Aimless Wish part 2 of 2

Aimless Wish
by Varian Milagro

This story was created with the assistance of AI. All the characters, dialog, plot and settings are mine. ChatGPT took my series of long, very detailed, rambling, stream of conscousness prompts and formatted them into something coherent and added bits of sensory detail. I also used AI to create the illustrations.

Part 1

By two o'clock on Friday, Chase had already been to two breakfast meetings and a mid-morning walk-through of a private garden gala venue before arriving at the nondescript address scribbled onto the back of an RSVP card. He pulled up in his pearl white 2021 Lexus RX 350, the rose gold accents catching in the sunlight like jewelry. The hybrid hummed to a quiet stop, purring beneath him. He touched the power button with a manicured finger and took a long breath.

He stepped out in blush pink stilettos that made a clear click on the sidewalk. With his teakwood leather handbag hooked in the crook of one arm. Chase looked every inch the poised, powerful woman his business cards now suggested he was.

The sheen of his silk ivory pussy-bow blouse shimmered in the dappled sunlight breaking through the trees. It was sheer—but with intention—revealing nothing except exquisite tailoring. His blazer, cream with satin lapels, swung open confidently over the blouse, the cuffs crisp and studded with delicate gold cufflinks. His blush pencil skirt hugged his hips like a sculpted glove, dipping into a modest back slit that moved like a whisper when he walked.

Then, the sound of pure chaos.

A sudden roar of an engine—throaty, proud, slightly illegal. Riley’s rose gold 2023 Mercedes CLA Coupe screamed around the corner and pulled up next to his Lexus in a blur of chrome and flirtation.

“You win on best car again,” Chase said dryly.

Riley emerged like a fashion-forward Bond girl. Her ivory square-neck knit bodysuit hugged every inch of her upper body with precision, just conservative enough to disarm, just tight enough to entice. High-waisted wide-leg trousers in warm taupe billowed around her long legs as she moved, the golden buckle of her designer belt flashing with every sway of her hips. On her feet, gold pointed mules made a more delicate click than Chase’s stilettos, but the energy was the same—domination with poise.

She pulled off her oversized sunglasses and gave him a sly grin. “Damn right. Yours says ‘power brunch.’ Mine says ‘I can lose the cops in three turns.’”

They looked at each other for a moment—just looked. And in that quiet assessment, each tried to reconcile who the other had become with who they'd been just a week ago. There was still a faint echo of the old Riley in the sorority goddess standing there. But Chase was someone else entirely. Not a trace of the man he'd been still remained. Every line of his body, every step he took, every breath he drew radiated elegant, feminine authority.

"I need to tell you about my date," Riley said as they walked to the front door. "And I want to hear all about yours."

“If we haven’t changed back after this appointment, let’s go to Elixiria. It’s a wellness bar one of my new clients just opened.” Chase knocked twice on the front door. “I’ll have to cancel on Mrs. Kilgrave, but I’ve been switching jobs every day, so it probably won’t make a difference.”

The door was answered by a man who didn’t bother with greetings. His weathered face was carved with age and experience, deep lines cutting across his forehead and bracketing his eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, leaning heavy on the salt. His shirt, a button-down the color of tired paper, was rolled at the sleeves. No tie. No smile.

"Come on in.”

As they stepped inside. Riley handed over a slim envelope—two thousand in crisp bills.

He took it without glancing inside, nodding once. “Follow me.”

The living room was surprisingly nice—earth-toned furniture, framed landscapes, and bookshelves filled with classic novels. He gestured for them to sit.

“I’ve got your story. You tell me if anything’s off.”

He went through it mechanically: The wish, the scroll, the flames, the daily transformations. He clearly knew what he was talking about. Then came the bad news.

“Whoever created that scroll of yours was a real asshole. There’s no reason it needed to consume itself. With access to the original, I could've…" He shook his head slowly. "It's still possible—but I’d need to know the exact wording of your wish. Every word, every pause. They all matter."

The looks on their faces told them all he needed.

"I'm sorry, but without either of those, the spell will need to run its course."

Chase sighed dramatically, crossing his legs and resting his manicured fingers over his knee. “So what, that’s it? Riley pays you two grand for a 'Can't help you, so sorry' and we walk out as living cautionary tales?”

The Fixer didn’t flinch. “That’s the bad news. Here’s the better news: the spell’s still in effect. I can do a ritual. It won’t undo it—not yet—but I can see who you used to be. Once the magic burns out, I can use that insight to rebuild what was lost. That includes Logan and Deborah, too.”

Riley leaned forward, the gold chains around her neck catching the light. “Do they need to be here?”

“No. Only the casters matter.”

Without another word, he stood and beckoned them downstairs.

The basement was the opposite of the living room. Bare concrete floors were marked with overlapping chalk circles, many half-erased or stained with something old. Copper wires hung overhead, strung with flickering bulbs that gave the space a surreal glow. One corner buzzed faintly—the enchanted refrigeration unit, its surface beaded with cold, like it held secrets too dangerous to be warm. A phonograph played warbly blues in a loop.

“It’s not cozy,” the Fixer said. “But it’s safe while I'm here with you."



He moved with quiet precision, placing candles at certain points of the main circle. “Stand in the center.”

They obeyed. He began to chant, low and strange, his voice dipping in and out of intelligibility. The temperature in the room dropped slightly, but otherwise... nothing happened.

“Step out,” he said.

They did, exchanging a glance. Riley looked skeptical.

Chase didn’t bother hiding his disdain. “That’s it? That’s the ritual? No visions? No glowing lights? I’ve been on conference calls with more mystic energy.”

The Fixer ignored the jab. “I’ve seen you. Your lives. From before.”

“Prove it,” Riley said, arms crossed.

He didn’t hesitate. “Chase. You stole your neighbor’s Wi-Fi for three straight months just to stream the anime 'Starlight Sonata: Hearts in Orbit' and then cried for an hour when your favorite character died. Riley. You skipped Chase’s birthday party because you'd been invited to play an early beta version of 'Daughters of Ironhall.'”

Chase looked over at Riley, "You said you have Covid."

"Sorry," she said, sheepishly.

He dusted off his hands. “You want your money back, take it. Walk. Forget any of this happened. Or come back Monday when the spell will have settled. Then I can fix it.”

Chase said, "So why is the spell taking so long to complete?"

As he led them upstairs, he said, “I’d need to know the exact wording of your wish to be sure, but I have no doubt the answer lies in the details. If I wished for a thousand dollars without specifying where it should come from or when it should appear—that kind of vagueness invites chaos. That’s why magic is so dangerous in untrained hands.”

He glanced back at them. “You two are actually lucky. It might not feel that way—especially with one of you changing genders against your will—but believe me, compared to some outcomes I’ve seen…” He trailed off. “Well. Some things are better left unsaid.”

Ten minutes later, Chase and Riley sat in the air-conditioned oasis of Elixiria, an upscale wellness bar nestled between a luxury day spa and a sustainable jewelry boutique. Everything in the café seemed curated by a deity of lifestyle perfection. The polished marble tables reflected the sunlight that poured through oversized windows framed with pampas grass and ethically harvested driftwood. Hushed conversations floated between tall-backed chairs as toned women in linen jumpsuits and gold-framed sunglasses sipped bespoke beverages with names like “Lunar Focus” and “Alkaline Zen.”

Seated near the central orchid display, Riley and Chase looked as though they belonged on the cover of a luxury lifestyle magazine. They didn’t just fit in at Elixiria—they elevated it.

Riley sat with one leg crossed loosely over the other, her taupe trousers draping elegantly over her gold mules. Her freshly blown-out dark blonde waves cascaded over her shoulders like a luxury shampoo commercial. She held her Iced Coconut Cold Brew with Sweet Foam in manicured fingers, lifting the eco-straw to her peach-glossed lips with effortless grace. The creamy foam lingered for half a second—then vanished, like every secret she never intended to keep.

Chase sat across from her, legs crossed with tailored precision, his blush pencil skirt perfectly aligned and his silk pussy-bow blouse shimmering faintly in the light. The Adaptogen Iced Mushroom Mocha before him was dark and rich, served in a recycled glass tumbler, the kind reserved for VIP clients. He held the straw between two delicate fingers, sipping slowly and deliberately, as if each taste confirmed his position at the top of some invisible social hierarchy.

Around them, conversations paused for a breath too long. The women at nearby tables tilted their sunglasses down just a touch—evaluating, admiring, adjusting their own posture in response. In Elixiria, status was scentless, but it hung thick.

“So,” Riley said, with a flick of her oversized sunglasses onto her head, “Tate picked me up in his obscenely hot red Porsce convertible that actually made my sorority sisters gasp.”

Chase smirked. “And you were the trophy in the passenger seat.”

“Exactly!” she said, leaning in, her layered gold necklace catching the light. “I walked out of the house like this—” she gestured to herself, “—and their jaws were on the ground. Like, they tried to play it cool, but girl, you could feel the jealousy.”

Chase chuckled, swirling his drink. “Delicious.”

“Everything was great. We laughed, we flirted, and we danced for over an hour. But then—end of the night—he gets all weird. Coy. Playing games.”

Chase snarled. “Ugh, of course.”

“So I teased him. Like, leaned over, unzipped him, made like I was gonna go down on him and then didn't. He wants to play games, fine."

Chase burst into laughter, the soft pearl-drop earrings brushing his jawline as he leaned back. “Riley, that is cruel. I love it. You taught that boy a lesson. If he does call, will you pick up?”

"Hell no. Tate blew his chance. Besides, I have a date tonight with Bradley Sinclair and he drives an Aston Martin." She grinned, then tilted her head. “What about you? How was your date with my dad?”

Chase’s entire demeanor softened—shoulders relaxed, lips curved into something almost dreamy. “It was… beautiful. Classy. He was attentive, witty. He asked me questions about me, and didn't just talk about himself. And when I laughed? He looked at me like it was his favorite sound.”

“Awww,” Riley said, genuinely touched.

“But,” Chase added, “I was a total bitch to the valet.”

“Do tell.”

“He took four whole minutes to bring the car around, but it felt like an hour. I got so annoyed and I got really snippy. Your dad laughed.’”

Riley gave a slow, knowing look. “He did seem to find Deborah amusing when she went off on a waiter for making a mistake on her order.”

“I think I’m becoming just like her. I mean, I think you were right that she was after your dad's money. But he liked that about her. He liked when she was a bitch to someone when they screwed up. And I get it now. There’s… power in it. Control. You don’t bend for anyone, and people fall over themselves to please you.”

Riley gave a sideways glance. “So, you’re saying you like being an ultra-bitch?”

“I don’t want to,” Chase said, voice low. “I used to think women like Deborah were shallow. Materialistic. Vapid. But now? It feels so natural. The clothes, the attitude, the entitlement—it just fits. I’m not sure if… if there’s even enough of the old me left to want the magic undone on Monday.”

Riley stared into her drink, ice clinking quietly. “But why is that happening to me too?” she said softly. “It makes sense that you’re changing if you’re going to marry my dad, but why am I turning into some vain, spoiled, bratty princess?”

Chase blinked. He set down his glass. “I have a theory,” he said slowly.

Riley looked up.

“You wished for a mom.”

Her brows furrowed.

Chase continued. “I think I’m becoming your mom. And you’re turning into my daughter—my gold-digger-in-training. It’s probably why I keep getting older. Your dad? He’d be fine with a younger fiancée. But a twenty-one-year-old daughter? I need to be older. I’m becoming the woman you wished for.”

For a beat, neither spoke. The air went still.

Riley’s lower lip trembled, her hands clutching the drink she suddenly forgot to sip. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll have a mom again? Really?”

Chase’s expression broke into a tender smile. He stood without hesitation, walked around the table, and crouched beside her. His arms opened gently.

“Aw, sweetie,” he said, voice quivering.

