Scenario:Chapter 1 "Dad, can we try to meet some of the players?" Tyler Matthews asked, eyes bright with excitement despite the disappointing outcome for his Minnesota Timberwolves. The Miami Heat had just defeated them 108-96, and the arena was starting to empty. Mark Matthews adjusted his black-framed glasses and checked his watch. "I don't know, Ty. It's getting late, and your mom will be wondering how the game went." He smoothed down his dark green polo shirt with the NBA logo on the chest pocket. As an accountant for a mid-sized firm in Minneapolis, he rarely splurged on anything, but he'd made an exception for this official merchandise when he'd bought the tickets. "Come on! We have great seats. Don't you want to see if we can meet a couple players? There's Carter. He was unbelievable tonight." Tyler was already gathering his things, clearly not taking no for an answer. Mark sighed, knowing he'd already lost this battle. "Alright, fine. But just for a few minutes." As they made their way down toward the players' tunnel, Mark took in the atmosphere of the arena. The red seats were emptying quickly, but there was still a buzz in the air. This game had been Mark's idea—a father-son weekend to celebrate Tyler's successful sophomore year at the University of Minnesota. Basketball had always been their thing, even when Tyler had outgrown most of their other shared interests. Mark Matthews was the definition of practical. At forty-three, he'd been working at the same accounting firm for sixteen years, packed the same turkey sandwich for lunch every day, and could recite tax codes from memory. His jeans and black belt were from the Kohl's sale rack. His most exciting hobby was fantasy basketball, where he applied his analytical skills to player statistics rather than tax brackets. They reached the lower level and joined a small crowd of fans hoping to catch a glimpse of the players exiting. Security guards maintained a respectful distance, allowing just enough access for brief interactions. "This is so cool," Tyler said, craning his neck. "Do you think Carter will come out this way? He was unstoppable tonight." "Twenty-eight points, eleven rebounds, and four blocks," Mark recited automatically. "His efficiency rating is remarkable." Tyler groaned. "Dad, nobody cares about efficiency ratings except you." "The analytics department does," Mark countered with a small smile. "Numbers tell the real story of the game, Ty." Before Tyler could respond, the doors opened, and several players emerged. The small crowd surged forward, and Tyler grabbed his father's arm, pulling him along. "There he is! Dad, it's Carter!" Sure enough, Marquavius Carter was making his way through, towering above everyone at 6'6". Despite having just played forty minutes of professional basketball, he looked fresh in a custom tailored blue suit that probably cost more than Mark's monthly mortgage payment. Tyler thrust his program forward. "Mr. Carter! Can I get an autograph?" The basketball star paused, flashing a smile that explained why he had so many endorsement deals. "Sure thing, young blood." He took the offered program and glanced around. "Anybody got a pen?" Mark instinctively reached into his pocket. As a numbers guy, he always carried a pen—force of habit from years of jotting down calculations and notes. "Here," he offered, holding out a standard ballpoint. "Thanks, man." Carter took the pen, his massive hand dwarfing the writing instrument. "You were incredible tonight," Tyler gushed as Carter signed. "That alley-oop in the third quarter was insane!" Carter chuckled. "Appreciate that. You play?" "Just intramurals at Minnesota," Tyler admitted. "Good school," Carter nodded, finishing his signature with a flourish. As he handed the program back to Tyler, the pen slipped slightly in his grip. Both Mark and Carter reached for it simultaneously—Mark to save his pen from falling, Carter to prevent a fumble. Their fingers connected on the pen's barrel. A strange, electric sensation shot through Mark's hand and up his arm. It wasn't painful, exactly, but intense—like touching a live wire wrapped in velvet. His vision blurred momentarily, and he felt oddly light-headed. The sensation was gone as quickly as it had come, but it left behind a lingering warmth in his fingertips. "Whoa," Carter said, shaking his hand slightly. "Static electricity in here is crazy." He seemed to have felt something too, though clearly not with the same intensity as Mark. "Y-yeah," Mark stammered, accepting the pen back. His fingers still tingled where they had touched Carter's. "Thanks for the autograph. My son's a huge fan." Carter nodded, already moving on to the next eager fan. "No