I texted him the next evening before I left work.

On my way.

The reply came in under a minute.

Bay door open. Come straight to the office.

When I pulled in, the big door was already halfway down. Roman was waiting just inside, black T-shirt smeared with a fresh streak of grease, rag hanging from his back pocket. He hit the button as soon as my car cleared the threshold. The metal door sealed us in with a heavy final sound. He didn’t speak. He just pointed toward the office.

I walked ahead of him. My dress was soft, short, and nothing underneath—exactly what he wanted. The office light...