Riley leaned into him with a quiet sob, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Chase held her close, brushing his manicured fingers through her hair like he’d been doing it her entire life. Around them, the other women politely looked away—either out of respect or well-trained discretion.

~~~

That evening, Mitchell arrived at Chase's home at precisely six o’clock. He was dressed in a midnight blue tuxedo, peak satin lapels, a crisp white shirt with a subtle pleat, and a perfectly knotted bow tie. A vintage watch gleamed beneath his cuff, and a white pocket square peeked from his breast pocket.

He smiled when he saw Chase and said warmly, “You look radiant, Cheryl.”

Chase felt a tremor ripple through him at the name. Cheryl. The way Mitchell said it wasn’t performative. It was reverent. Natural. As if he’d always been calling him that. Chase didn’t correct him.

He stepped forward—confident, controlled. The sapphire silk-charmeuse slip dress clung to his body, hugging every curve that had slowly become second nature. The asymmetrical hem swished around his calves with grace, a whisper of movement that felt both poised and provocative. The ivory cropped blazer with satin lapels sat like armor over his shoulders—tailored, intentional, precise.

His hair—rich, caramel waves—was styled with red carpet finesse. Parted deep to the side, one side was tucked back with a sparkling crystal clip that revealed a long freshwater pearl earring. His makeup was sharp and seductive—his smoky eyes smoldering beneath heavy lashes, and his mulberry lips looking like a promise sealed in wine. He didn’t walk in those silver stilettos, he glided. The pale silver mini bag on his wrist was less an accessory, more a badge of taste. He smelled like white florals.

Mitchell offered his arm. Chase accepted it.

The drive to the private airport was smooth, their conversation easy, filled with elegant flirtation and champagne-polite banter. Mitchell held the door for him at the tarmac, helping him into the helicopter like a true gentleman. The rotor blades roared to life as the helicopter lifted them above the city. Chase gazed out the window, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched the landscape roll out beneath them like a silk tapestry. Mitchell reached across the seat to hold his hand, their fingers lacing together naturally.

Chase felt himself relax—not just physically, but in a way he hadn’t known he’d needed. The transformation wasn’t just external anymore. With Mitchell beside him, he didn’t feel like he was pretending to be anyone.

They landed on the manicured grounds of a private castle nestled in the hills, its silhouette rising like something out of a period film. Gently illuminated by golden lights and framed with climbing ivy, the estate exuded romance and wealth, legacy and curated charm.




A private tour of the winery followed. The cellars were lined with ancient oak barrels, the air thick with the scent of wine, wood, and time. They tasted rare vintages, the kind never sold—only gifted. Chase was acutely aware of Mitchell’s hand resting lightly on his back as the sommelier poured for them alone.

Dinner was served in a private hall draped in candlelight. A string quartet played just for them, filling the air with the tender sweep of cello and violin. A team of wait staff moved like choreographed shadows, anticipating every need before it was spoken. The courses were art on porcelain—delicate, complex, exquisite.

Chase felt like royalty.

Mitchell watched him with warmth and fascination, as if studying a masterpiece rather than dining with a date. Chase smiled behind his wine glass, heart aching with something close to disbelief. After dessert, they stepped onto the veranda. The night air was cool, the scent of jasmine thick on the breeze. From within the ballroom, soft romantic music began to play.

Mitchell extended a hand. “Dance with me?”

They began to move in slow, swaying circles. Chase laid one hand on Mitchell’s shoulder, the other held in his.

And then it happened. He didn’t falter. He’d become too used to magic to be startled.

His dress shimmered—then shifted. The sapphire silk melted into icy lavender, pouring down his body like moonlight given form. The fabric restructured itself mid-step: a corset bodice tightening gently around his waist, boning forming along the seams like fingers embracing him. Off-the-shoulder chiffon sleeves unfurled across his arms like clouds descending from the heavens.

His hair lengthened, lightened—becoming dark blonde waves styled in gleaming, sculpted glamor. A platinum-sapphire comb emerged behind his ear like a coronet. His jewelry adjusted too: a diamond choker appeared at his throat, a teardrop pendant catching the flicker of candlelight, earrings and rings blooming onto him like they had always belonged.

His body changed next—softening, refining. Curves became more pronounced, his frame delicately reshaped to match the vision forming around him. The biggest change happened beneath his lace panties—the last trace of Chase, the last remains of his manhood reformed itself into womanly folds. It was the final step in a long metamorphosis, sealing his transformation into a woman... into Cheryl.

Mitchell looked down at her, eyes dark with feeling. “You’re... breathtaking.”

Her heart fluttered. "This night has been so magical."

““Would you like to stay the night?” he said, voice low against her temple. “There's a room waiting for us."

She wanted to say yes. Part of her was screaming at her to say yes. But she said softly, “I’m not sure I’m ready for… that.”

His brow lifted slightly—curious, not disappointed.

“I want to,” she continued, eyes lowering. “God, I do. It’s just… my life’s complicated right now. More than I can explain. It’s not you. You’ve been… amazing.”

Mitchell smiled, warm and patient. “I understand. I don’t want to rush you, Cheryl. We don’t have to do anything until we’re both ready.”

She glanced up at him, surprised by how deeply his words soothed her.

“There’s no pressure,” he added. “We can stay in separate rooms, or we can fly back tonight. Whatever you need.”

“I’d like to stay,” she said quietly, then bit her lip. “I just didn’t bring anything.”

“I thought you packed an overnight bag,” he said, tilting his head.

Cheryl blinked. Had she? She searched her memory—and yes, there it was. In this reality, she had brought one. 'Just in case'” she had told herself earlier that day, even if she didn’t believe she’d use it.

Her cheeks warmed. “I guess I did.”

Mitchell turned and gestured to a staff member standing discreetly nearby. “Have Miss Reed’s bag taken to the Ashwood Suite,” he said smoothly. “And prepare another room for me.”

“Of course, sir,” the man said with a nod, vanishing into the shadows of efficiency.

The music shifted again. Mitchell offered his hand, and Cheryl smiled, slipping her fingers into his. They danced in silence, the kind that wrapped around them like silk. Everything had changed, but it had done so quietly—no fanfare, just inevitability.

When the time came, he walked her through the candlelit corridor, stopping in front of a grand door carved with floral reliefs.

“This is you,” he said, his voice a gentle hush. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her cheek, lingering just long enough to let her feel it. Then he stepped back, his eyes dark with something unspoken. “Goodnight, Cheryl.”

“Goodnight,” she whispered, barely audible.

She stepped inside, and the door closed softly behind her with a click that sounded more final than she wanted.

The room was exquisite—soft ivory tones, a chandelier that caught the moonlight, fresh flowers perfuming the air. Her bag was already unpacked, her nightwear folded neatly in the mahogany dresser, her toiletries arranged in the marble bathroom with meticulous care.

But the elegance couldn’t distract her from the ache curling beneath her ribcage.




She wanted him here. She wanted his arms around her, his chest warm and solid behind her back. She wanted to be held, kissed, undressed slowly. She wanted to know what it felt like to be cherished as a woman. She wanted him to show her. Her body, her heart—they were ready. But a voice inside her whispered, If you go to him now… will Chase still exist tomorrow? She froze by the mirror, one hand resting lightly on her collarbone.

Torn, she turned away from the mirror. Her hands moved on instinct—removing earrings, wiping away her makeup, folding back the silk sheets. She slipped into her lavender nightgown, the fabric cool against her bare skin.

She slid into the bed alone, the scent of fresh linens and candlewax surrounding her. But her thoughts were elsewhere. On Mitchell. On the woman she was becoming. On the person who was being left behind.

~~~

Earlier that evening, Riley stood before her gleaming mirrored vanity, tilting her head slightly as she applied a final stroke of matte rose lipstick. Her reflection stared back at her, both familiar and transformed—a goddess in the making, glowing under the soft golden light of her ring lamp. She pressed her lips together once, admiring the result with a satisfied little smirk.




She wore a baby pink satin mini dress, tailored to perfection. The sculpted bodice hugged her torso, the low square neckline framed by dramatic puff sleeves that gave the whole look a flirtatious opulence. The ruched fabric gathered along her hips, enhancing the natural curve of her waist and highlighting her legs, which looked almost impossibly long in a pair of metallic silver pointed-toe heels. The shoes caught every glint of light in the room, their mirror finish giving her silhouette a futuristic, high-fashion edge.

Her honey brown hair was voluminous, swept to one side with enviable bounce and just enough artful messiness to appear effortless. Her makeup was a study in modern coquette elegance: rose-gold shimmer eyeshadow, fluffy lashes, a hint of soft pink blush on the apples of her cheeks. The pearl drop earrings she wore caught the light like dewdrops, and a silver tennis bracelet sparkled subtly every time she moved her wrist.

Behind her, the Kappa Delta Omega sorority house bedroom radiated curated luxury. The walls were a soft, calming blush, bordered with crisp ivory molding, and above, the pale gold ceiling glimmered faintly in the lamplight. Her bed, dressed in a champagne velvet headboard, was arranged with precise elegance: pale pink, dove gray, and deep plum throw pillows layered just so. The scent of fresh peonies from a crystal vase on her desk lent a faint floral note to the air.

The mirrored vanity by the window was arrayed with luxury: a Chanel compact, trays of high-end lipsticks, eye palettes arranged like a painter’s tools. A streamlined desk nearby held her MacBook, a row of color-coded folders, and a corkboard filled with leadership flyers, event invites, and vision board clippings—a visual reminder that beauty and ambition could absolutely coexist.

Riley clicked the lipstick shut and slid it into her sparkling evening clutch. She took a breath and turned, her heels clicking confidently on the glossy hardwood floor. With a last look over her shoulder—half smirk, half regal nod—she exited the room.

Descending the wide, winding staircase like a debutante queen, she passed a few of her sorority sisters clustered below, all of whom looked up with impressed, slightly envious smiles. She had told them everything about Bradley Sinclair, his handsome face, athletic body, old money charm, and, of course, his Aston Martin DBS Superleggera.

Her phone buzzed.

Bradley: "I’m here. Been thinking about you all day."

Riley opened the door like she expected a camera flash. Bradley stood there, tall and clean-cut in a dark navy suit, his dark hair tousled just enough to look hand-styled. His gaze flicked over her and paused.

“Wow,” he said, with genuine awe in his voice. “You’re… radiant.”

Riley tilted her head. “You're so sweet.”

He offered his arm. She took it without hesitation, lifting her chin just a fraction higher.

Outside, the Aston Martin gleamed like a polished stone, its charcoal-gray finish swallowing the porch lights into sleek reflections. He opened the passenger door for her and she slid in with grace, the dress hugging her thighs just tight enough to make the motion a study in control.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at HauteLab, a hidden rooftop tasting lounge that didn’t advertise—because it didn’t need to. Past the unmarked elevator and through a blackened hallway, they stepped into an illuminated glass dome suspended above the city skyline.

Servers dressed in monochrome silk delivered small plates like clockwork: yuzu-glazed sliders, Korean BBQ tacos, truffle fries with gold leaf, compressed melon with hibiscus pearls. Each bite surprised her, but what surprised her more was him—the way Bradley listened, his joyful laugh, the way his fingers grazed hers just barely, intentionally.

He sipped his drink, watching her over the rim of his glass. “So, what’s something you love that has absolutely nothing to do with school or work?”

She blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Just means I’ve been on too many dates where the only thing someone can talk about is their major.”

She smiled. "I love finding places that feel secret—like a rooftop no one knows about, or a back alley café with zero social media presence. There’s something about knowing a place that hasn’t been ruined by TikTok yet." A week ago, the answer would have been getting early access to the beta of the latest fantasy RPG before any of her friends—but that was no longer true.

Bradley glanced at her, visibly intrigued. “There’s something powerful about having a place that’s yours, like it exists just for you. Makes me want to find one with you.”

Riley wanted to say, 'I’d love that,' but she needed to keep her distance. On Monday, she might be her old self again. If the Fixer managed to reverse the magic, she’d be back to dating Chase again.

“What about you?” she countered.

“I restore watches. Vintage ones,” he said. “Usually broken, forgotten, gummed up with time. There’s something satisfying about taking it apart and putting it back together.”

She tilted her head. “So you’re a romantic.”

He smiled. “That obvious?”

After dinner, they moved to a private alcove at an exclusive club, where the lighting turned low and intimate, music pulsing with slow, rhythmic energy. Bottle service arrived, and they danced—first at a respectable distance, then closer, then closer still.

At some point, Riley stopped thinking about time. About Monday. About consequences. And that’s when it happened.

The transformation was seamless, like shedding a skin she hadn’t realized no longer fit. Her baby-pink dress lengthened and deepened into rich wine satin, shaping itself into a corset gown that embraced her figure with structured grace. Her jacket softened into an ivory faux-fur crop, and gold heels gleamed at her feet. As her hair lightened into a dark golden blonde, Riley was gone.

She was Regina.

The shift wasn’t just fabric or form. It was within her. The doubts fell away. She leaned into the moment like a woman who finally trusted the story she was living. Bradley noticed the change—not the transformation itself, but the new confidence. The way she moved against him. The ease in her eyes. The power in her smile.

“You okay?” he asked in a low murmur, his hand on her waist.

She nodded, brushing her fingers against his jaw. “I’m better than okay.”

Bradley had his hand at the small of her back, not possessive, just sure. His other hand rested lightly against hers, fingers brushing with rhythmic ease. He wasn't just dancing with her—he was matching her. Reading her. Responding without hesitation, like they shared a private beat the rest of the room couldn’t hear.

She’d stopped pretending. Riley might have doubted herself, second-guessed the signals. Regina didn’t. Regina knew what she wanted—and he was right in front of her.

He leaned close, his breath brushing her ear between songs. “You have no idea how hard it is not to kiss you right now.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, smiling—slow, deliberate, with a spark of mischief. “I think I have an idea.”

They laughed, forehead to forehead for a moment, bodies swaying to the next track without missing a step.

“Let's get out of here,” he murmured.

Regina blinked, lips curving slowly. “Where do you want to go?”

“You'll see."

They left the club in a sleek blur of city lights. The Aston Martin slid silently into the garage of a private high-rise, one of several buildings his family owned. A private elevator took them to the rooftop—where a warm infinity pool stretched out beneath the stars, completely deserted.




Bradley opened the door and handed her a white rolled towel. “Ladies first.”

Regina slipped off her faux-fur jacket and dropped it onto a chaise lounge. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reached for the zipper of her dress. She didn’t look away from him as she stepped out of it, revealing a blush-toned balconette bra crafted from smooth satin with subtle mesh panels and matching high-cut seamless panties. Elegant. Tempting.

He peeled off his blazer, then his shirt, unhurried, his eyes never leaving hers. The shadows carved along his chest and abs shifted with each motion, and Regina watched him with open appreciation. She stepped into the pool first, the heat of the water embracing her body like silk. She dipped her head back, soaking her hair, then swept it off her face as she floated to the center.

Bradley joined her with a splash and a satisfied sigh. They drifted closer, legs brushing beneath the surface. The quiet was filled only by the sound of rippling water and the hum of the city far below them.

“I never thought you’d be this fun,” Regina murmured, resting her arms on the edge of the pool, her body languid and glowing under the moonlight.

He treaded next to her, voice low and honest. “I’ve never wanted to impress someone this badly.”

That made her pause. Her lips softened. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

“I’m not trying,” he said, his hand brushing gently along her forearm. “You just bring it out of me.”

She turned to him. “Come closer.”

Bradley obeyed, drifting until they were chest-to-chest, eyes searching. She reached for him first, brushing wet fingers along the edge of his jaw, then behind his neck, pulling him into a kiss that began soft… and lingered.

Their lips explored with patient intensity, tasting without rushing. Her hands slid over his shoulders, fingers curling slightly as he deepened the kiss, one hand drifting to the curve of her waist. They kissed again, this time more eagerly—yet still restrained, playful, curious. Fingers danced over bare skin, discovering textures and reactions. Every touch, a question answered.

“What are you thinking?” he asked after a long, quiet moment.

She smiled, fingers skimming the surface of the water. “That I’ve never had a night like this.”

His eyes softened. “Me neither.”

They kissed slowly in the water, lazily. Their fingers traced the edges of each other’s bodies.

She whispered into his ear, “I could stay like this all night.”

He smiled, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. “I’d love that,” he said, “but I’ve got a family thing in the morning. It's my nana's wedding anniversary and it's the first one since my grandpa died. We're taking her to brunch so she can be around family.”

She nodded, too quickly. “Ahh, that’s so sweet.”

Her smile stayed in place, but inside, disappointment bloomed. She’d imagined tonight going differently. The chemistry between them had been undeniable—the flirtation, the stolen glances, the thrill of the pool after hours. She’d been hoping it would end in tangled sheets and whispered laughter in the dark. And yet… part of her felt relieved. This was their first date. Everything was moving fast. Too fast.

Then she reminded herself—she was really Riley. She had a boyfriend. Sure, he was currently a woman in her thirties dating her dad, but that would change on Monday. They’d return to their real selves. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t let herself fall for Bradley.

They dried off in silence, each lost in their thoughts as they changed back into their clothes. The drive to the sorority house was quiet, but comfortable—his hand resting casually on the gear shift, hers folded in her lap. When he pulled up to the curb, the engine hummed softly in the night.

He leaned toward her, brushing a kiss against her lips—slow, warm, unhurried. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She lingered for a moment, eyes searching his, then smiled. “Good.”

And with that, she slipped out of the car and walked toward the glowing doorway of the sorority house, heels clicking on the pavement, pulse still echoing with everything she wasn’t letting herself feel.

The front sitting room of the sorority house was dim and cozy, amber light from a vintage table lamp pooling over the coffee table strewn with glossy fashion magazines and discarded mugs. The hour was late, but Talia, Bree, and Sabrina were still up, curled in loungewear with face masks half-dried and gossip still fresh.

When Regina stepped through the door, her heels soft against the hardwood, three heads turned at once.

“Someone had a night,” Bree murmured with a sly smile, peeling off her mask.

Regina smiled back, setting her handbag down gently on the entryway table. “It was... really nice.”

“Oh come on,” Talia groaned. “You don’t get picked up in a Bond car by a literal Adonis and come home looking like that without giving us some details.”

Regina tilted her head, brushing a curl behind her ear. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”

Sabrina arched her brow. “Girl, you had on gold heels and a fur jacket. There were intentions. Spill.”

She gave a soft laugh and sat on the arm of the couch, ankles crossed delicately. “He’s just… different. Old-school in a way that doesn’t feel fake. Smart, but he lets you talk. We went to this rooftop tasting thing—HauteLab?”