problem, man." Tyler turned to his father, clutching the signed program. "That was AWESOME! Did you see how cool he was? And he asked if I played!" "Yeah, that was… something," Mark replied, still feeling strangely disoriented. He slipped the pen back into his pocket, trying to shake off the unusual sensation. "You okay, Dad? You look weird." "I'm fine," Mark assured him, though he wasn't entirely convinced. "Probably just tired. It's been a long day." He checked his watch again. "We should head back to the hotel. Your mom will want a full report on the game." As they made their way toward the exit, Tyler continued to chatter excitedly about the encounter, but Mark's mind was elsewhere. The tingling in his fingers had subsided, but he felt… different somehow. Probably just the excitement of the moment, he told himself. "Hey, can we grab something to eat?" Tyler asked as they reached the parking garage. "I'm starving." "Sure," Mark said, fishing his rental car keys from his pocket. The Honda Accord beeped as he unlocked it. "I saw a place near our hotel that looked decent." "As long as it's not another sports bar," Tyler laughed. "I think we've had enough basketball for one night." Mark smiled as he started the car. "Fair enough." As they pulled out of the parking garage and into the Minnesota night, Mark glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked the same as always—same glasses, same slightly receding hairline, same face he'd seen every morning for decades. Just another night with his son, he thought. The Timberwolves had lost, but the trip had been worth it for Tyler's excitement alone. Tomorrow he'd be back at his desk, working on the Johnson tax audit. "Dad, do you think we could come back for another game this season?" Tyler asked as they merged onto the highway. "Maybe," Mark replied. "We'll see." Chapter 2 The alarm blared at 6:15 AM, same as every weekday for the past fifteen years. Mark Matthews rolled over, silencing it with practiced precision. The master bedroom was still dark, Minnesota's November mornings offering little natural light at this hour. "Mom calling this morning?" his wife Susan mumbled into her pillow. "First Tuesday of the month," Mark confirmed, already mentally reviewing his mother's financial statements. As the family accountant – professionally and personally – he managed her retirement accounts with the same meticulous attention he gave his clients at Thompson & Miller Financial. He shuffled to the bathroom, flicking on the harsh fluorescent lights. The face that greeted him in the mirror was unremarkable – thinning brown hair that resisted his attempts to style it, black-framed glasses perched on a nose that had been broken during his one ill-advised attempt at basketball in college, and the beginnings of a double chin despite his twice-weekly treadmill sessions at Planet Fitness. "Another day," he muttered to himself, reaching for his toothbrush. But as he went through his morning routine, something felt… different. His thoughts kept drifting to last night's game. Not to the Timberwolves' disappointing loss or the statistics he normally memorized, but to Marquavius Carter himself. Those shoulders. The way he moved through defenders like they were standing still. Mark shook his head, confused by the direction of his thoughts. He'd always appreciated athletic ability from a statistical perspective, not… whatever this was. Downstairs, he prepared breakfast for Tyler, who was staying with them during fall break. "Morning, Dad," Tyler mumbled, appearing in basketball shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt. "Morning. Eggs are almost ready," Mark replied, unconsciously straightening his dark green polo shirt. He'd ironed it meticulously last night after returning from the game. "You were pretty quiet on the drive home yesterday," Tyler noted, pouring himself orange juice. "Still bummed about the Heat winning?" "No, just… thinking," Mark replied, unable to explain the strange sensation that had lingered after their encounter with Marquavius Carter. "It was cool meeting him, though." "Yeah, he was actually nice. Some players just sign and move on, but he seemed cool." Tyler scrolled through his phone. "He just posted highlights from last night. Dude's a beast." Mark felt an unexpected flutter of excitement. "Let me see." Tyler raised an eyebrow but handed over his phone. On screen, Marquavius Carter dominated – driving to the basket, posterizing defenders, celebrating with that confident smile that seemed to light up the entire arena. "Dad, you're staring," Tyler said, reclaiming his phone. "Didn't know you were such a Carter fanboy." "I'm not," Mark protested, suddenly