked at me, her brown eyes wide with concern. “I’m scared for you. People are talking. Ugly talk.”

I knew she meant well. Shanice, with her perfectly curated life as a junior architect, lived in a world of straight lines and building codes. My life was suddenly all unpredictable, organic curves.

“Let them talk,” I said, pouring coffee for us both. “My skin is thicker than they think.”

Just then, my phone buzzed. An unknown number. I hesitated, then answered.

“Kiera Hoover?” A smooth, baritone voice, like warm honey, filled my ear. “My name is Francesco Mathews. I believe you live near my aunt, Mattie Gay?”

I shot a look at Shanice, who was watching me like a hawk. “I do. What can I do for you, Mr. Mathews?”

“Francesco, please. I’ll be direct. I saw you on your porch yesterday. I was visiting Mattie. Your ... conviction is remarkable. I’m hosting a small, private gathering of forward-thinking individuals this weekend at my home on the North End. A discussion on personal freedom and the arts. I think your perspective would be invaluable.”

My grip tightened on the phone. This was the man from the car. The one Shanice had warned me about. A predator, she’d called him.

“I’m not sure what perspective I could offer,” I said carefully.

“Authenticity, Kiera. In a world of filters and facades, you are breathtakingly authentic. That has power. Think about it. I’ll text you the address.”

He hung up before I could refuse. A moment later, the address appeared on my screen. A multimillion-dollar estate on the oceanfront.

Shanice had stopped chewing. “Who was that?”

“Francesco Mathews,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended. “He’s ... inviting me to a party.”

She dropped the knife. It clattered loudly in the quiet kitchen. “No. Absolutely not. Kiera, that man is a shark. He doesn’t see a person; he sees a trend. He’ll package you, brand you, and sell you until there’s nothing left of you that’s real.”

“You don’t know that,” I said, but the protest felt weak. The way he’d said “authenticity” ... it hadn’t felt like a compliment. It had felt like an appraisal.

“I know his type. He owns the Azure Lounge. Do you know what he did last year? He fired his entire waitstaff and replaced them with identical-looking models from Eastern Europe. He doesn’t care about people; he cares about aesthetics and profit. You are the new, shocking aesthetic.”

Her words hit a nerve. Was that what I was becoming? An aesthetic? A statement?

Later that afternoon, seeking solace, I drove to First Landing State Park. It was a weekday, and the long trails through the cypress swamps were mostly empty. I walked along the dirt path, the earth cool and soft beneath my bare feet, the dappled sunlight painting my skin in shifting patterns. Here, among the ancient trees and the silent, tea-colored water, I felt centered. Real. This was the feeling I was fighting for.

I reached a small, secluded clearing that opened up to a narrow creek. I stood there, breathing in the loamy air, listening to the call of a red-shouldered hawk. This was my truth.

A twig snapped behind me.

I turned, not with panic, but with a calm alertness. A man stood at the edge of the clearing, holding a camera with a long lens. He was dressed in hiking gear, but it looked new, unworn. He wasn’t a regular.

He lowered the camera, his face a mask of feigned embarrassment. “Oh! Sorry, ma’am. I was just ... bird watching.”

But his lens hadn’t been pointed at the trees. It had been pointed at me.

“I think you’re done watching,” I said, my voice steady, though my heart was beginning to drum a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

He gave a slimy smile. “Public land, sweetheart. What you’re doing ... It’s a spectacle.”

He raised the camera again and the shutter clicked, once, twice—the sound unnaturally loud in the peaceful clearing.

“Delete those,” I commanded, taking a step forward.

“Or what?” he chuckled. “You’ll call the cops? I’d love to see that conversation.”

He turned and melted back into the woods, his laughter echoing behind him. I stood there, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. I felt violated. Seen, but not seen. Stolen from.

The walk back to my car felt miles long. Every rustle in the undergrowth felt like a threat. The sanctuary had been breached.