All three of them groaned in unison.

“I’ve been on the waitlist for six months,” Bree said, half under her breath.

Regina shrugged lightly, feigning modesty. “He knew someone.”

Talia narrowed her eyes playfully. “Is he rich or like, rich rich?”

Regina just smiled.

“Oh my god,” Sabrina whispered. “You’re not even bragging and I’m jealous.”

“That wasn’t the plan,” Regina said, lifting her shoulder. “It was just… one of those nights. Like everything lined up.”

She left it there, standing gracefully. “Anyway. I’m exhausted. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

Bree fanned herself. “You'd better.”

As she headed for the stairs, she heard Talia call her a 'lucky bitch.' Her smile widened—this night just kept getting better.

Her bedroom was dimly lit, glowing with the soft peach hue of the rose-shaped bulb in her vanity lamp. Regina closed the door behind her with a gentle click, her reflection already waiting in the full-length mirror across the room.

She stepped toward it slowly, hands sliding behind her back as she unzipped her dress. The satin corset loosened and peeled away from her skin, slipping down in a hush of silk. She let it fall to the floor.

Then her bra. Then her panties.

Bare, radiant, she stood before the mirror like a queen surveying her kingdom.

Her waist curved inward like a sculptor’s dream, skin smooth and golden. Her breasts were full, proud, high—a natural temptation. Her hips swelled softly, balanced with luscious thighs that hinted at both strength and softness. She turned slightly, admiring the lines of her silhouette, the symmetry of her shape. Every inch of her felt designed to enchant.

Her face—God, her face. High cheekbones brushed with natural rose, lips that were made for secrets, and long lashes framing wide, wicked eyes. Her hair, still damp from the pool, fell around her shoulders in radiant waves, catching the light like spun sugar.

She leaned in closer, studying the smirk on her own lips.

Why would she ever give this up?

Women envied her. Men watched her walk like she was a dream they’d never wake from. She was adored, desired, and envied in equal measure.

What had Riley been, really? Hesitant. Anxious. Forgettable.

Regina was unforgettable. She was vain. She was beautiful. She wasn’t sorry.

But as she turned from the mirror, a thread of unease pulled tight in her chest.

Chase.

The thought of him hit her hard. He’d become a beautiful woman too, but he’d been happy as a man. And now, he was so much older—losing precious years of his life. If she chose to stay Regina, if she didn’t see the Fixer on Monday, what would that mean for Chase? Would he ever get to be himself again?

Her brow knit slightly. The air in the room suddenly felt still. But what if Chase was right? What if the magic wasn't just turning him into her dad's fiance, but into her mother too? What then?

Her real mother had been gone for years—lost to an illness that took her far too young. The kind of loss that left a hollow, aching silence in its place. Riley hadn’t just loved her. She had been part of her. That laugh. That warmth. The way she could soothe everything with a hand on your cheek and a whispered, “You’re more than enough.”

She had grieved her mother like losing a piece of herself. And now...she might have a chance at having a mother again. What would it mean—to have that back? To talk with someone who could look at her with that special motherly love, offer that same comfort, that sense of home.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, her gaze locked on her own reflection. The envy of others, the attention, the beauty—it was all still hers. But suddenly, it didn’t feel as weightless as it had before. And she didn’t know what to do next.

~~~

The following morning, at the castle, Cheryl stepped into the grand breakfast salon. Sunlight poured through tall windows framed by pale gold drapes, casting warm streaks across the room. Round tables, draped in crisp white linens and set with polished silver, glowed beneath an intricate Murano glass chandelier that scattered light like stars.

She wore a soft cream silk blouse tucked into a high-waisted, dove gray pencil skirt, her feet encased in pale suede slingbacks. Her makeup was minimal but glowing, her long hair swept into a loose chignon with a few soft waves framing her face.




Mitchell was already there, waiting in a pale blue linen shirt and tailored charcoal slacks, reading something on his phone. The moment he saw her, he stood and smiled, slipping his phone into his pocket and pulling out her chair.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said, offering his arm as she approached.

"Good morning, handsome," she replied, cheeks warming from the way he looked at her.

He tucked her in gently before sitting across from her. Fresh pastries, frittatas, sliced fruit, and espresso had been laid out with the kind of effortless opulence she was growing accustomed to.

"I hope you slept well," Mitchell said, pouring her coffee with a steady hand.

"I did," Cheryl replied, folding her napkin in her lap. “Better than I have in a long time, actually.”

Mitchell reached into his blazer pocket and set a slim, velvet box next to her plate.

Her brows lifted, lips parted. “What’s this?”

“Something that reminded me of you,” he said.

She opened the box to reveal a delicate diamond tennis bracelet—round-cut stones set in platinum, glittering like morning frost.

“Mitchell…” she whispered.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said gently. “It’s not a proposal. It’s a thank-you. For last night. For trusting me.”

She swallowed back the emotion rising in her throat. “It’s beautiful.”

“So are you.”

An hour later, they lifted off from the castle’s helipad. Through the wide windows, the castle shrank into a speck, swallowed by the rolling countryside. Cheryl and Mitchell wore sleek headsets, their voices quiet and private beneath the hum. She rested a hand lightly on his knee, her bracelet catching the sun. He covered it with his own and gave a gentle squeeze.

Twenty minutes later, the helicopter touched down. Mitchell helped her out, brushing a kiss across her temple. Taking her hand, they strolled slowly as an attendant transferred their luggage to Mitchell’s car.

The moment Cheryl settled into the passenger seat, her phone buzzed.

“Ugh,” she muttered, checking the screen. “Veronica. Again.”

He arched his brow. "Trouble in paradise?"

"She's one of our mid-tier clients. Her daughter’s Bat Mitzvah isn’t for weeks, but she’s convinced disaster is imminent."

As she answered in her practiced, diplomatic tone, as Mitchell started the car.

“…Yes, Veronica. I assure you, we have the chairs secured. No, the butterflies are not going to escape before the photo op.”

She ended the call with a sigh.

“Back to reality,” she said.

He squeezed her hand. “Reality is pretty nice with you in it.”

Her smile was involuntary.

~~~

Later that day, Regina and Cheryl met up at the Sanctum, an ultra-exclusive wellness club known for its minimalist elegance and impossible waitlist. Cheryl, despite being an unpaid intern, enjoyed the perks of her boss’s elite network—access to spaces like this, where old money and new power shared eucalyptus steam rooms and crystal-sound baths.




Their private yoga session had just ended, their instructor—a serene, silver-haired guru from Nepal—bowing out silently. Now, the two women reclined on curved lounge chaises in the Relaxation Atrium, a sun-washed room scented with diffused eucalyptus and gardenia. Light harp music played beneath the sound of a softly burbling stone water feature. Between them sat a glass tray with lemon-cucumber water and cold pressed juice shots.

Cheryl wore a clay-pink yoga set, the high-waisted leggings hugging her curves, the sports bra simple yet elegant. Her hair was up again, but looser now, and the diamond bracelet still graced her wrist. Regina wore champagne-toned leggings and a matching cropped tank with gold foil accents. Her long ponytail swayed as she settled into a reclining chaise.

“So,” Regina said with a lazy grin, “should we even pretend to play it cool, or just admit our dates were amazing?”

Cheryl chuckled softly, sipping her water. “Your father was wonderful. He made me feel… cherished. Valued. It was a magical night.”

"A castle and a diamond bracelet. My dad must really like you." Regina leaned her head back. “Bradley was amazing. So charming, and attentive. The way he looked at me..." She hesitated.

"But?"

"I almost slept with him. I wanted to. Really wanted to."

“Be careful,” Cheryl cut in, her tone firm, but gentle.

Regina rolled her eyes. "We would've used protection."

“Not that kind,” Cheryl said, soft but serious. “Emotional protection. You need to be sure Bradley’s in it for the right reasons. Some guys will say anything to get what they want. And when they get it…”

“They disappear,” Regina finished, nodding slowly.

Cheryl nodded back, lips pursed. “Exactly.”

Regina gave a dry little laugh. “And yet you spent the night in a private castle with my dad.”

Just then, a young attendant approached with a tray. "Warm towels, ma’am?"

Cheryl's eyes narrowed and her face clenched.

“Excuse me,” she said, voice crisp. “It’s Ms., not ma’am. Do I look like someone’s grandmother? And this water is lukewarm. Honestly, for what this place charges, is it that hard to get things right?”

The attendant stammered. "I'm so sorry. I'll have fresh drinks—"

Regina snapped. “Why are you still here? Can’t you see we’re trying to have a conversation?”

The young woman fled.

Cheryl turned back, voice soft again. "I’m not trying to be a hypocrite. It’s just... this is different. Mitchell and I are becoming engaged, because of the wish. You and Bradley… you need to know what’s real."

Regina sighed. "You're right. I know. It just felt so good to be wanted."

Cheryl reached for her hand. "You're worth more than a moment. Make sure he knows that."

Regina smiled. "Thanks. I missed having someone like you in my life."

“Well,” she said brightly, “why don’t we have dinner tonight—me, you, Mitchell, and Bradley? Let’s see what he’s really about.”

Regina perked up. “I’d like that.”

Cheryl tapped her phone. “The Alder Room. My boss did the owner’s daughter’s wedding. We’ll get a table, no problem.”

Regina called Bradley, biting her lip in excitement when he immediately agreed.

Cheryl called Mitchell and then the restaurant, her voice full of polished confidence. “Yes, four guests at seven. Private table. Thank you.”

When it was all set, Regina leaned over and wrapped Cheryl in a hug. “I missed this. Me and my mom used to have talks like this. I just…if the wish doesn't get reversed…”