feeling warm. "Just… appreciating good basketball." Susan appeared in the kitchen, already dressed for her job at the elementary school library. "Don't forget dinner with the Petersons tonight," she reminded him, kissing his cheek. "Church fundraising committee." Mark nodded, though for the first time in memory, he had to force himself to care about the upcoming discussion of the youth group's annual car wash. His thoughts kept drifting back to the moment in the arena – the electric jolt when his fingers had brushed against Marquavius Carter's on the pen. "Your hair looks different," Susan commented, studying him over her coffee mug. "What? No, same as always." Mark self-consciously ran a hand through it. "Hmm. Must be the light." She shrugged. "Don't work too late. Petersons at seven." After breakfast, Mark collected his briefcase and the lunch he'd packed the night before (turkey sandwich, apple, yogurt – same as every Tuesday). The November chill bit through his sensible wool coat as he scraped frost from his Honda Accord's windshield. On the drive to work, he turned on ESPN Radio instead of his usual NPR. The hosts were discussing last night's game, specifically Marquavius Carter's performance. "Carter's looking at a max contract extension if he keeps this up," one commentator said. "Twenty-eight points, eleven rebounds, four blocks – the man's a walking double-double with defensive presence." Mark found himself smiling at the statistics, mentally calculating Carter's player efficiency rating. His fingers tingled slightly where they gripped the steering wheel – the same fingers that had touched the pen, touched Carter's hand. He has beautiful hands for someone so powerful. Strong but elegant. The thought blindsided him. Mark Matthews had never described anything as "elegant" in his life, let alone another man's hands. He switched to NPR, where a detailed discussion of municipal bonds should have calmed his scattered thoughts. It didn't. By the time he arrived at Thompson & Miller's modest offices in the suburban office park, Mark had heard three separate radio segments about Marquavius Carter and had inexplicably memorized the player's Instagram handle. "Morning, Mark!" called Debbie from reception. "How was the game?" "Good. Fine." He hurried toward his office, not wanting to discuss it further. His sanctuary – a 10x12 space with beige walls and practical furniture – offered little comfort today. Mark sat at his desk, booting up his computer while arranging his pens in perfect alignment. The Johnson tax audit awaited his attention, but Mark found himself opening a browser and typing "Marquavius Carter career highlights." Videos filled the screen – Carter dominating the paint, Carter at press conferences, Carter in designer suits at charity events. "What am I doing?" Mark whispered, closing the browser in shame. He never wasted work time on personal browsing. When his office phone rang, he jumped. "Matthews," he answered crisply. "It's Mom," came the familiar voice. "Ready to go over my statements?" "Of course." Mark pulled up the spreadsheet he'd prepared, grateful for the familiar territory of depreciation schedules and dividend reinvestments. But as he explained the minor adjustments to her portfolio, his mind kept wandering. What cologne had Carter been wearing? Something expensive, certainly. And how did his hands remain so smooth after handling basketballs constantly? "Mark? Are you listening?" His mother's voice cut through his reverie. "Sorry, Mom. Distracted. The Johnson audit is complicated." After the call, Mark tried to focus on work, but found himself constantly fidgeting. His shirt felt oddly constrictive across his chest. His jeans seemed to sit differently on his hips. When he went to the break room for coffee, he caught himself checking his reflection in the microwave door. Do my eyes look different? At lunch, instead of eating his prepared sandwich at his desk while reading accounting journals, Mark found himself walking to the small plaza near the office. He sat on a bench, watching people pass by, evaluating their clothes with an unexpected critical eye. That blazer is at least one size too large. Those shoes don't match that belt at all. Where were these thoughts coming from? Mark had worn the same brands from the same department store for fifteen years. He couldn't name a designer if his tax refund depended on it. Yet here he was, silently judging the fashion choices of strangers while his turkey sandwich remained untouched. His phone buzzed with a text from Susan: "Don't forget to pick up rolls for tonight." Mark stared at the message, suddenly irritated by its mundane nature. Dinner with the Petersons. Church