When I got home, my father was waiting for me, his face grim. He held out his tablet. On the screen was a local gossip blog, “The Coastal Chatter.” The headline screamed: PASTOR’S PRODIGY DAUGHTER GOES WILD IN THE WOODS! Below it were the photos. I, in the clearing, my back to the camera, my form small and vulnerable against the vastness of the swamp. The article was a masterpiece of insinuation, questioning my father’s judgment and my sanity.

“Preston Hutchinson was on the news an hour ago,” Wayne said, his voice heavy. “He cited this as ‘exhibit A’ for why the city needs to pass his preemptive decency ordinance. He called it ‘a blatant and shocking flaunting of community standards.’”

I sank onto the sofa, pulling my knees to my chest. The bravado I’d felt on the porch, the certainty I’d expressed to Shanice, it all crumbled. This wasn’t about living freely anymore. It was a war, and the first shot had just been fired.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Francesco Mathews.

Saw the unfortunate news. Vultures. Remember my offer. I can protect you from this. We can control the narrative, together.

I stared at the message. The manipulative undertone was clear, but so was the allure. Protection. Control. After feeling so utterly powerless in those woods, the offer was a siren’s call.

Shanice’s warning echoed in my mind. He’ll package you, brand you, and sell you.

But what was the alternative? To be picked apart by Preston Hutchinson’s politics and anonymous men with cameras?

I looked at my father’s worried face. I thought of the stolen image of my body, splashed across the internet for anyone to gawk at.

Reader, for the first time, I was truly afraid, and in that fear, Francesco Mathews’s offer didn’t seem like a trap. It seemed like the only lifeboat on a stormy sea. I typed a one-word reply.

Okay.

The text back from Francesco was immediate.

Excellent. A car will pick you up on Saturday at 8 PM. Wear whatever makes you feel most like yourself.

The ambiguity of the instruction was its own kind of test. I spent the next two days in a state of suspended animation. The digital wound from the blog post was raw. Shanice had seen it and came over, her “I told you so” wisely left unspoken, replaced by a tight hug and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. My father moved through the house with a quiet, stoic fury, his sermons now laced with pointed references to “casting the first stone” and “the sin of bearing false witness.”

But the outside world was louder. A small but vocal group, led by the devout and sharply pious Eliza Lara, had started a prayer vigil outside the church, praying for my father’s “clarity” and my “redemption.” Every time I left the house, I felt their eyes on me, a mix of pity and condemnation that was a heavier burden than any stare I’d received for my nudity.

Saturday arrived, heavy with a humid threat of rain. At 8 PM sharp, a silent, black Tesla glided to a stop in front of our house. I walked out, having made my decision. I wore a simple, long, slate-grey silk wrap. It was a concession, but it was my concession. The fabric felt alien and slippery against my skin, a costume for the role I was about to play.

The driver, a woman with a severe bun and a black uniform, said nothing as she held the door open. I slid inside, the cool leather a shock. As we drove through the North End, past the colossal, illuminated mansions that lined the oceanfront, I felt a profound sense of dislocation. This wasn’t my Virginia Beach. My Virginia Beach was the salty, slightly run-down charm of the Croatan surf shops and the shared beers on the sand at Chick’s Beach.

Francesco Mathews’s house was a monument of glass and steel, cantilevered dramatically over the dunes. It looked less like a home and more like a spaceship that had landed. The driver led me through the towering front door into a vast, open living room where a “small gathering” of about fifty impeccably dressed people mingled. The air hummed with low conversation and the clinking of crystal. The women wore cocktail dresses that cost more than my car; the men wore blazers with effortless elegance.

I stood there in my simple wrap, feeling like a ghost at a feast, and then he found me.

“Kiera.” Francesco materialized at my side, a glass of champagne in his hand, which he offered to me. He was even more striking up close, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that missed nothing. He was dressed in a dark, open-collared shirt and tailored trousers. “I’m so glad you came. You look ... intriguing.”