She will of course Part 2 Tiny Terry chapter 6 by The Reaper

The transition to the sunroom felt like being transported to a different climate zone. The air became heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine, the bright afternoon sun piercing through the glass panes in blinding shafts of gold. Terry felt the sudden shift in temperature as Jenna stepped into a patch of direct sunlight, the heat radiating through the layers of his satin dress, making the fabric feel like a warm, suffocating blanket. He was held aloft, a tiny, frilly speck against a backdrop of towering ferns and oversized monstera leaves that looked like prehistoric monsters looming over him.

"Right here, just by the orchids," Jenna decided, her voice echoing in the glass-walled room. She carefully lowered him onto a polished mahogany side table, the surface feeling like a vast, cold plain beneath his tiny, hard-soled shoes. As soon as he was set down, the voluminous bell-skirt of the dress puffed out around him, anchoring him in place. He tried to take a step back, but the dress's structure acted like a fence, and the porcelain mask felt heavier than ever, trapping his frantic breaths in a humid loop of fabric and frustration.

Hazel was already in position, her giant silhouette blocking out the sun as she leaned over him, her phone angled for the perfect low-angle shot to make the "secret garden" look more immersive. "Okay, Terry! Now, just a little tilt of the head! Give us that 'lost and lonely princess' look!" She reached out with a finger the size of his torso and gently poked the side of his mask, tilting his head to the left. The movement was so effortless for her, but for Terry, it felt like being shoved by a velvet-covered pillar. He could only stand there, a prisoner of lace, staring up at the shimmering glass ceiling and the two women who viewed him as nothing more than a living piece of art.

The sunlight was oppressive, turning the mahogany table into a hot stage. Terry felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck, trapped beneath the lace choker that felt more like a velvet noose with every passing second. He looked up, and for a moment, the scale of things truly hit him: the orchids above him were like towering, alien canopies of purple and gold, and the two women were like goddesses of fashion, their laughter echoing off the glass walls of the sunroom. He tried to shift his feet, but the stiff, bell-shaped skirt of the dress acted like a cage, trapping him in a permanent, frilly stasis.

"Wait, the lighting is shifting! We need to catch the golden hour glow," Jenna directed, her voice a commanding yet melodic rumble. She didn't pick him up this time; instead, she leaned over the table, her voluminous chest creating a soft, looming shadow that eclipsed the sun. She reached out, her manicured finger gently pressing against the small of his back to nudge him an inch to the left. The pressure was immense, pushing him firmly into the hard wood, and for a second, Terry felt the air leave his lungs. He was a puppet, being positioned by a giant hand that didn't realize—or didn't care—how a single inch of movement for them was a mile-long trek for him.

Hazel was practically vibrating with excitement, her phone screen a blur of rapid-fire snaps. "Omg, Mom, look at the way the light hits the porcelain! He looks so hauntingly beautiful! It’s like a Victorian ghost story but, like, super cute!" She zoomed in, the camera lens looming over Terry like a great, glass eye. "Terry, do a little wave! Just a tiny, shy little wave for the fans!" The demand was punctuated by a little flick of her fingernail against his shoulder, a playful gesture that nearly knocked him flat on his back.