fundraising. Rolls from the grocery store. Is this really my life? The thought was so foreign, so unlike him, that Mark physically shook his head as if to dislodge it. He'd always been content with his predictable existence. Hadn't he? Back at his desk, he forced himself to focus on the Johnson audit. Numbers had always been his sanctuary, their unchanging logic a comfort. But today, even spreadsheets couldn't hold his attention. When the clock finally hit 5:30, Mark packed up mechanically. The grocery store was on his way home, a standard stop every Tuesday to replenish their weekly essentials. Yet today, he found himself lingering in aisles he normally bypassed – men's grooming products, high-end snacks, the magazine section where sports publications dominated. He picked up a glossy NBA magazine, Marquavius Carter's powerful form frozen mid-dunk on the cover. The sight sent an involuntary shiver through him. Without thinking, he added it to his cart alongside the dinner rolls. At home, while Susan changed for dinner, Mark found himself in their bathroom, studying his reflection with unprecedented intensity. Had his hair always had those lighter highlights? Were his lashes always this long? He leaned closer, noticing that the perpetual bags under his eyes seemed… less pronounced. "Mark? We need to leave in ten," Susan called. "Coming," he responded, reluctantly tearing himself away from the mirror. During dinner with the Petersons – four hours of pot roast and detailed planning for the youth group fundraiser – Mark nodded at all the right moments while his mind kept returning to the strange electric feeling when he'd touched the fountain pen alongside Marquavius Carter. To the lingering warmth that had spread up his arm and settled somewhere in his chest. "Mark has the budget projections all worked out, don't you, honey?" Susan's voice brought him back to the present. "Yes, of course," he answered automatically, though he hadn't given the church budget a single thought all day. Later that night, as Susan slept beside him, Mark found himself reaching for his phone. Before he could question why, he'd opened Instagram and searched for @MarquaviusCarter23. The player's verified profile appeared, filled with images of basketball games, expensive cars, designer clothes, and charity events. Mark had never followed celebrities on social media. His Instagram account existed solely to view photos of his nieces and nephews. Yet his thumb hovered over the "Follow" button, then pressed it before he could reconsider. He scrolled through Carter's feed, absorbing images of a life so different from his own – courtside celebrations, private jets, Miami beach parties. In one photo, Carter stood beside a stunning woman in a skintight dress, her blonde hair cascading over bronzed shoulders, her lips pursed in a practiced pout. Something stirred in Mark's chest – not jealousy, exactly, but a strange, unfamiliar longing. What would it be like to be her? To be beside him, part of that world? The thought was so absurd, so completely alien to everything Mark Matthews had ever been, that he nearly dropped his phone. He quickly closed the app and set the device aside, heart racing. "What is happening to me?" he whispered into the darkness. Chapter 3 Mark adjusted his tie in the hallway mirror, frowning at his reflection. The navy blue Brooks Brothers tie—purchased on sale three years ago—suddenly seemed dull against his light blue oxford shirt. For the first time in recent memory, he felt strangely dissatisfied with his appearance. "Everyone ready?" Susan called from the kitchen. "Pastor Williams specifically asked if you'd have the quarterly donation numbers ready to present today." "All printed and in my folder," Mark replied, still studying his reflection. Had his eyebrows always been that uneven? And was his skin looking… clearer? The persistent stress pimple on his chin had completely vanished, and there was an unusual smoothness to his complexion. "Dad, we're going to be late," Tyler complained, already heading for the door. "Again." Mark tore himself away from the mirror and gathered his briefcase. As church treasurer for the past eight years, he took his responsibilities seriously—tracking donations, managing the building fund, and providing transparent financial updates to the congregation. Numbers were comfortable. Numbers made sense. In the car, Susan reviewed the week's schedule while Mark drove, nodding at appropriate intervals. Soccer practice for their daughter Emma, Tyler's college application deadlines, the neighborhood association meeting where Mark was scheduled to argue against the proposed property tax increase. "And don't forget