Cheryl hugged her back, her heart full. “I know what you mean. This was really good for me too.”

~~~

That night the Alder Room was glowing in the soft haze of candlelight and firelight, the golden warmth catching on crystal glassware and the polished edges of cutlery resting atop linen-covered tables. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with truffle oil and caramelized shallots, the air alive with murmurs and low laughter—intimate, elevated, restrained.

Regina, dressed in a charcoal gray cashmere-blend sheath dress, sat beside Bradley, who looked every bit the polished young gentleman—midnight blue sport coat with soft shoulders, a crisp white shirt, no tie but the top button unfastened just enough to signal ease, not rebellion. His dark hair was carefully tousled, his jaw freshly shaven. He was attentive, charming, and entirely present, though Regina could tell he felt the quiet scrutiny of Cheryl’s eyes like heat on the back of his neck.

The main courses had just arrived. Regina's dish was a delicately plated pan-roasted duck breast, resting atop wild mushroom risotto infused with black truffle, the jus poured with precision. Bradley had opted for the dry-aged ribeye, cooked rare and crusted in herbs, paired with pommes anna and charred broccolini.

Mitchell, seated across from Bradley, carved into his own venison loin with practiced elegance, but it was the dynamic between the women that subtly defined the table. Cheryl, seated across from Regina, wore her off-the-shoulder black velvet column dress like armor, and her elegance like a weapon—gorgeous, composed, and unyielding.

“So, Bradley,” Cheryl said lightly, her tone warm but edged with purpose, “Regina tells us you’re pre-law.”

Bradley offered a modest smile, setting down his knife and folding his hands loosely. “I’m hoping to specialize in public policy. My father’s the managing partner of the corporate law firm, Sinclair, Roth & Delacroix, but I’m drawn more toward government reform.”

“Public policy,” Mitchell said, nodding with interest as he reached for his wine. “That’s a noble route. Less lucrative than corporate, maybe, but arguably more impactful.”

Bradley smiled again, this time a bit wider. “That’s what I’m hoping for. And… my family may not understand it yet, but they’ll come around.”

Regina glanced at him then, pride softening her features. “They will,” she said, reaching briefly for his hand under the table. “You’re not exactly easy to resist.”

Cheryl tilted her wineglass thoughtfully, eyes lingering on Bradley for a beat longer. Something was shifting in her. Regina was clearly adored. Bradley was clearly worthy—at least so far. And Cheryl, unexpectedly, found herself softening.

Dessert arrived with a hushed ceremony: a shared crème brûlée for Cheryl and Mitchell, its golden crust freshly torched tableside, and a dark chocolate torte with espresso gelato for Regina and Bradley. The ambiance had deepened somehow. Softer lighting, lower voices, a gentle hush of intimacy cloaking the room like silk.

That’s when everything shifted.

Cheryl’s hair had transformed, now platinum and smooth, styled into a voluminous French twist, pinned flawlessly with a gold comb that sparkled faintly under the sconces. Her outfit had changed too, subtly but definitively— tailored tea-length sheath dress in deep forest green silk crepe. On her finger, an engagement ring—massive, haloed, impossible to miss.

Regina had shifted as well. Gone was the sleek ponytail and somber gray; in its place, a low twist bun and an ivory wool crepe dress that caught the candlelight like melted gold. She looked luminous, elevated.

They looked at each other, knowing that it wasn't just clothes of physical features that had changed this time. It was their connection. Cheryl was now Regina's mom.

Regina excused herself quietly and touched Cheryl’s wrist. “Powder room?”

Cheryl nodded. “Of course.”

Inside the luxuriously appointed powder room—stone countertops, linen hand towels, orchids in antique glass vases—Regina reached for Cheryl without thinking. Their arms wrapped around one another with startling tenderness.

"I have a mom,” Regina whispered, her voice breaking into a laugh. “And it’s you.”

“I didn’t know one heart could hold this much love,” Cheryl murmured, cupping her daughter’s face in both hands. “You’re my daughter. Regina. My beautiful girl.”

They hugged each other, tears glimmering, joy so bright it bordered on ache. They lingered in the embrace, silent but full of unsaid things—recognition, protection, pride. Regina pulled away only slightly to blot beneath her eyes and reapply her gloss. Cheryl refreshed her plum lipstick and adjusted her ring, catching its sparkle as she turned it gently.

Regina inhaled through her nose, stilling her hands on the vanity edge. “I just realized something.”

Cheryl waited, watching her through the mirror.

“When we walk back out there…” Regina's voice faltered slightly, her gaze falling to the floor before she gathered herself and met Cheryl’s eyes again. “Mitchell isn’t my father anymore.”




The words hung there, soft and sad. A flicker of pain crossed Cheryl’s face before she composed it into something gentler. She reached for Regina’s hand, their polished nails catching the light as their fingers intertwined.

“I know, sweetheart,” Cheryl murmured. “But remember—this is just for the weekend. On Monday, the magic will be reversed. He’ll be your father again.”

Regina’s lips parted, her throat working around a response before she whispered, “But that means you won’t be my mom anymore.”

Cheryl’s breath caught for a moment. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider that—not fully. The idea of losing this sudden, fierce maternal love tugged at something deep inside her.

She gently cupped Regina’s cheek. “Unless I stay your mom,” she said, voice low, a promise unspoken behind the words. “And if I do… Mitchell will still be your dad. Just in a different way.”

Regina blinked, processing. “You mean—my stepdad?”

Cheryl smiled through a sudden swell of emotion. “If that's what we want.”

The air between them warmed, weighted by something unspoken and immense.

Cheryl brushed a tear from the corner of Regina’s eye with a manicured thumb. “Let’s go back out there and finish this evening. We have a day and a half to make that decision.”

They clasped hands once more, then turned together toward the door, heels echoing as mother and daughter stepped back into the golden glow of the restaurant.

As they approached the table, Mitchell stood automatically—old-school and deliberate in a way that suited his bespoke charcoal blazer and quiet authority. Bradley rose too, eyes trained on Regina with that same soft reverence he’d carried all evening. His posture straightened just slightly at Cheryl’s return—respect mingled with the faintest trace of nerves.

“Everything alright?” Mitchell asked, eyes flicking to Cheryl with unconscious affection before settling on Regina.

“Lovely,” Cheryl said, resting a hand lightly on Mitchell’s forearm as he helped her back into her chair. “And I was thinking…”

She turned to Bradley, folding herself elegantly into her seat and giving him a warm, assessing smile.

“We’re hosting a dinner this Sunday evening—just family and a few close friends. Nothing too formal. You’re very welcome to join us, Bradley.”

Bradley’s eyes widened just slightly. His smile was polite, but genuine. “I’d love to. Thank you. That’s very kind of you, Ms.—”

“Cheryl,” she interjected smoothly. “Just Cheryl.”

Regina gave his hand a light squeeze under the table, her glance one of quiet appreciation.

The waiter arrived with the check discreetly tucked inside its leather folio. Before he could place it down, Mitchell plucked it from his hand without so much as a glance at the total.

“I’ll take that,” he said casually, reaching for his wallet.

Bradley straightened a little. “Please, Mr. Bennett—let me cover it.”

Mitchell didn’t even look up as he removed his black Amex and slid it into the folio with practiced ease. “Not a chance.”

“But I—”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow, amused but firm. “Bradley, I admire the offer. Really. But this is my treat. Consider it a proper welcome.”

Bradley hesitated, then gave a respectful nod, clearly not accustomed to being overruled but knowing when to yield. “Next time, then.”

Mitchell chuckled as the waiter whisked the check away. “I’ll hold you to it.”

On the way home, the car glided through the tree-lined avenues, its engine a quiet hum beneath the jazz murmuring from the sound system—something mellow and brushed with saxophone, the kind of music Mitchell always defaulted to at night. Outside, the streetlamps passed in rhythmic intervals, gilding the interior in warm pulses of gold. Cheryl sat nestled in the leather passenger seat.

She watched Mitchell drive—one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting against the gearshift with casual command. He looked good tonight. Ridiculously good. The angle of his jaw was caught in passing shadow, his profile etched in the dim glow of the dashboard like something classic and carved. He was the kind of handsome that didn’t require effort or attention. It just… was.

She smoothed a hand over her skirt, then glanced over, voice light.

“Do you know anyone who might like to come to dinner tomorrow night?” she said. "Someone really nice. Handsome. Reliable."

He glanced at her, just for a moment, one brow lifted. “For Amy?

“Yes. She deserves a good night, and I want her to feel special.”

Mitchell nodded. “I might know someone. I'll need to see if he's available.”

“I hope so. I don't want her to be the only one without a date.”

The car turned onto their street, its headlights sweeping over the familiar curve of the stone drive. Home. Their home.

Cheryl looked down at her hand, resting gently atop her clutch. The engagement ring caught the light—sharp brilliance edged in fire, flashing like a secret only she knew how to keep. Her thumb brushed across the edge of the halo, almost absently, but her eyes lingered on it.

And then she looked at Mitchell and it occurred to her that she wasn’t just engaged to him. She was in love with him.

Had Deborah felt similarly before the wish transformed her into a young man named Daniel? Riley had always suspected she’d been a gold digger—interested in one thing only: Mitchell’s money. That wasn’t true for Cheryl. Riley’s wish had seen to that. She’d wished for her dad to be with someone who truly loved him. And she did—deeply, passionately, completely.

Cheryl reached out and placed her hand on his arm. "I love you."

He squeezed her hand. "I love you too, Cheryl."

The house greeted them with a familiar hush—quiet, elegant, suffused with the subtle scent of something warm and expensive. Cedarwood and fig leaf, maybe, from the flickering candles Mitchell always kept lit near the entryway.

Mitchell brushed a hand across the small of her back before murmuring, “I’ll be in the study for a few minutes. Gonna make that call.”

She smiled and nodded, watching him head down the hall—his silhouette framed briefly by the dark oak trim of the archway before it disappeared.

Alone, Cheryl took a breath and began moving through the house. Their house.

The interior was a masterclass in restrained luxury: cool, neutral tones layered with depth and texture—linen, velvet, polished stone. The lighting was low and atmospheric, casting soft gold across the matte walls. Every room had been curated, not decorated. Nothing cluttered, but nothing cold. This was a lived-in elegance, and it was hers now too.

She passed through the sunken sitting room where the fireplace still glowed faintly, then made her way upstairs. Her fingers grazed the carved banister, the wood smooth beneath her touch. She smiled to herself.

The master suite was at the end of the hall—double doors, just barely ajar. Cheryl pushed one open and stepped inside.

The bedroom was vast but intimate. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, dressed in layers of cream and slate-gray linens, silk pillows stacked in casual perfection. There was a chaise in the corner, a vanity in front of the window, and a wall-mounted flat screen that faded into a mirrored panel when turned off.

She walked slowly toward the door of the walk-in closet and opened it.

The lights came on automatically—recessed and cool—and the closet bloomed into a boutique-like paradise. Shelves upon shelves of designer clothing, organized by color and season. Dresses hung like a gallery of silk and form. Tailored blazers, soft knits, crisp shirts—Chanel, Dior, Max Mara, Prada. Rows of drawers lined with lingerie and accessories. Velvet-lined trays glittered with jewelry. Against the back wall, a display of handbags like museum pieces, arranged by shade.

And shoes.

At least fifty pairs. Oxblood, nude, cobalt, patent, suede, glittered, woven. Louboutins, Manolos, Gianvito Rossi. An entire section devoted to boots, another to slingbacks and strappy heels. She couldn’t help the little smile that bloomed on her lips as she walked slowly past them, running her hand along the shelves like she was rediscovering a part of herself.




This was all hers now.

She turned, about to step back into the bedroom, when she heard Mitchell’s voice behind her.

“He said yes.”

Cheryl’s breath caught as she turned to face him. He stood in the doorway, his smile subtle but pleased. “John Dalton—my friend—he’s free Sunday and sounds excited to meet Amy.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, crossing the room toward him.

Her hands rested lightly on his chest, the warmth of his body radiating through the fine cotton of his shirt. She lifted herself slightly, pressing a kiss to his lips. It started sweet—grateful, affectionate.

But his hands moved to her waist, fingers splaying gently across the fabric of her dress. She leaned into him, and the kiss deepened—hungry now, his mouth coaxing hers open as his hands explored the curve of her hips, the line of her back. Her breath hitched as his lips moved down her jaw, trailing heat.

Then she pulled back just slightly, her brows lifting. There was hesitation in her eyes—something unsure but not unwilling.

Mitchell cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “Come sit,” he said softly, nodding toward the bed.

Cheryl hesitated, then slowly made her way to the edge, sitting gracefully on the side, her legs crossed at the ankle.

He knelt down in front of her.

Gently, he slipped off one heel, then the other, setting them carefully aside. His hands—strong and warm—cradled her foot as he began to massage, his thumbs pressing into the arch with practiced precision.

A low sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it. “God… that feels incredible.”

He didn’t answer, just smiled softly and continued, his fingers working up toward her ankles with patient, deliberate care.

Cheryl leaned back slowly, her palms bracing against the mattress behind her. Then, inch by inch, she let her body recline into the bed’s embrace, the plush layers beneath her molding to her shape.

After a few moments, his lips replaced his hands, brushing softly over her toes, her instep, the delicate skin of her heel. A thrill shivered through her, rising from each point of contact as he moved upward—her calf, the bend of her knee, the curve of her thigh. Her dress crept higher, gathering around her hips. By the time he reached the tender skin of her inner thigh, she was whispering his name, breathless and low. He slid her panties down, the fabric gliding over her legs, and then his mouth was on her again—kissing, tasting, his tongue deliberate and devastating. She gasped, her hands fisting the sheets, pulling them tight as if they might keep her grounded.

His hand was on his erection now, the rhythm slow and certain, keeping pace with the motion of her hips. His mouth moved with focused intent, exploring her edges before delving inward, until there was nothing but the feel of him—every flick of his tongue pulling her deeper. Her body arched, breath quickening, and she reached for him, fingers tangling in his hair, urging him closer, until he was part of her, until she was weightless.

He stroked himself in time with her rhythm, and she came first—quiet and sharp, a stifled cry as her legs tightened around him. He followed moments later, the heat of her release pulling him over the edge, his shudder answering the last of her tremors.

At last, he rested his cheek against her thigh, his breath warm on her skin. Her hand slipped from his hair, fingers trailing along his jaw in a slow, tender caress.

As her breathing began to steady, Cheryl lay still, quietly absorbing the moment. It had been her first orgasm as a woman—and it was nothing short of extraordinary. She’d experienced oral sex before, back when she was a man, and it had been good. But this… this was entirely different. Deeper. Sharper. Electric.

And if what she’d heard was true, that it could be even more intense during vaginal sex. How was that even possible?

“You’re too good to me,” she whispered.

Mitchell leaned in, brushing a kiss to her lips—unhurried, warm, more tender than the heat that had come before. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything. It just was.

She lingered there for a second before pulling away with a sigh. “I should get ready for bed,” she murmured.

“Mmm, me too,” he agreed, still watching her with that slow-burning look as she slipped out from beneath the covers.

Cheryl moved across the room with the lazy grace of a woman who knew she was being admired. She reached the foot of the bed and bent to pick up her heels, the silk of her dove-gray dress skimming her thighs as she straightened and padded barefoot into the closet. Mitchell watched her disappear behind the double doors, his eyes trailing the sway of her hips until she vanished into the glowing interior.

Inside the walk-in closet, Cheryl set her stilettos back in their place—on a shelf lined with velvet, nestled between two pairs of Louboutins and a sharp-toed pair of Saint Laurents. Then, with practiced precision, she unzipped the side of her dress and let the fine fabric slither down her body, catching at her waist before pooling at her feet.

She folded it carefully, placing it in the designated dry-clean section, then reached for a pale champagne silk nightgown that hung like a whisper on a pearl hanger. The gown was cut on the bias, trimmed with delicate lace at the bodice and hem, and when she slipped it over her head, it glided across her skin like a breath.

She moved to the vanity and began her ritual. Makeup remover, gently swept over her skin with a cotton pad, erasing the smoky liner, the shimmer, the careful mask. Her reflection grew softer, more vulnerable, more real. She twisted the cap off a jar of thick, perfumed cream—white peony and sandalwood—and began massaging it into her arms and hands, slow and circular, letting the scent and texture soothe her.

Her engagement ring caught the light as she worked the cream into her skin—its glint sharp and dazzling, grounding her in the reality that this life, this man, this house—it was all hers now. At least until Monday.

When she returned to the bedroom, Mitchell was already in bed. The blankets were pulled halfway up, his tall frame stretched against the headboard, reading glasses perched low on his nose. A linen-bound hardcover rested in his hands, and the warm lamp beside him cast golden light across his chest and forearms.

She crossed the room in smooth steps, the silk of her nightgown whispering around her thighs. She slipped under the covers beside him and nestled into his side. The warmth of his body pulled her in like gravity.

She leaned up, kissed him slow and deep.

“Thank you for tonight,” she whispered against his lips. “All of it. Especially… that final part.”

Mitchell’s smile curved lazily as he set his book down on the nightstand. “It was my pleasure,” he murmured, brushing his hand across her hip. “I love hearing you scream my name, you know.”

She sighed, a dreamy exhale, and curled her legs beneath the sheets, her fingers tracing absent shapes along his ribs. He picked the book back up, the pages rustling as he resumed reading, but she no longer cared what he was looking at.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and as Mitchell read beside her, Cheryl drifted into a deep, contented sleep—a woman in silk, in love, wrapped in a life born of accident. Peaceful, cherished, and perfectly at home.

~~~

The morning broke gently through the expansive windows of the master suite, sheer curtains diffusing the rising sun into soft gold. The quiet hum of the world beginning outside was distant, muffled by thick walls and a thick-down comforter cocooning Cheryl and Mitchell in a hush of intimacy.

She stirred first, her lashes fluttering as she turned toward the warmth beside her. Mitchell still slept, his arm heavy around her waist, the curve of his body curved instinctively around hers. She watched him for a moment—his jaw unshaven, his chest rising and falling beneath the sheet—and felt a flicker of something sweet and a certain curl in her chest.

She leaned forward and brushed a kiss against his lips—soft and slow, just enough to wake him. His eyes opened a moment later, blue-gray and still touched with sleep.

“Mmm. Morning,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep.

Cheryl smiled and stretched languidly against him. “Morning.”

They lay like that for a moment longer, savoring the warmth, the stillness. Then Mitchell rolled onto his back with a groan and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Big day?” Cheryl asked, propping herself on one elbow to look at him.

“Skeet shooting at the club. I'm taking Carter from the firm. He's earned it.’” He reached to move a curl away from her face. “You?”

She pushed back the covers and sat up, her silk nightgown cascading over her thighs. “Venue walkthrough with a bride and her mother at nine,” she said, standing and stretching as she padded barefoot across the plush rug. “Then I want to take Amy out. I was thinking about some dress shopping for the dinner party, then the salon. I want her to feel beautiful tonight.”

Mitchell was watching her with an appreciative gaze as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You two have fun.”

“I was actually going to ask you…” She paused in front of the closet door and turned, her expression a touch cautious. “Would you be okay with buying her a dress? A really nice one. She’s… she’s my sister, and I just want her to feel stunning.”

He stood, crossing the room to her with a quiet smile. “Cheryl, come on. As far as I’m concerned, it’s our money now. You have full reign. You don’t have to ask me.”

She smiled then—relieved, touched. “I know. I just… it matters to me. Thank you.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead, then turned toward the en suite. “I’m going to grab a shower before I head out.”

“Okay,” she said, trailing a finger over the edge of the vanity before glancing toward the open closet where her robe hung waiting.

But as she heard the water begin to run in the bathroom, Cheryl hesitated. A sly smile pulled at the corner of her lips.

A minute later, she padded softly into the steamy space. The shower door was already misting with warm condensation, the marble tiles glowing under the morning light spilling in through the frosted window. She could see Mitchell’s silhouette through the glass, water streaming over his shoulders from the oversized rain head above.

She opened the door, letting a curl of steam drift out into the room. He turned, surprised but not displeased.

“Well, good morning again,” he said, his tone low and teasing.

Cheryl stepped inside, her bare feet silent on the heated tile. “You’ve got a few minutes to spare, don’t you?”

His smile curved slowly. “I do.”

She reached for him, standing under the spray as warm water slid over her silk-slicked skin. “Then let’s not waste them,” she said softly.

She kissed him, making a slow descent down his chest and stomach, savoring the mix of water and skin. She slid to her knees, her eyes locked onto his as her hands moved to touch him. She paused, a quiet thrill and a touch of disbelief sparking through her. His cock was large, much larger than the one she’d had when she’d been Chase, and she was flustered at first, uncertain how to begin.

