Lola
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 1
The art gallery opening felt like an operating room: too much white, too much bright light, and people talking in whispers, as if they were afraid to wake up the art on the walls.
Emma stood in front of a huge painting, a mess of deep red and gold brushstrokes. She held a glass of mineral water—Peter didn’t like it when she drank wine in public. She wore an oatmeal-colored dress. It was perfectly cut, but completely plain. It didn’t show off her body; it hid it.
“Do you know why you’re looking at it?” a low, slightly rough voice said right next to her ear.
Emma jumped, almost dropping her glass. She turned around and froze.
It was Lola. She looked like a protest against this sterile room: a leather jacket over a silk slip dress, messy dark hair, and a camera hanging casually on her shoulder. Her eyes, lined with thick black eyeliner, scanned Emma with bold curiosity.
“Lola?” Emma blinked. “Oh my god, how long has it been ... five years?”
“Six, honey. Six years since you married your ‘Mr. Perfect’ and disappeared off the face of the earth,” Lola took a step closer, getting way too close. “So, why are you looking at this painting?”
“I ... I’m trying to understand the artist’s idea,” Emma answered, not sure of herself.
“Nonsense,” Lola cut her off. “You’re looking at it because it’s the only bright spot in this damn building. And in your life, judging by that dress. You look like an expensive curtain in a nursing home, Em.”
Emma blushed. Her usual politeness fought with a sudden stab of anger that felt ... good.
“Peter likes this style. It’s elegant.”
Lola smirked, lifted her camera, and, without asking, took a picture. The flash blinded Emma for a second.
“Look at this,” Lola turned the camera screen to her.
In the photo, Emma looked scared and tense, but the light hit her eyes in a way that reflected the same deep red color from the painting.
“See this?” Lola’s finger touched the screen, right on the reflection. “There’s still fire in you. But it’s suffocating under all these layers of ‘propriety.’ Your husband isn’t an architect, Emma. He’s a jailer. He built you a beautiful cage, and you’re slowly turning to dust inside it.”
“You have no right to say that,” Emma whispered, but her legs suddenly felt weak.
“I do. Because I saw the real you in college. Remember when you danced on the table at that bar in Lyon? Where is that girl?” Lola pulled a card from her pocket—black, with a gold-stamped eye on it. “Tomorrow at two o’clock, I’ll be waiting for you at my studio. No Peter. No ‘elegant’ dresses. Wear jeans and something you don’t mind getting dirty.”
“I’m not coming, Lola. We have a charity lunch tomorrow...”
Lola looked her right in the eyes, and Emma felt a strange chill go down her spine.
“You’ll come. Because tonight, when you get home and Peter kisses you goodnight on the cheek, you’ll feel like you can’t breathe. And you’ll remember this conversation.”
Lola turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind a trail of heavy, unfamiliar perfume—patchouli, tobacco, and something dangerously sweet.
The evening after the gallery was predictable to the last second, like a broken record.
Peter sat in his leather chair, looking at blueprints for a new country club. He wore a perfect gray shirt; even his slippers looked like they just came out of the box.
“You were wonderful today, Em,” he said, not looking up from the blueprints. “Mrs. Gilmore mentioned your dress choice. She said it highlights your ... propriety.”
“Propriety.” The word hit Emma like cold, wet ash. She stood in front of the bedroom mirror, unzipping her dress.
“Don’t you think it was too boring?” she asked, looking at her reflection. Lola’s voice was still in her head: “A queen in a crypt.”
Peter finally looked up, genuinely surprised.
“Boring? No, dear. It was appropriate. In our circle, ‘bright’ is bad taste. You know I value that calmness in you. You are my safe harbor.”
He came over, gently put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her cheek. His lips were dry and cool. There was no passion in the kiss—only approval, like he was stamping a finished project.
“Get some sleep,” he added. “The lunch is important tomorrow. You need to look fresh.”
When the lights were off, Emma lay in the dark, listening to her husband’s steady, proper breathing. She felt buried alive under the crisp, high-thread-count sheets. In her purse, thrown on a chair, was the black business card. She could almost feel the warmth coming from it.
The next day, instead of the charity lunch, Emma found herself in the city’s industrial district. Lola’s studio was on the top floor of an old factory. It smelled of dust, film developer, and that same bold perfume.
Lola was waiting for her, sitting on a high stool with a cup of black coffee. She was wearing only a man’s shirt and short shorts.
“You came,” Lola didn’t smile; she just stated a fact. “And you’re wearing that beige mistake. Take it off.”
Emma froze in the doorway.
“What? Why?”
“We’re going to take pictures. Real ones. The kind I couldn’t take yesterday because of that spacesuit of decency Peter put you in,” Lola walked over and started unbuttoning Emma’s coat. “Don’t be scared, Em. It’s just me and the camera here.”
She led Emma to a rack where clothes were hanging—things Emma would never have dared to even touch.
“We’ll start with the basics. Your body has forgotten what it feels like to feel. Your husband has trained you to like cotton and wool. Those are fabrics for sleeping, not for living.”
Lola took a small black velvet box. Inside was something weightless—a slip made of the thinnest, almost transparent, night-sky-colored silk.
“Put this on. Nothing underneath,” Lola ordered. “This isn’t for Peter. It’s for you. I want you to walk around the studio in this for half an hour. Feel how the fabric slides on your skin when you breathe. Feel how the silk teases your nipples. This is your first step back to reality.”
With shaking hands, Emma took the lingerie.
“But ... it barely hides anything.”
“Exactly,” Lola touched her chin, making her look her in the eyes. “Hiding is Peter’s job. My job is to uncover. Go behind the screen, Em. And leave your ‘propriety’ in a pile with that beige dress.”
The screen felt like the only shelter in the huge, empty space. When she came out, holding her elbows to her ribs, the cool air of the studio immediately responded to her body. The thin, dark-blue silk barely touched her skin, but it felt heavier than any winter coat because of how unfamiliar it was.
Lola was already behind a tripod. The light from softboxes was aimed at the center of a rug, creating a blindingly white spot in the middle of the shadows.
“Stand in the circle, Emma. And move your hands away from your body. You’re not being interrogated,” Lola’s voice was dry, professional, which paradoxically scared her even more.