the Hendersons invited us for dinner Friday," Susan added, checking her planner. "Carol mentioned they're bringing that new couple from their CrossFit class—apparently the husband works for some tech startup." Mark frowned slightly. "CrossFit and tech startups. Let me guess, they're from California?" "Mark," Susan admonished gently. "Not everyone from California is liberal." "Just statistically speaking," Mark replied with a small smile. "Ninety-three percent correlation in the last election cycle." Susan rolled her eyes good-naturedly. She'd grown accustomed to his occasional political commentary over their nineteen years of marriage. Mark wasn't confrontational about his conservative views, but he held them firmly—fiscal responsibility, limited government, traditional family values, and a deep religious faith that anchored everything else. First Lutheran Church stood as it had since 1957, a modest brick building with a simple steeple and stained glass windows depicting scenes from the Bible. The Matthews family had attended for fifteen years, since moving to the suburb after Mark took the job at Bergman & Associates. In the parking lot, Mark noticed Pastor Williams's wife stepping out of a new BMW X5. "The pastor's wife got another new car?" he whispered to Susan as they walked toward the entrance. "That's the third one in two years." "It's a lease," Susan replied. "And don't start. Remember what happened when you questioned the missions budget last fall." Mark nodded reluctantly. His insistence on financial accountability hadn't always made him popular with church leadership, but he believed stewardship was a biblical principle worth defending. Inside, the family took their usual pew, third from the front on the right side. Emma immediately spotted her Sunday School friends and waved excitedly. Tyler slumped in his seat, secretly texting under the hymnal. The familiar rhythm of Sunday service usually centered Mark—the hymns, the scripture readings, the measured cadence of Pastor Williams's sermons. But today, he found his attention wandering. Across the aisle, Mrs. Peterson wore a distinctive red-soled shoe that Mark inexplicably recognized as Christian Louboutin. How did he know that brand? And why was he suddenly noticing women's shoes? During a particularly long prayer, Mark found himself cataloging various outfits throughout the congregation. The Wilsons' teenage daughter was carrying what appeared to be a Coach bag. Dr. Anderson's wife had on what looked like Burberry. Even Pastor Williams's suit had the distinctive cut of Brooks Brothers—not the Marshalls discount version Mark himself wore. When did I start recognizing designer labels? Mark wondered, genuinely puzzled. His wardrobe consisted entirely of practical, mid-range brands purchased during semi-annual sales or at outlet malls. He'd always taken pride in his frugality, occasionally lecturing his children about the foolishness of paying for "overpriced logos." Yet here he sat, mentally calculating the retail value of Mrs. Peterson's ensemble rather than focusing on the sermon about humility and material detachment. After the service, Mark stood with Susan in the fellowship hall, balancing a styrofoam cup of weak coffee and a powdered donut as parishioners mingled. "Matthews! Just the man I wanted to see," boomed Deacon Phillips, a retired banker with political aspirations. He clapped Mark on the shoulder. "What do you make of this new school board curriculum? More of that progressive agenda creeping in, wouldn't you say?" Mark nodded, settling into familiar territory. "The proposed history revisions are concerning. Emphasizing grievance over achievement doesn't give kids the full picture. I reviewed their budget proposals too—lots of spending with very little accountability built in." "Exactly!" Phillips agreed enthusiastically. "We need more practical minds like yours making decisions. Say, have you considered running for school board next term? A solid conservative voice would be welcome." "I've thought about it," Mark admitted. Community service aligned with his values, and he genuinely believed his analytical skills could benefit the district. "But between work and family commitments—" "Think about it," Phillips interrupted. "The registration deadline isn't until August. We need people who understand fiscal responsibility and traditional values." He leaned closer. "Between us, this gender ideology stuff they're trying to slip into the curriculum needs to be stopped." Mark nodded seriously. "I'll consider it. Emma will be in high school next year, and I want to make sure she's getting a proper education, not indoctrination." As Phillips moved on to his next