She thought back to the few blow jobs Chase had gotten from past girlfriends—carefully ignoring the ones Riley had given. Using those memories as a guide, she began with slow, deliberate kisses and soft licks along his length, her long nails lightly teasing his sensitive balls.

He stiffened even further, his breath catching as she moved her mouth along his length. Gaining confidence, she slipped the head of his cock past her lips and into her mouth, enjoying the sensation as it filled her. He began to guide her head, his hands firm but gentle, and she liked that he was directing her. His hard cock slid in and out, and she felt deliciously submissive, the newness of this making it even more exciting.

After several minutes of taking him as deep as she could, his body tensed all over, then erupted in her mouth. She had her first taste of cum, and it was heady, salty and sweet. She loved it. As more jets shot into the back of her throat, she swallowed, savoring each burst, each new wave. She let his softening cock slip from her lips, a thrill of triumph in her eyes.

He pulled her up, smiling wide, almost laughing. “That was an amazing blow job,” he said, kissing her with utter delight.

She pushed water back from her face and leaned against him, the shower’s warmth enveloping them both.

~~~

Over at the Kappa Delta Omega house Regina stirred beneath layers of blush-toned satin and silk.

Her eyes fluttered open, mascara still faintly perfect from the night before. The room stretched around her like a personal sanctuary built for royalty, not merely a student. No clutter, no mismatched dorm furniture—this was a luxury suite masquerading as campus housing. Blush velvet curtains framed tall windows, the sunlight filtered to a soft glow that kissed everything it touched. Her bed—a tufted cream velvet platform wrapped in a sheer canopy—sat like a throne in the center of the room. Above it, a delicate crystal chandelier caught the morning light and scattered it in glittering fragments across the ceiling.

A rose-and-gold robe, monogrammed with “RKR” in looping script, hung neatly on a gold valet stand beside her bed. The room smelled of peonies, citrus, and cashmere—her signature scent courtesy of a custom candle from a specialty boutique.

Regina sat up slowly, stretching her arms above her head, her champagne-blonde hair falling around her shoulders in soft, slept-in waves. She took in her surroundings with a smug little smile, savoring the aesthetic satisfaction. Her pearl-white vanity gleamed beneath a row of Hollywood bulbs, high-end cosmetics arranged like a showroom display. Chanel. Pat McGrath. La Mer. The brushes were monogrammed. The mirror was spotless.

Across from her bed, her walk-in closet stood like a shrine—open shelving lit with inset lighting displayed her outfits by color, season, and formality. It looked more like a Madison Avenue showroom than a college girl’s closet. Her shoes were arranged like trophies: Louboutins, Dior slingbacks, Balenciaga boots, Gucci platforms. Just looking at them gave her a kind of sensual joy.

Even her bulletin board was iconic. There were no mismatched tacks or cluttered corners. Instead, it displayed carefully arranged Polaroids: Regina smiling with the university dean at a gala, sipping champagne at an influencer brunch, laughing with sorority royalty beneath string lights. Pinned around them were affirmations written in gold ink: “I create my reality.” “Elegance is power.” “Never let them see you sweat.” Beneath those, her networking goals for the semester. She was always planning her next rise, always positioning herself. And she looked damn good doing it.

In the corner, two cream velvet tufted chairs flanked a round gold-accented side table scattered with fashion magazines, Vogue covers marked with neon tabs, and a single half-full Baccarat glass of rosé left from last night’s wind-down scroll through Net-a-Porter. The entire room felt like Regina herself: soft around the edges, but sharpened to a perfect point.

It was her last full day.

Tomorrow, she'd see the Fixer. The magic would be reversed. And Regina, queen of curated perfection, would vanish.

She would go back to being Riley—back to living at home with her dad, in a bedroom decorated with a lava lamp and anime posters. Back to taking a single college class with no declared major, losing hours to fantasy RPGs. Back to dating Chase, who earned minimum wage slinging pizzas. Just Riley: harmless, aimless, invisible.

Today was going to let herself be Regina, fully completely.

Bradley was taking her sailing—a private lesson, just the two of them on his thirty-five-foot sailboat. And tonight… dinner at her mother’s house. A small gathering with her aunt, her cousin, her former dad, and his former gold-digger fiancée, who was now a 22-year-old guy named Daniel.

Regina rose from bed, sliding her feet into fluffy white slippers and reaching for her silk robe. She tugged it over her shoulders and gave herself a long look in the floor-length mirror.

Today, she would be everything Riley never could. Beautiful. Entitled. Materialistic. Vain. Just like Cheryl. Her mother.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow was a world away.

~~~

Later that morning, Cheryl was with her sister Amy—who, just a week earlier, had been her mother.They were inside Maison Aurélie, one of the most exclusive designer ateliers in the city. The boutique was less a store and more a curated temple to luxury—clothes displayed like museum pieces on brass and alabaster fixtures, each hanger perfectly spaced, each item of clothing under its own light like a relic. Whispered conversations, the quiet shuffle of cashmere, and the occasional hum of champagne pouring into fluted crystal glasses were the only sounds.




Cheryl moved through the space like she belonged there—because she did.

Her tailored dove gray A-line dress skimmed her calves as she walked, the silk-linen catching the light with every step. The asymmetrical neckline gave her an air of modernity, while the cropped ivory bouclé blazer with its structured shoulders and single pearl clasp added polish and power. Forest green suede block-heeled slingbacks clicked authoritatively on the marble floor—understated in color, commanding in presence.

Her platinum blonde hair, pinned in a sleek twisted low bun, looked as if it had been arranged by the same stylist who did high-profile brides. A gold barrette caught the light when she turned her head. Her makeup—precision taupe shimmer, matte porcelain skin, a rich berry lip stain—was just bold enough to draw admiration, but never critique. Her pale blush top-handle bag rested on her arm, the epitome of controlled elegance. She looked expensive, powerful, and utterly serene.

Amy, by contrast, lingered near the front of the boutique, clearly out of her element. She was dressed nicely—pressed slacks, a simple silk blouse, and leather flats—but her clothes spoke of department store practicality, not European couture. She fidgeted with her necklace, eyes scanning the walls with an expression halfway between awe and guilt.

“I don’t think I belong in here,” Amy whispered, her voice low, uncertain. “I can’t afford anything in this store.”

Cheryl turned to her with a gentle smile—warm, but laced with steel. “Amy, today’s not about what you can afford. It’s about what I can give you.”

Amy looked as if she wanted to protest.

“Look,” Cheryl continued, closing the gap between them. “I want you to look amazing tonight. You deserve to feel beautiful—and there’s something about wearing a dress handmade that makes you know you’re beautiful.”

Amy bit her lip. “I mean… you’ve always been better at this stuff than me. Fashion, design, making people turn their heads. Even when we were kids, you were picking paint swatches and sketching outfit ideas in the margins of your homework.”

Cheryl’s smile widened, touched with sisterly fondness. “That’s because I always saw beauty in everything. Especially you. Let me show you how the right clothes make a woman glow.”

Amy hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead.”

Cheryl turned, snapped her fingers once in that subtle but commanding way, and a boutique attendant—tall, black-suited, clipboard in hand—materialized with professional speed.

“I need an upscale dinner party outfit for my sister,” Cheryl said, one hand resting lightly on Amy’s shoulder. “I want a fitted silhouette but with softness—something that evokes grace and confidence. Rich jewel tones, clean neckline. Nothing too loud. Think elegance with a whisper of sex appeal.”

She added, her voice crisp, “We’re on a tight schedule.”

The attendant nodded and immediately vanished into the back.

Within minutes, options were arrayed across a velvet-draped chaise: a deep emerald sheath dress with structured cap sleeves and a low back; an ivory silk midi with a waterfall drape and delicate embroidery at the waist; an aubergine off-the-shoulder piece with a subtle slit and jeweled neckline. Cheryl personally chose the emerald sheath—it made Amy’s eyes pop and hugged her curves like it had been sewn around her.

The shoes: black suede stilettos with a crystal ankle strap. The bag: a tiny silver clutch. The jewelry: pearl drop earrings, just enough shimmer. Amy stared at herself in the mirror, half-stunned.

“Is that… me?” she whispered.

Cheryl stepped up behind her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “That’s you, Amy. Just… elevated.”

They left the boutique with bags in hand and headed straight to La Lumière, a members-only spa discreetly nestled behind wrought-iron gates and tall bamboo hedges. Inside, the scent of jasmine and eucalyptus filled the serene, white-marble interior.

Amy melted into her plush robe like she’d been granted access to a secret world. A glass of cucumber-infused water in one hand, she followed her sister into a treatment room where hot stone massages were delivered by expertly trained hands. Then came the mani-pedis—Amy’s in a soft petal pink, Cheryl’s in a minimalist French ombré.

When the time came for hair, Amy turned to Cheryl and asked, “What do you think I should do with it?”

Cheryl looked at her appraisingly. “Pulled back. Clean. Elegant. Let them see your face. Maybe a low chignon with a side part. Something that says I may not speak first, but when I do, you’ll listen.”

Amy nodded without hesitation. “You’re the expert.”

As stylists gathered their tools and began working, Amy glanced at her sister again.

“I’m nervous about this blind date,” she admitted. “You’ve met him?”

Cheryl shook her head. “No. But I trust Mitchell’s taste. And more importantly, I trust mine. If this one doesn’t work out, I’ll set you up with someone else. I know plenty of eligible, well-dressed men who’d be lucky to take you out.”

Amy laughed, relaxing for the first time all day. “I don’t know how you do it. I’m so glad I have you.”

Cheryl reached out and gently squeezed her hand. “You’re my sister. Making you feel beautiful is the least I can do.”

By the time they left the spa—skin glowing, hair perfectly sculpted, hands delicately polished—Amy looked like someone who belonged to a different world. Cheryl had made sure of it.

In the car, Amy turned to her again. “Thank you, Cheryl. For everything. I was worried about tonight, but… I’ve never felt this confident.”

Cheryl gave her a genuine smile. “You should feel that way every day.”

~~~

It was early afternoon and the sunlight danced on the water like scattered diamonds as the sleek 35-foot sloop cut a gentle path across the cerulean surface of the bay. The wind was a steady 10 knots—ideal, Bradley had said—enough to fill the sails and let them glide without demanding too much of the rigging. It was the kind of day that made time irrelevant and the horizon feel like something you could actually touch.

Regina stood at the helm, her manicured fingers wrapped around the stainless steel wheel, her eyes locked ahead but her mind buzzing with excitement—and not just from the sailing.




Bradley moved to stand beside her, a study in easy grace and tailored athleticism. His white polo hugged his chest, and his khaki shorts revealed strong, tanned legs. He looked every inch the old-money yacht prince, but his tone was gentle and his hands never hovered too long. He was a good teacher—maybe the best Regina had ever had.

“Feel the pressure in the rudder?” he said, resting a hand lightly on her lower back, guiding her stance without making it feel like correction. “That’s the boat telling you the sails need trimming. Easiest way to check is to glance at the telltales—see them on the jib?”

Regina leaned in, nodding. “Those little ribbons?”

“Exactly. Windward one’s fluttering? That means the sail’s luffing. Tighten the sheet a little. Starboard winch, here—pull gently.”

She did, the rope cool and rough in her hands as she cranked the winch handle. The sail smoothed out with a contented snap.

“Perfect.” His grin made her stomach flutter more than the sail had. “You’re a natural.”

She laughed, faux-modest. “Maybe I just like following orders from handsome men.”

Bradley chuckled and leaned over, brushing a kiss just above her shoulder, his lips warm against her wind-chilled skin. Regina’s skin tingled beneath the cream windbreaker. She let the moment linger, then playfully nudged him with her hip.

“Back to teaching, sailor. I need to learn everything if I’m going to co-own a boat someday.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Co-own, huh?”

Regina gave him a smirk. “Well, I’m not marrying into poverty.”

Bradley burst out laughing. “Noted.”

They tacked gracefully, Regina watching closely as Bradley explained the art of balance—how to manage sail trim, helm pressure, and crew coordination to keep the boat in the groove. He talked about weather awareness, how to read the clouds and wind patterns, about apparent wind and how it differs from true wind, and how to maintain course with compass bearings while reading the subtle cues of water and wave direction. She was taking it in, all of it. Regina didn’t half-learn anything.

Especially not something this romantic.

Lunch was served from the small galley below, though they brought everything up to the deck: cold rosemary chicken sandwiches on focaccia, marinated olives, strawberries, and a wedge of triple crème brie with crackers. Regina produced two chilled bottles of Sancerre from her insulated bag—she had selected them with care, recently studied in one of her elective classes focused on wine pairings.

“This one’s got notes of flint and citrus. It should cut the fat from the cheese perfectly,” she said with exaggerated pretension, already pouring into stemless glasses. “Or so says my terrifying French professor.”

Bradley lifted his glass. “To terrifying French professors,” he said.

“To impeccable taste,” Regina countered, clinking her glass against his.

They sipped and ate in companionable ease, sprawled side by side on cushions at the bow, the sails whispering overhead and the occasional sea spray misting over their legs. The world around them was silent except for the rush of wind and water—and that strange, rich quiet that comes when everything is exactly as it should be.

And then Bradley kissed her.

It began slowly—almost tentative—but neither of them lingered in hesitation. Their lips met with a hunger, the wine, the sunlight, and the heat between them rising in perfect sync. Without a second thought, Regina climbed into his lap, her windbreaker slipping from one shoulder as her fingers tangled in his sun-warmed hair.

Bradley’s hands moved beneath the fabric with swift confidence, sending a jolt of pleasure through her as he eased the romper down, his fingers lingering, exploring. Her bra strap slid down her arm, his lips following in its wake, and the urgency between them sharpened.

She tugged at his polo, breath hitching, her hands impatient as she pulled it over his head. Pressed against him, she could feel the hard line of his erection through his shorts—and was quietly grateful for the privacy the open water allowed.

He leaned back, his eyes full of something both playful and serious. “Someone’s eager,” he said, a teasing edge in his voice.

“Shut up,” she whispered, pulling him closer, her fingers deftly undoing the button on his shorts and slipping beneath the waistband. The heat of him met her palm, and she began to stroke him—slowly, deliberately—drawing a low groan from his throat.

He buried his face in her chest, his lips trailing soft, hungry kisses across her breasts. She gasped, arching into him, caught between the cool air on her skin and the searing warmth of his mouth.

She was already wet, the awareness of it sharp and electric, and she pressed harder against his hand, his arousal pulsing more urgently beneath her touch.

She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Do you have a condom?”

He stilled, shaking his head, his expression suddenly serious. She hesitated, worrying at her lip, the want of him and the sharp twinge of fear warring inside her.

“I’ll pull out,” he said, the words rushed, but there was sincerity there, something that made her trust him.

She nodded, feeling reckless, her body awakening in a way she hadn’t known it could. “Okay.”

They were all over each other now, moving in a rhythm that felt both wild and instinctive. She gasped as he entered her, the pressure sharp and rising, her hands clutching at his shoulders for something solid.

They were nothing but skin and wind and the slow, gentle sway of the boat beneath them. The world narrowed to this—his body, her breath, the heat between them, the overwhelming now of it all.

She let him move harder, faster, her legs tightening around his waist as each thrust stole another breath. Regina arched against him, her back lifting from the deck as the pleasure surged higher, sharper—almost unbearable. She bit her lip, then his shoulder, shuddering under the weight of it, wrapped in sunlight and sensation.

He pulled out just in time, the first hot spurt catching her by surprise, his release spilling onto her stomach. His moan was low and grateful, and they both laughed as he collapsed on top of her, sticky and panting and alive. Her chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths, but her thoughts were anything but calm.

Bradley turned his head to her. “You okay?”

She nodded once. “Yeah. Just… wow.”

"You're incredible. It's so amazing being here with you," he said.

She turned her head. His words warmed her heart, but she wished he truly meant them. Today he did, but tomorrow, he wouldn’t. Not once everything reversed and she was just Riley again, unremarkable, invisible, forgotten Riley.

~~~

That evening, the soft murmur of voices floated over candlelight and the faint clink of silver on porcelain. Cheryl sat at the head of the long formal table, her manicured fingers resting lightly on a champagne flute as she let her gaze sweep over the room. Everything sparkled just so—the candle flames caught in crystal stemware, the gold accents on the plates winking beneath the chandelier’s soft diffusion. It was, she decided with satisfaction, an utterly flawless evening.

The dining room was a masterpiece of subdued opulence: white peonies and ivory roses nestled in low-cut arrangements along the center of the table, votives flickering between them like fallen stars. The service was impeccable—staff trained by her own exacting standards moved silently, almost invisibly, refilling glasses and clearing courses without ever interrupting conversation. The menu had been curated with intention: citrus-cured scallops, filet mignon with saffron risotto, and rosewater panna cotta with pistachio lace tuiles. There was no improvisation. Everything had been chosen, arranged, and executed with the kind of precision Cheryl now demanded from the world.

A week ago, this same group had been gathered in this same room, but it might as well have been another lifetime. That evening—Deborah’s evening—had been brittle, full of desperation wrapped in designer labels. Cheryl had watched it all then through different eyes. Younger eyes. Boyish, uncertain. She’d been someone else. Someone lesser.

Seven days ago, she had dined in the very same Tudor-style dining room as Chase. Twenty-one. Male. Perpetually underemployed. Perpetually underdressed. Wearing a cheap button-down that didn’t fit quite right, working shifts at Pizza Haven, and fumbling through a relationship with a directionless college girl named Riley. And now?

She leaned slightly, allowing the soft organza of her capelet to catch the light like a whisper. Cheryl. Thirty-nine. Tall, elegant, composed. Her cheekbones caught the candlelight just right. Her engagement ring sparkled like it had opinions. She’d swapped a minimum-wage paycheck for designer fittings, her pizza-stained polos for a custom ivory sheath that cost more than Chase’s entire car. And Mitchell—her Mitchell—was beside her, perfectly tuxedoed, his hand resting possessively but comfortably against the small of her back, as if reminding her with quiet certainty: I love you. I chose you.

She cast a hostess’s warm smile down the length of the table, but behind it lay calculation, sharp and watchful. Only she and her daughter, Regina, knew that anything had shifted. And the secrecy of it all was delicious.

She turned slightly to glance at Amy, seated to her right and mid-laugh at something John had just whispered in her ear. Just last week, Amy had arrived frazzled and faded—draped in a clearance sale blouse, carrying the weary energy of a woman stretched too thin. Single parent to two adult sons living at home. Middle-aged. Anxious. Her hair had been limp, her voice edged with resignation, like someone who’d grown so used to disappointment she’d forgotten she could put it down.

Tonight, Amy sat tall in a deep emerald sheath dress Cheryl had personally chosen. She looked elegant, poised, like a woman with plans and someone worth dressing for. And she did—John Dalton, seated beside her, exuding charm and wearing a vintage Cartier watch that caught the candlelight with every movement. They laughed easily, knees lightly touching beneath the linen-draped table. Her hair was swept into a loose chignon. Her lipstick stayed perfectly intact. She looked... alive.




Last week, she had been Chase’s overwhelmed mother. Now, she was Cheryl’s confident sister. She’d once hovered over Chase with judgment and exasperation. But with Cheryl, she deferred—admiring, even thriving under her influence. She’d gone from a mother of two sons to a mother of one daughter.

Laney—oh, Laney. Cheryl tilted her wine glass and watched the younger woman through the crystal’s curvature. One week ago, Laney had been Logan, star quarterback and the apple of his mother's eye. He'd been so cocky, so perfect. Now he was she, still 22, but her sharp, strong masculine edge had dulled into a dainty feminine aimlessness. A slacker. Yet, still with a strange charisma of someone who’d stopped caring just enough to become interesting.

She looked like she’d put in effort the way a cat knocks over a vase—accidentally on purpose. She was perched half on, half off her chair, her dark floral dress rumpled and worn like a costume borrowed from a thrift store musical. Her boots were scuffed, cardigan half-falling off one shoulder, and those gold barrettes in her hair—mismatched, one already sliding loose—seemed more like an accident than an accessory.

Seated beside her was her boyfriend, Daniel, slouched in a wrinkled sport coat thrown over a hoodie. She watched him reach for another roll, subtly tallying how many he’d already taken, as if he thought no one would notice. He had been Deborah—Mitchell’s glamorous, gold-digging fiancée, and hostess of last Sunday’s dinner. But that was before the wish. Before everything turned inside out. Now it was Cheryl at the head of the table. Cheryl hosting the dinner party. Cheryl wearing the diamond engagement ring that could pay off a mortgage—or three.

Cheryl’s gaze moved on to Regina, seated a few places down the long, candlelit table, her back straight, her smile effortless. Regal, radiant, impossibly polished—everything a mother might dream for her daughter. But that wasn’t the whole truth, was it?

She knew who Regina had been last week. Riley. A sweet, soft-spoken girl who thought signing up for a single intro-level college class was some monumental leap into adulthood. Who could disappear for entire weekends into the pages of fantasy novels or the winding quests of a role-playing game, her eyes bright behind unbrushed bangs, a controller in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. Riley hadn’t cared about designer shoes or structured clutches. Half the time, she hadn’t even remembered to comb her hair, and Cheryl—back when she’d been Chase—had secretly loved her for it. She’d found it endearing. Authentic.

They’d been sweethearts, not mother and daughter. They’d raided online dungeons together, binged on bad takeout, shared a clumsy, genuine sort of love that was its own kind of sanctuary from the rest of the world.

And now?

Now, Regina looked like she’d never been anyone else.

She wore a rose-blush satin gown cut to whisper against every curve, its square neckline baring just enough collarbone for confidence, not flirtation. Off-the-shoulder sleeves framed her arms as if sketched there, while a back-slit hem allowed for the glide Cheryl had taught her: move like the room was already yours.

Her champagne-blonde hair, glossy and parted sharp, was swept into a low twist, one sculpted wave falling in 1930s heiress style. Makeup balanced softness with power — rose shadows, a precise cat-eye, and a mauve lip that declared worth without raising its voice.

And the details—oh, the details made Cheryl’s heart swell. The vintage diamond studs catching firelight at her earlobes were a gift from Mitchell, who'd once been her father. And the single-strand South Sea pearl bracelet gracing Regina’s wrist? Cheryl’s own, "borrowed" without asking, as if the act of taking it confirmed the inheritance of style and stature both.

She looked radiant. Like someone who had been raised to know the difference between opulence and ostentation—and how to use both.

Regina was chatting now, effortlessly, with Bradley Sinclair. Her new boyfriend. Wealthy. Well-bred. Polished the way old money always is—nothing flashy, everything custom. The two of them looked perfect together: a tableau of privilege and potential, old world charm in modern silhouettes. Watching them, Cheryl felt a ripple of satisfaction down her spine.

But tomorrow all that would end. They'd both return to what they’d been. Regina would be Riley. And Cheryl would be Chase once more. That used to be comforting. But now…

Cheryl reached absently for her wineglass, her fingertips tracing the delicate stem, a muscle twitching in her jaw. She could barely remember what it had felt like to be a man. Not just physically, but emotionally—spiritually. The way she carried herself now, the way she spoke, the way her body moved in space—it all felt so natural, like she hadn’t transformed so much as woken up from a long, mistaken dream.

Yes, she’d fought it at first. Raged against it. Cried in private. Felt dysphoric, disoriented, alien in her own skin.

But now… now it felt right. Not like a disguise. Like a truth she had never known to ask for. But it wasn’t hers to keep. It was the magic. The damn magic. It had rewritten everything—flesh, habit, desire, memory, identity. Inside and out.

And tomorrow, it would be unwritten.

She would be Chase again. And Riley would sit beside him on her father's couch, gaming controller in hand, both of them pretending they hadn’t just lived an entire life in silk and champagne and secrets.

Right now, the idea felt devastating. But Cheryl knew—knew—that once they were back in those old lives, surrounded by the familiar and the real, they’d be happy again. Maybe not this kind of happy, not crystal-stemmed and diamond-lit. But real.

That would have to be enough.

And for now—just for this one last, glittering evening—she would let herself love her daughter with all the pride and heartbreak she could carry.

As the last bites of filet mignon were cleared from plates and the sommelier-casual wine service wound down, Cheryl rose from her chair with the effortless poise—chin slightly lifted, smile both gracious and commanding.

“We’ll be taking a short break before dessert,” she said, her voice clear and melodious. “Feel free to stretch your legs, enjoy the garden, or freshen up. We’ll resume with something sweet shortly.”

Around the long dining table, chairs scraped gently against hardwood as guests murmured appreciation and eased out of their post-dinner languor. Napkins were folded and laid atop dishes, glasses half-full of pinot left to breathe.

At the far end of the table, Daniel leaned over and nudged Laney with his elbow. “I’m gonna sneak out back for a smoke,” he said under his breath, loud enough for Cheryl to hear. “You coming?”

Laney nodded. “Of course, babe.”

As they slipped away through the French doors to the veranda, Cheryl moved to stand beside Amy, who was watching them with a mixture of fondness and maternal unease.

“I like him,” Amy said softly. “He’s good for her. Brings her out of that shell she’s been in since… everything.”

“But,” Cheryl offered gently.

Amy sighed. “But I hate that she started smoking. You know it wasn’t her thing before. Now she says it calms her down. But we both know she picked it up because of him.”

Cheryl didn’t answer. She simply touched her sister’s arm with a brief squeeze, then turned and walked toward the back doors. She lingered a moment on the threshold, hesitating as the acrid scent of cigarette smoke drifted in. Cheryl normally avoided smokers due to the foul smell, but she needed to speak with them alone.

The veranda was quiet, bathed in the warm golden light of antique sconces mounted on the brick wall. Laney sat on the ornate wrought-iron bench, legs crossed, her dress folded perfectly around her. Daniel sat next to her, cigarette dangling from his fingers, eyes fixed on the darkening trees.



“Mind if I join you?” Cheryl asked softly.




They startled slightly, then relaxed. Laney quickly put her cigarette out in the ashtray beside her. “Of course not, Aunt Cheryl.”

Cheryl smiled and stepped forward, her heels tapping quietly on the stone. “Thank you both for coming tonight,” she said, folding her hands loosely in front of her. “I know dinner parties aren’t really your scene.”

Daniel gave a half-smile and tapped his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. “Thanks for inviting us. Honestly, that steak?” He looked at her earnestly. “Best thing I’ve ever eaten. Like, no contest.”

Laney nodded, her eyes warm. “And thank you for what you did for my mom. Buying her that dress and the spa trip. I haven’t seen her that happy in... I don’t even know how long.”

Cheryl felt her heart pull, taut as a wire. “It was my pleasure.”

She wanted to say more. To invite Laney out for a day of shopping and spa treatments. To plan a whole afternoon of indulgence and laughter, just the two of them, aunt and niece. But the words stayed locked in her throat. Tomorrow she would be Chase again. And Cheryl—poised, stylish, fulfilled Cheryl—would be gone.

Instead, she moved closer to Laney, her voice quieter. “Can I ask you something? Are you happy?”

Laney blinked. “Yeah… I mean, I guess. Sure.”

Cheryl tilted her head. “If you could be someone else—just… anyone—would you want to?”

Laney frowned thoughtfully. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Cheryl said. “What if you woke up tomorrow and you were someone totally different. A quarterback, say. Six-foot-two, muscular, charming. Captain of the college football team. Could you imagine being him? Would that be something you’d like?”

There was a long pause. Laney stared ahead, her brows furrowed. “It’s weird you say that. I had a dream the other night—super vivid. I was a guy. Big. Muscles, letterman jacket. And I was a quarterback, straight A student, perfect at everything. Everyone loved me. But I wasn’t happy.”

Cheryl’s brows lifted. “No?”

“That guy I was in the dream…he was miserable.” Laney said, her voice distant. “His whole life was just… pressure. Always trying to meet his mom’s expectations. Football, weightlifting, schoolwork—no time for himself. I could feel it, like this constant squeeze in his chest. He acted like everything was great, but it was all for show. He didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I wouldn’t want that life. No way.”

Daniel exhaled a low whistle. “Okay, that is freaky. I had a dream like that too.”

Laney turned to him. “Really?”

He nodded. “I was this woman. Gorgeous, but old—like in her forties. She was engaged to some guy she didn’t love. She had everything, but she wasn’t happy either. She just kept buying stuff—clothes, jewelry, bags, like… like she was trying to fill this big empty space inside her.”

Laney raised her eyebrows. “Your dream was even stranger than mine.”

Daniel nodded. “Yeah and it felt so real. Like I was her. But I couldn’t breathe. It was like being smothered by silk.”

Cheryl was still. The silence between them stretched, delicate as spun glass.

She finally said, “I’m glad you’re both happy being yourselves.”

She rose, smoothing her skirt. “There’s a media room inside, you know. Wall-to-wall screen, the works. We have every streaming service imaginable, and probably more movies than any one family needs. You’re welcome to have your dessert there, if that sounds more fun than sitting at the table.”

Laney smiled, visibly touched. “You’re the best, Aunt Cheryl.” She stood and threw her arms around her aunt in a sudden hug.

Cheryl froze for just a second—startled by the earnest affection—then wrapped her arms around the girl and held her tightly like it might be the last time.

She reentered the house, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor as she moved to the living room, gently corralling her guests back toward the dining room. “Dessert’s ready,” she called with a warm smile, gesturing toward the flickering candles and fresh plates now laid out. “Don’t make me tempt you with crème brûlée and espresso.”

Laughter and good-natured teasing followed as the group slowly filtered back to the table. Cheryl caught sight of Mitchell standing near the bar, refilling water glasses. She smiled to herself, the warmth of the evening wrapping around her like a silk shawl.

Then—something shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic this time. No rush of vertigo or flash of color. Just a quiet, almost imperceptible tug… and then a cool weight against the side of her hand.

She looked down.

A gold band, simple and elegant, had appeared on her finger, nestled against the dazzling engagement ring she’d worn all evening. Her heart skipped. She raised her eyes to Mitchell, who was laughing at something Bradley had said. There, on his left hand, a matching band glinted under the lights.