political recruitment, Susan returned from chatting with the women's ministry leader. "Everything okay?" she asked, noticing Mark's distracted expression. "Fine," he replied, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true. All morning, he'd been aware of a strange tingling sensation in his fingertips—the same fingers that had touched the pen alongside Marquavius Carter. "You look flushed," Susan noted, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. "And your skin looks different. Are you using my face wash?" "What? No, of course not," Mark replied, perhaps too quickly. The truth was, he had used her facial cleanser that morning, drawn to its pleasant lavender scent in a way that had confused him. He'd never given a second thought to skincare before, subscribing to a purely utilitarian three-in-one body wash, shampoo, and conditioner regimen that Susan occasionally teased him about. "Well, whatever you're doing, keep it up. You look good," Susan said with a small smile. "Almost… glowing." Mark felt an inexplicable warmth spread across his cheeks. Was he blushing? At a compliment from his wife of nearly two decades? "Dad, can we go now?" Emma pleaded, appearing at his elbow. "Youth group isn't until five, and I wanted to work on my science project." "Of course, sweetie," Mark replied, grateful for the interruption. "Let me just grab my briefcase from the office." In the church office, Mark collected his things, including the financial reports he'd prepared. As he turned to leave, his gaze caught on a glossy magazine left on the secretary's desk—GQ, opened to a spread featuring men's spring fashion trends. Before he could question the impulse, Mark found himself flipping through the pages, lingering over a feature on luxury watches. A Rolex Submariner gleamed on the page, its price tag equivalent to a month of Mark's salary. Yet rather than his usual dismissive reaction to such extravagance, he found himself admiring the craftsmanship, the status it conveyed, the way it would look on his wrist. "Mark? We're waiting," Susan called from the doorway, startling him. He quickly closed the magazine, feeling oddly guilty, as if caught doing something shameful. "Coming." On the drive home, while Susan discussed lunch plans and Emma chattered about her science project, Mark kept seeing flashes of the magazine's content in his mind—tailored suits, Italian leather shoes, designer watches. For the first time in his life, he found himself wondering what it would be like to dress in clothes that weren't chosen primarily for durability and value. Later that afternoon, while Susan and Emma were grocery shopping and Tyler was at a friend's house, Mark found himself doing something unprecedented—browsing men's fashion websites on his laptop. The family computer's search history had never included terms like "luxury menswear" or "designer brands for men" before, but Mark felt drawn to these pages with an intensity that both confused and excited him. He clicked through collections from Gucci, Prada, and Tom Ford, designers he'd previously dismissed as overpriced and pretentious. Now, he found himself studying the cut of jackets, the drape of fabric, the subtle details that distinguished luxury items from their mass-market counterparts. When a pair of loafers caught his eye—sleek Italian leather with a subtle gold accent—he actually added them to a shopping cart before the $950 price tag snapped him back to reality. "What am I doing?" he muttered, closing the browser window in alarm. This wasn't him. Mark Matthews didn't covet thousand-dollar shoes. Mark Matthews bought his footwear at DSW during their buy-one-get-one-half-off sales. Yet even as he closed the laptop, a part of him couldn't forget how those loafers would feel, how they would transform his walking gait from efficient to elegant, how they would signal to others that he was someone worth noticing. He caught his reflection in the darkened laptop screen and froze. For just a moment, in the distorted surface, his features had seemed… different. Softer somehow. More refined. "It's just stress," he whispered to the empty room. "The Henderson audit, the church finances, Tyler's college applications…" But deep down, Mark knew this was something else. Something connected to the tingling that had started with the pen, with the moment his fingers had brushed against Marquavius Carter's. That night, as he prepared for bed, Mark found himself lingering in the bathroom, studying his reflection with unprecedented attention. Was his hair slightly longer? Were his eyelashes fuller? Had his lips always had that particular shape? "Coming to bed?" Susan called from the bedroom. "Be right there," Mark