She froze in place for a breathless second.

Married.

She and Mitchell were married. She was no longer his fiance, she was his wife.

And now that she noticed it, the memories surged—so gently, so naturally that it felt like they’d always been there. A private wedding. Just the two of them, an officiant, and Regina standing off to the side with a tearful smile. It had been intimate, understated, but beautiful. Her gown had been ivory crepe, her bouquet pale garden roses. Mitchell had cried when he saw her.

She needed to share this with someone.

“Regina,” Cheryl said, touching her daughter’s arm lightly as she passed her in the hallway. “Come with me a moment?”

They stepped into the study, the noise of the dinner guests muffled by the thick walls. Cheryl held out her left hand. “Look.”

Regina’s eyes widened. “You… you’re married?”

Cheryl nodded. “To Mitchell.” She glanced through the door, where Mitchell was helping Laney with her chair. “And he has one too.”

Regina’s brows drew together. “I remember it now. The wedding. It was small. Just us. You wore your hair up in that twisted braid thing.”

Cheryl gave a soft laugh, touched with awe. “It’s strange how it settles in like it was always true.”

Regina touched her own temple, thoughtful. “But I don’t think anything has changed for me. No new memories, besides you being married and Mitchell being my stepdad.”

Cheryl exhaled, nodding. “I’m kind of dreading going to the Fixer tomorrow. But… I think it’s the right thing. I’ll be happy once I’m Chase again. I will.”

“We still have until the meeting to change our minds,” Regina said quietly, studying her.

Cheryl turned to her. “But don’t you want to have your dad back?”

Regina hesitated. “I do,” she said. “But I also love having you as my mom.”

That struck a chord deep in Cheryl’s chest. She reached forward and brushed a strand of Regina’s hair behind her ear. “And I love having you as my daughter.”

There was a pause. Then Cheryl smiled softly, her eyes glistening.

“Before dessert gets started… I want to take a picture of you and Bradley. In front of the fireplace.”

Regina groaned, but not unkindly. “Mom, it’s not like you’re going to be able to keep the photo past tomorrow.”

“I know,” Cheryl said. “But I want it all the same.”

They returned to the living room where Bradley, mid-sip of wine, was dragged playfully into position. Regina rolled her eyes but stood beside him, her posture relaxed, one arm around his waist. The fireplace behind them cast a warm glow.




Cheryl snapped several shots on her phone, then handed it off to Regina with a smile. “Your turn. Get one of me and Mitchell.”

Mitchell stepped up beside Cheryl, his arm naturally slipping around her back, his hand resting just above her hip. They smiled, then laughed as the camera clicked. In one photo, they were forehead-to-forehead, their matching rings visible between their hands.

As the evening wound down, coats were collected, farewells exchanged. Cheryl hugged Amy tightly at the door, kissed Regina on the cheek, and thanked Bradley with a soft smile.

At last, the house was quiet again.

Upstairs, she and Mitchell moved through their nighttime ritual in comfortable silence—he folded his shirt, she unclasped her pearl earrings. The ring still felt new on her finger, and yet… it felt like it was right where it belonged.

In the soft lighting of their bedroom, Mitchell sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her with a warmth that made her breath catch.

“You were beautiful tonight,” he said.

Cheryl smiled as she slid into bed beside him. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

They kissed—slowly at first. Familiar. Tender. The kind of kiss that carried with it years of intimacy and quiet knowing. But there was something else in it tonight too. Cheryl's heightened awareness. The knowledge that this was their last night together.

Mitchell’s hand traced the curve of her back, pulling her closer. Cheryl responded in kind, her fingers brushing his collarbone, her body curving instinctively into his. The kiss deepened, their breath growing heavier as the space between them disappeared.

They moved under the covers, limbs entangled, a warmth building between them that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with love, memory, and longing. Every touch felt reverent, like they were imprinting each other with something they were afraid to lose.

She wanted this. She wanted him. She wanted to feel what it was like to be loved like this—completely, as a woman, by a man she loved. But with every heartbeat, the truth pressed against her like a weight. Tomorrow, she was supposed to stop being Cheryl. Tomorrow, she was supposed to give all of this up.

And if she made love to Mitchell tonight, if she gave in to this longing, would she even be able to go back?

Her lips lingered on his, but she pulled away. Breathless. Conflicted.

Mitchell looked at her, concern knitting into his features. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated, brushing a hand through her perfectly coiled chignon, her eyes searching his. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said softly. “I just... I have something I want to try.”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow, curious. “Something?”

A small, almost mischievous smile tugged at her lips, but it couldn’t quite disguise the vulnerability in her eyes. “Something a little different,” she said. “Just... stay with me, okay?”

“Tell me what you want.”

She took a breath, her voice a thread of desire and plea. “I want you to... to titty fuck me.”

Mitchell’s surprise melted into a chuckle, low and rough-edged. “That’s not that new.”

“But it’s been a while,” she said, her cheeks flushing.

He moved over her, straddling her waist, chuckle turning into a groan as he laid himself between her breasts. They were soft and full beneath him, her skin impossibly smooth.

She pressed her breasts together, cocooning his erection, warm and insistent. He rocked his hips, slowly at first, savoring the sensation as she massaged her nipples with her fingers. Her eyes were on him, wide and wanting. The friction built between them, his hardness sliding against her softness, her breath quickening with each thrust. He moved faster, the tip of his cock almost reaching her lips.

Cheryl parted her lips just as he thrust forward, letting the tip of his cock slip between them. She was aching for him, every nerve lit with want, but she held herself back, savoring the tension. He moved faster, and more of him filled her mouth with each motion.

She lingered for a moment, sucking gently at the head before it slipped away again, leaving a warm, wet trail between her breasts. Then he returned, and she met him with a slow sweep of her tongue along the edge of his slit—only for him to pull back once more, teasing, relentless.

She loved his taste, loved how close he was. She couldn’t wait for her gooey reward. Her nipples were hard as bullets, her pussy on fire. Then he started to cum. She let go of her breasts, bent her head forward, taking him fully into her mouth as he filled it.

He offered to give her an orgasm, but she declined, a lazy smile stretching across her lips. She just wanted him to hold her and never let her go. They lay tangled in each other, Cheryl's head resting on her husband's chest.