replied, reluctantly turning away from the mirror. In bed, Susan quickly fell asleep, but Mark lay awake, his mind racing between quarterly tax filings and Italian leather loafers, between Pastor Williams's sermon on materialism and the Rolex that had gleamed so enticingly from the magazine page. When sleep finally came, he dreamed of shopping in exclusive boutiques, of salespeople fawning over him, of trying on clothes that made him feel powerful and desirable in ways his sensible Brooks Brothers suits never had. In the dream, Marquavius Carter appeared, nodding approvingly at Mark's selections, saying something that Mark couldn't quite hear but that made him feel warm and special. Mark woke with a start at 3:17 AM, his heart racing, his skin flushed. The memory of the dream lingered, shameful yet thrilling. Chapter 4 Mark arrived at Bergman & Associates fifteen minutes early, as he had every workday for the past sixteen years. He nodded to the security guard, badged into the building, and took the elevator to the fourth floor, where the accounting firm occupied half the space. His morning routine was a precision operation—hang jacket on office door hook, power on computer, arrange pens and calculator, review the day's appointments, and prepare client folders. But this morning, as he settled at his desk, something felt off. Mark ran a finger along his collar, which felt unusually loose. He'd lost weight before—that time he and Susan had tried the keto diet for three miserable weeks—but his shirts had never hung this way on his frame. The sleeves seemed longer too, nearly covering his wrists entirely. "Weird," he muttered, rolling them up carefully. He pulled up the Henderson audit on his computer and tried to focus on the columns of numbers. Marquavius Carter scored 28 points against the Celtics last night. The thought came unbidden, and Mark blinked in surprise. Why was he thinking about the basketball player now? He'd barely followed the Heat since Tyler had left for college—basketball had been their shared interest. But suddenly he found himself wondering what Carter's shooting percentage had been, whether he'd improved his three-point range since their encounter at the arena. "Morning, Mark." Hannah from payroll appeared in his doorway, coffee mug in hand. "Ready for the Henderson presentation this afternoon?" "All set," Mark replied automatically, though in truth he hadn't finalized his notes. "Just reviewing the depreciation schedules now." Hannah lingered, her head tilted slightly. "Did you do something different? You look… I don't know, different somehow." Mark felt an unexpected flutter of self-consciousness. "Different how?" She shrugged. "Can't put my finger on it. Your skin maybe? You're glowing." "Probably just this new face wash Susan bought," Mark said, though he knew he'd been using her expensive cleanser for several days now, inexplicably drawn to its lavender scent and how smooth it made his skin feel. After Hannah left, Mark opened his phone's camera and studied his reflection. His skin did look clearer—the perpetual redness around his nose had faded, and there was a smoothness to his complexion that he couldn't recall having since… well, ever. Even the fine lines around his eyes seemed less pronounced. "Huh," he murmured, zooming in closer. Were his eyelashes longer? That couldn't be right. A calendar notification pulled his attention back to work. He had a client meeting in thirty minutes and hadn't finished his preparation. Mark set his phone down and turned back to the Henderson file, determined to focus. But the numbers on his screen kept blurring, replaced by images of Marquavius Carter in his Miami Heat uniform, powerful muscles rippling as he drove to the basket. Mark could vividly recall the moment their fingers had touched on the pen, the strange warmth that had spread up his arm. "Get it together, Matthews," he muttered, reaching for his coffee. The mug seemed heavier than usual, requiring both hands to steady it. Had he always had such slender fingers? The morning dragged on in a similar fashion. During his client meeting, Mark found himself struggling to maintain his usual level of sharp focus. Twice he had to ask Mr. Daniels to repeat questions about tax deductions—questions he normally could have answered in his sleep. "Sorry," Mark apologized after stumbling over a calculation he should have been able to do mentally. "Didn't sleep well last night." By lunchtime, Mark's concentration had deteriorated further. Instead of eating his usual turkey sandwich at his desk while reviewing reports, he found himself browsing NBA stats on his phone, specifically searching for Marquavius Carter's