She listened to the slowing rhythm of his heart, and for a moment, she could almost pretend that there was no decision to make, no tomorrow waiting for her like a specter. But it was there, in the shadows of the room.

~~~

The following day, the front doorbell chimed softly, breaking the still quiet of Cheryl’s Monday morning. She’d just finished tidying the last of the crystal flutes from last night’s dinner party, her silk robe tied loosely at the waist as she moved barefoot through the foyer. Mitchell had left not ten minutes earlier, briefcase in hand, a lingering kiss still warm on her cheek.

Opening the front door, Cheryl was momentarily caught off guard by the sight of the tall, powerfully built woman standing on the front step. Sleek blonde hair in a high bun, tight-fitting black leggings and a coral racerback tank that hugged every sculpted line of her torso. Her skin glowed with health and a hint of sun.

“Morning, Mrs. Bennett!” the woman chirped, hoisting a gym bag higher on her shoulder. “Ready to sweat?”

Cheryl blinked, startled. “Oh my god. You’re my personal trainer.”

The woman grinned. “That’s right. Cassidy. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at eight.”

Cheryl forced a polite laugh, her mind still catching up. “Right. Yes. Of course. I—I lost track of time.”

“No worries at all,” Cassidy said. “I’ll set up in the gym.”

Cheryl flew upstairs, moving with a flustered energy. In the walk-in closet, she shed her robe and quickly pulled on a matching activewear set: a slate-blue compression tank and high-rise leggings with subtle gold accents, the kind of outfit that whispered luxury but performed like gear from a serious athlete. She fastened her hair into a tight ponytail using a monogrammed scrunchie, then spritzed her face with a refreshing mist. No makeup—Cassidy would sweat it off her anyway. Just a swipe of tinted lip balm and she was back downstairs, water bottle in hand.

The home gym was flooded with morning light—floor-to-ceiling windows framing manicured hedges and white roses. Cassidy already had the space prepped. Mats, kettlebells, resistance bands, a treadmill humming softly. There was a scent of eucalyptus in the air.

“All right,” Cassidy said, hands on hips. “Today’s full-body with some metabolic finishers. Let’s go, Mrs. Bennett.”

The workout was relentless. Strength circuits with dumbbells, banded glute bridges, plank shoulder taps, then a brutal series of jump squats that left Cheryl breathless. Cassidy was professional but demanding—encouraging her to push harder, count slower, hold longer.




Cheryl hated how good it felt.

Her thighs burned, her arms trembled, her core was on fire. But with every drop of sweat, she felt more grounded in her new body. Powerful. Elegant. Capable. Her 39-year-old frame wasn’t just for show—it was honed, conditioned. She didn’t just look expensive. She was expensive. Maintained, curated, polished like every other aspect of her life.

When Cassidy finally called it, Cheryl collapsed into a child’s pose on the mat, breathing heavily, hairline damp, chest rising and falling. “Well done,” Cassidy said, tossing her a cold towel. “You’re a beast, you know that?”

Cheryl smiled faintly, cheeks flushed. “Only because you make me one.”

They exchanged goodbyes, and Cheryl saw Cassidy out, her legs shaking as she climbed the stairs. Her body ached deliciously. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror—ponytail askew, cheeks pink, tank clinging to every curve. Still, she looked...glorious.

In the master bath, she peeled off the clingy clothes and stepped into the marble shower, turning the water hot. As steam filled the room, Cheryl tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

That afternoon Cheryl—effortlessly commanding even in repose—slid into the driver's seat of her metallic silver Porsche Panamera. The engine purred awake like a lion at her touch. The sunlight glinted off the sleek finish as she backed smoothly out of the circular stone-paved driveway of her home she now shared with Mitchell, her husband. Every motion was fluid, every detail considered.

She turned onto Magnolia Lane, the manicured private road that wound through the exclusive gated community. Hydrangeas and ornamental grasses rustled gently in the breeze, and the street shimmered under the late spring sun.

Then she saw it.

At the edge of the Wilcox residence—an imposing faux-French manor with gaudy lion statues and overwrought columns—two hulking plastic eyesores stared back at her. A garbage can and a recycling bin. Left out. Again.

As Cheryl coasted her Porsche to a halt by the curb, a cool smile curled at her lips.

She was the HOA president now. Memories of bylaws, neighborhood complaints, and previous warnings flickered through her mind like courtroom exhibits. The Wilcox were repeat offenders—lazy with their yard, negligent with waste disposal, fond of blaming their hired help or each other. But Cheryl had given them warnings. Plenty.

She checked her reflection in the mirror—her hair swept into a voluminous French twist, secured with a designer tortoiseshell clip—then stepped out of the Porsche with practiced ease. She adjusted her outfit: a soft blush cashmere off-shoulder sweater, neatly tucked into a structured cream leather A-line midi skirt by Max Mara. Each movement was a quiet display of grace and intention. Her suede slingbacks clicked lightly against the stone path as she approached the door. She rang the bell and waited, arms at ease, posture impeccable. Moments later, the door opened.

Mrs. Wilcox stood in the doorway, wearing an oversized monogrammed pullover and expensive lounge pants that were trying very hard to look casual. She was in her early fifties, carefully preserved with injections and barely concealed disdain.

Her mouth turned down the moment she saw Cheryl.

With a long, aggrieved sigh, she muttered, “My husband forgot to take them in before leaving for work. I’ll make sure he moves them when he gets back.”

Cheryl’s expression remained unchanged—neutral, cool, and cutting all at once.

“I’m afraid that’s not sufficient,” she said smoothly. “You’ve been notified multiple times, and the time for leniency has expired.”

Mrs. Wilcox’s jaw tensed. “Excuse me?”

“If those bins aren’t removed from view within the next five minutes,” Cheryl continued, “you’ll be required to use the HOA-designated trash site for a full month.”

Mrs. Wilcox blinked. “You can't. That site is nearly half a mile away.”

“I can. And I will,” Cheryl said, allowing a wicked smile to bloom.

A stunned silence stretched between them.

“You are evil,” Mrs. Wilcox hissed.

Cheryl’s smile didn’t falter.

Without another word, the older woman turned and stomped down her driveway. Cheryl followed her down the drive and then watched Mrs. Wilcox struggle to haul the bins up the sloped drive, one at a time. The wheels clattered against the pavers. A soft grunt escaped her lips as she dragged the second one into the garage.




Only when the doors hissed closed and the bins were out of sight did Cheryl get back in her car. She slipped behind the wheel, perfectly unbothered.

She adjusted the sunglasses, her voice low and amused as she murmured to herself, "You're welcome, neighborhood."

And with that, the Porsche pulled away in a whisper of German engineering, its metallic sheen catching the light like a mirror reflecting perfection.

When Cheryl turned the corner onto the Fixer's residential street,she spotted Regina leaning against her arctic race blue BMW M440i Convertible, the one she helped pick out earlier that year. Her daughter looked poised and radiant, as though the air around her shimmered.




“You look beautiful,” Cheryl said as she stepped out of her car.

“So do you.” Regina smiled, her expression softening. They met in the middle and hugged each other like it might be the last time.

As soon as their feet touched the front steps, the front door creaked open. The Fixer stood on the threshold, wearing a charcoal turtleneck and a silver-threaded vest. “You both look lovely,” he said warmly, stepping aside. “Come in. I’m ready when you are.”

They descended the stairs into the arcane heart of his strange, cloistered space—rich with the scent of old parchment, candle wax, and something strange and unfamiliar. Once more, they offered him their hands.

His brow furrowed.

He stared at their palms, then up into their eyes with something like confusion—no, alarm.

“There’s been... a development,” he said carefully.

Cheryl’s pulse quickened. “What kind of development?”

The Fixer’s eyes moved between them with regretful gravity. “There’s been a new addition to the equation. One of you is pregnant.”

A stunned silence followed.

Cheryl turned slowly to Regina. The girl’s eyes widened, a flush rising swiftly to her cheeks.

Regina opened her mouth. “He pulled out. I swear.”

Cheryl blinked, speechless for a moment. “That’s... no guarantee.”

Regina shrugged helplessly. “Apparently.”

Cheryl exhaled slowly, her fingers resting against her lips. The Fixer lifted a hand gently. “I cannot reverse such significant magic when a new life is hanging in the balance. I won’t—ethically or metaphysically."

Regina sat down on a stool. "So, I can't go back? I have to stay Regina? I'm okay with that, but I'm not ready to be a mom."

The Fixer said, "You wouldn't necessarily have to be the mother. Either one of you could carry the child.”

Regina looked over at her mom. "This is my burden, not hers."

Cheryl reeled inwardly. Her whole body stilled. The idea of being pregnant—truly pregnant, not a magical retrofitting but actually growing a child within her—hit her with unexpected force. She loved being Regina’s mom, but the memory of raising her was the result of magic. This... this would be real. In the moment.

Regina, on the other hand, looked caught between panic and calculation. “If I had the baby,” she murmured, “it would kind of fast-track things with Bradley. Regina Sinclair has a certain ring to it.”

The Fixer’s voice sliced gently through her daydream. “You won’t marry Bradley. Baby or not.”

Regina deflated, her expression flickering with disappointment. She wasn’t ready to be a mother—she still had nearly a year left before finishing her degree. After that, she wanted to build a career, not raise a child by herself.

Cheryl’s eyes lingered on her daughter, her heart tangled in knots. “I could carry the baby,” she offered quietly. “But that would mean you don’t get your father back.”

The Fixer studied her for a moment, then said, “That’s not necessarily true. Regina was originally Mitchell’s daughter. The magic already reshaped her to become your daughter. I can finalize that path—make you both her parents. You would remain as you are, but with Mitchell as Regina’s father.”

“And the baby?” Cheryl asked, her voice small but steady.

“I can shift its origin,” the Fixer replied. “Make Mitchell the father. But... you’ll need to act quickly. Within the hour. Insemination must be intentional and physical. It'll seal the magical matrix to the biological pattern.”

Cheryl swallowed hard. She looked at Regina, who was watching her silently now.

They didn’t speak. Not at first.

Then Regina stepped forward and touched her mother’s hand. “I want you to be happy,” she said softly. “Even if that means not going back.”

“I want you to be happy too,” Cheryl said, her voice thick with emotion. “And maybe... maybe this is our second chance. A real one.”

The Fixer stood patiently as they both turned to him.

“We want to stay as we are,” Cheryl said at last.

Regina nodded in agreement.

The Fixer gave a satisfied nod. “Very well. There’s still a bit of credit in your ledger. A few minor alterations can still be arranged.”

Cheryl glanced at Regina and smiled, her thoughts suddenly teeming with small wishes. A few last finishing touches on this new life they had chosen.

“Let’s make a list,” she said, and for the first time all day, she laughed.

A few minutes later, Cheryl and Regina stood side by side before a low altar of polished obsidian. On its surface lay a single silver bowl filled with water that shimmered like liquid mercury. The Fixer moved silently around the women, murmuring in a language that pressed at the edge of understanding. The air was thick, humming with ancient resonance.

He gestured for them to hold hands, and they obeyed. His fingers, cool and dry, hovered above theirs, and then—touched.

A wind rose, though no door had opened. It swept Cheryl’s skirt against her calves, like the breath of a passing spirit. The silver bowl shimmered, then began to emit a faint chime, like struck crystal. Cheryl felt the magic rise—slow and swelling—moving not over her skin, but through it. It reached deep into her, down to the blood, the womb, the marrow.

She gasped softly. Not in pain—but in recognition. Her body knew what was happening. The Fixer’s voice became louder, resonant.

“Her life is sealed. The path is set. The vessel is prepared.”

Regina staggered, her knees wobbling. Cheryl immediately reached for her. “Sweetheart—”

Regina’s eyes fluttered. “I—just give me a sec,” she said faintly.

Cheryl guided her gently to a nearby stool, weathered oak, polished smooth by years of use. Regina sat, shoulders hunched, one hand on her temple.

The Fixer gave a slight nod, composed. “It’s all right. She’s receiving the shape of her new life.”

Regina blinked, dazed, her eyes unfocused for a moment as though she were watching something flickering on the inside of her eyelids.

“Will she… remember being Riley?” Cheryl asked gently, brushing a hand over her daughter’s shoulder.

“Yes,” the Fixer said. “But only faintly. Like a film she once loved. Something she might recall scenes from, lines of dialogue, emotions—but it will feel distant. Warm, even nostalgic. But no longer hers.”

Regina inhaled deeply. Then, slowly, her gaze sharpened.

“I… I remember growing up as Regina,” she said, voice tinged with wonder. “I remember ballet recitals. That awful purple bedroom wallpaper I swore I loved at age seven. The weekend trip to Marrakech when I got food poisoning but still insisted on taking endless selfies.”

Cheryl laughed, covering her mouth with her hand, a tear slipping free. “You were always a handful.”

Regina smiled. “I’m the sorority house president of Kappa Delta Omega. We’re going to crush this year. I want us to be the best—not just on campus, but nationally. I’ve got a fundraising gala idea that’s going to blow the alumni board’s pearls off.”

Cheryl laughed, shaking her head in admiration. “That’s my girl.”

Regina rolled her eyes a little and added, “And I’m done with Bradley. I mean, seriously. That guy’s idea of romance is a trust fund and a vacation itinerary.”

“I thought you liked the trust fund,” Cheryl said, teasing gently.

“I am the trust fund now,” Regina smirked. “I’ve got everything I need. I’ve got ambition, I’ve got access, I’ve got cheekbones... and I’ve got you. And Dad.”

Cheryl smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind Regina’s ear. “Yes. You’ve got us.”

Regina cocked her head. “I still want to find a husband—but I want what you and Dad have. Someone who loves me for who I am, and someone I can truly love back. Someone who makes me laugh and sticks around through everything. And I plan to have a lot of fun looking for him. I’ll date every guy on campus if I have to—well, the cute ones at least.”

Cheryl laughed and then turned to the Fixer. "What about me? When will I receive the shape of my new life?"

The Fixer stepped back, folding his hands. "Later today, once you've completed your task."

Cheryl reached to help Regina up. Her daughter rose with a new steadiness, glowing with the quiet confidence of someone reborn not through fire—but through love and choice.

Together, they turned toward the stairs. When they stepped out of the Fixer’s home, the door closed softly behind them. The sunlight had shifted—late afternoon casting amber streaks across the quiet, manicured street. They were quiet at first, fingers intertwined like two parts of one whole, their faces touched with the fragility of newfound certainty.

At the curb, they paused and embraced again, a long, tight hug full of unspoken emotions. When they pulled apart, Cheryl gave a small, approving nod, and they both smiled—mother and daughter now by choice, not just by magic.

Their cars waited nearby.

Regina slid into her BMW convertible, slipping on her sunglasses with a sigh of satisfaction. Cheryl, however, stopped short at the curb. Her car had changed. No longer the Panamera she remembered.

Now it was a Mercedes-Maybach S680, a vision of opulence with the rubellite red body and kalahari gold top, its chrome gleaming like wet ink in the sun. The license plate, “CHRL”, glittered like a monogram on a signature handbag. The passenger door was already being held open by a stoic man in his mid-twenties. Just behind him stood a poised woman in a tailored slate-gray pantsuit, a tablet in hand. Her chestnut hair was swept into a sleek low twist, every detail of her appearance sharp and deliberate.




As soon as Cheryl was seated, the door shut with a muffled thunk. The young man got behind the wheel and the car pulled away with buttery silence.

“Any messages, Madison?” Cheryl asked, the woman's name suddenly coming to her. Madison Peterson was her personal assistant and Jeffery Dolandson was the name of her driver.

“Two event requests, Mrs. Bennet," Madison replied crisply. "One from Veronica DeLuca—she wants you to coordinate a birthday party for her step-twins. Club L’Azur. Mid-June.”

Cheryl made a face. “Tell her I’m flattered, but I’ve aged out of glitter gel and LED cupcakes.”

“Understood,” Madison replied. “The second is from Celeste Fontaine. It’s a launch event for her fragrance, Étreinte."

Cheryl’s eyes flicked toward the assistant with sharp interest. "Tell me more."

"Tentative date: July 8th. Location: Villa Belmara in the Hollywood Hills. Estimated budget is $750,000, potentially more depending on talent. Confirmed guests so far include Harper Lang, Lior Lazari, Senator Wilkes, and—possibly—Viola Grace, pending travel arrangements.”

Cheryl smiled. “That’s more like it. Tell her I’m in. Full creative control, and I want direct contact with her head of brand.”

“Email is already drafted,” Madison said with a nod.

“Good. Now…” Cheryl looked out the window, then back. “I want to do something special with my niece Laney, something to help us bond. I'd take her to the spa, but that isn't her thing. She's a bit introverted."

Madison said, "I'll work up a list of ideas."

"Excellent. Call Mitchell’s office. I need to see my husband. Immediately.”

Madison placed a quick call. A short exchange later, she turned with the smooth caution of someone delivering bad news to a volcano. “His assistant says he’s in back-to-back meetings for the next three hours. You can be squeezed in after that.”

Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “Tell his secretary the only thing I squeeze into is a corset. And if she doesn’t find room in his schedule immediately, she might want to start polishing her résumé.”

Madison gave a single nod. “Done.”

Minutes later, the Maybach eased to a halt in front of Mitchell’s building—a modernist tower of glass and steel that gleamed like a blade in the late-day light.

Jeffery opened Cheryl’s door, and she stepped out with practiced grace. Her heels tapped a crisp rhythm as she walked—ivory snakeskin mules with a tiny gold heel that caught the sun in flashes.

Inside, the lobby quieted around her. Receptionists sat straighter. Executives nodded deferentially. She didn’t need a badge. Everyone at Bennett Strategies Group knew Mrs. Cheryl Bennett. She entered the private elevator and rode in silence to the top floor, watching her reflection in the mirrored panels: polished, powerful, untouchable.

The doors opened onto Mitchell’s executive suite. His administrative assistant looked up from her desk, a little startled.

“Mrs. Bennett, your husband on a call overseas.”

Cheryl swept past her.

As soon as she entered his office and closed the door, she walked to each window and closed the automated blinds. The room darkened gradually as if preparing for something intimate, or inevitable.

Mitchell stood behind his desk, his eyes following his wife.“Yes… alright. That sounds great. Look, can we break here?" He paused. "Yes, let's talk again tomorrow—thank you.” He removed his headset. “Cheryl. What’s this?”

She walked over slowly, stopping just in front of him. She grabbed his tie and pulled him into a long, deep kiss.

“I have something to ask,” she said as the kiss ended, voice lower now, rich with intent. “Something personal.”

“I’m listening,” he said, studying her.

Her gaze held his. “If I told you I wanted another child… would you want that too?”

His brows raised. “You always said no before. Too much going on.”

Cheryl tilted her head. “Things change. I’ve changed.”

There was a silence, thick with the possibility.

He searched her expression, trying to read her. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “I would love that. But you’d be doing all the work…for the first nine months at least.”

“I’m aware,” she said. Her fingers curled around his tie. “I want to start trying… immediately.”

Mitchell’s mouth twitched into a half-smile. “Here? Are you serious?”

Cheryl perched on the edge of his desk, her eyes locked on his. With deliberate ease, she slid the hem of her sleek cream leather skirt higher.

“Right here,” she whispered. “Right now.”




Their kiss was urgent—consuming. His hands fumbled at his belt as she eased her panties down, letting them fall to the floor. His pants dropped, and they were pressed together, her legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him in. She gasped as he entered her, the sensation full and breathtaking

She held him close, arms around his shoulders, her body moving in rhythm with his. It was a quiet frenzy, heat building between them as the desk beneath her rocked gently. She bit her lip to stay silent, overwhelmed by the closeness, the rush, the deep pull of wanting and being wanted.

Every movement sent shivers through her. The walls around them could have vanished—nothing outside this moment mattered. She was with him, fully, completely—not just a memory shaped by magic, but something real, something earned. She was his. And he was hers. She was a woman, wholly and completely.

She felt him stiffen and then pulse inside her. The heat, the suddenness of his release threw her over the edge. She bit down, hard, on her tongue, the pleasure flooding her, intense and sweet. She clung to him, heart racing, filled with warmth and something deeper—joy, satisfaction, the giddy awe of having truly become herself.

They stayed in the embrace, breathing against each other’s skin, until the quiet settled back around them. Cheryl unwound herself slowly and smoothed her skirt, her cheeks flushed and her pulse still racing.

Then her breath caught. Her brow pinched slightly, and she leaned forward, one hand bracing against the edge of the desk.

“Cheryl?” Mitchell said, instantly alert. He moved to her side as her body wavered.

“I—I’m just a little dizzy,” she whispered, the room turning counter-clockwise around her.

“Okay. Sit down,” he said, gently guiding her down into the supple leather of his office chair.

She barely registered his hands as he helped her, her mind suddenly tearing open to a flood of sensation and memory—like a dam shattering under the weight of all that had been rewired, rewritten, reborn.

A crash of images surged through her and she remembered. She remembered it all

She remembered being a girl, in pigtails and Mary Janes, chasing fireflies in a sundress with lace trim. Her first kiss, shy and giggling behind the gym, the scent of cherry lip gloss clinging to memory. Prom night, in a gown of silver satin and trembling heels, unsure and full of secret dreams. Meeting Mitchell, magnetic and kind, with eyes that seemed to understand her even then. Their wedding—a lavish affair nearly 25 years ago at First Trinity Church, white roses everywhere, the cathedral filled with friends, family and love.

Then—Pregnancy. The terrifying, miraculous stretch of it. Her belly rounding, swelling with life. The flutter of kicks. The nights spent curled around her unborn daughter like a secret only she could hold.

And then—Regina’s birth. A scream and a cry, a blur of sweat and tears, and then Mitchell’s voice trembling with joy as he held their daughter for the first time.

Breastfeeding at 3 a.m., exhausted and euphoric. First words: “Mama.” First steps: wobbly and bold.

Taking Regina to the salon for the first time, the stylist praised her curls as mother and daughter beamed in the mirror. Helping her buy her first bra, neither of them knowing who was more nervous. At her high school graduation, Cheryl crying in a designer dress and clutching tissues that clashed with her clutch.

She remembered building her event planning empire, one high-profile gala at a time, spinning elegance out of chaos. Buying their home, a modern colonial with wisteria-wrapped fencing and the best porch on the block. Becoming HOA President had been a landslide—and every year after, she won again. The rule-breakers loathed her; the property-value hawks adored her. But neither could deny that Cheryl Bennett had transformed the neighborhood into something worth bragging about.

And with all those memories came something else. A feeling, slow and certain.

She touched her abdomen, breath catching. Her palm rested against the soft blush cashmere just above the waistband of her skirt. She knew. She was pregnant. With Mitchell’s child, again. The awareness settled into her body like it had always been there. Not a shock—but a return.

She sat up straighter, pressing her hand against her chest to calm her breath. Mitchell watched her with quiet concern, still hovering beside her, shirt half-untucked, tie crooked.

“I’m fine,” she said softly as she stood, smoothing her skirt, straightening her blouse. Her voice gained steadiness with every word. “I’m more than fine.”

Mitchell arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

She said, pulling her lipstick from her handwoven Loro Piana satchel. “I want to go to Rive Noire tonight.”

Mitchell let out a low laugh. “Rive Noire? Cheryl, that place has a waitlist three months long. We’ll never—”

She cut him off with a smirk. “Nicolette Durant owes me a favor—and if she wants me to plan her other daughter’s couture wedding, she’ll make sure we have a table tonight.”

Mitchell smiled, slipping a hand around her waist, his other reaching for hers. “You’re unstoppable.”

“Obviously.”

They kissed—warm, lingering, certain.

Then Cheryl turned, stepping into her heels with purpose. She walked out of Mitchell’s office, past the stunned assistant, through the corridors where people glanced up, smiled and got out of her way.

She stepped back into the elevator and descended with grace. Outside, the Maybach awaited. Jeffery stood poised. Madison was pulling up emails on her tablet.

And Cheryl Bennett walked forward—into the rest of her life.

The End