profile. Height: 6'6". Weight: 250 lbs. Born: Savannah, Georgia. Mark scrolled through photos of the power forward—action shots from games, red carpet appearances, charity events. In each image, Carter commanded attention, his muscular frame draped in either a Miami Heat uniform or impeccably tailored designer suits. "What am I doing?" Mark whispered, closing the browser quickly when he realized he'd spent twenty minutes scrolling through Carter's Instagram. This wasn't like him at all. He had no interest in celebrities or social media. He hadn't even created his own Instagram account despite Susan's repeated suggestions that he should use it to keep up with Tyler's college life. The afternoon team meeting was worse. Mark sat at the conference table, half-listening as the partners discussed quarterly projections. His suit jacket, which had fit perfectly last week, now hung noticeably loose across his shoulders. He'd had to tighten his belt an extra notch this morning, and even his wedding ring felt looser, sliding around his finger when he gestured. "Mark? Your thoughts on the Henderson audit?" Gerald Bergman asked, interrupting Mark's wandering thoughts. Mark straightened in his chair, acutely aware that everyone was looking at him. Had he always been this short compared to his colleagues? The thought came from nowhere. "I, uh, believe we should recommend a full review of their depreciation schedules," Mark began, reaching for the familiar comfort of accounting terminology. "There are inconsistencies in how they've categorized several major equipment purchases, which has significant tax implications over the five-year period." He continued his assessment, gradually finding his professional rhythm, but couldn't shake the strange feeling of disconnect—as if someone else was using his voice, inhabiting his gradually changing body. After the meeting, Mark retreated to his office and closed the door. He sat at his desk, hands trembling slightly as he pulled up his calendar. The Miami Heat schedule was there—he'd added it months ago when planning Tyler's visit—and he found himself checking when the team would return to play at home. Six weeks. Marquavius Carter would be back in town in six weeks. The thought sent an inexplicable thrill through Mark's body. He wanted to see Carter again. Needed to, almost. Would Carter remember him? Would he notice the changes that were happening to Mark's body? "This is ridiculous," Mark muttered, closing the calendar. He was a married, middle-aged accountant with two children. Why would an NBA star remember him, let alone notice changes in his appearance? As Mark packed up to leave for the day, he caught another glimpse of himself in the darkened computer screen. For just a moment, the face looking back seemed softer, the jawline less defined. He blinked, and his familiar reflection returned. In the parking garage, Mark found himself checking his appearance in the car's side mirror before getting in. His hair seemed different—still short and professionally styled, but somehow thicker, with a subtle wave that hadn't been there before. And was it his imagination, or did his dress shirt hang differently across his chest? On the drive home, Mark turned on sports radio, something he rarely did unless Tyler was in the car. The hosts were discussing the Heat's latest victory and Marquavius Carter's dominant performance. "Carter's having an MVP-caliber season," one commentator enthused. "Twenty-eight points, eleven rebounds last night. The man's unstoppable in the paint." Mark found himself smiling at the praise, as if he personally knew Carter and took pride in his accomplishments. He caught himself adjusting the rearview mirror to check his reflection again. The strange warmth he'd felt when touching the pen had returned, spreading through his body like a pleasant fever. At a red light, Mark pulled out his phone and did something completely out of character—he downloaded Instagram and created an account. Before he could question his actions, he found himself searching for and following Marquavius Carter's official page. The light turned green, but Mark sat transfixed by a recent photo of Carter at some charity gala, dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his powerful physique commanding attention even in formal wear. A strange longing filled Mark's chest—not to be with Carter, exactly, but to be… noticed by him. To be significant in his world. A horn blared behind him, snapping Mark back to reality. He put his phone down and drove on, troubled by the direction of his thoughts. That evening, as Mark helped Susan with dinner, she paused while chopping vegetables and studied him. "Have you lost weight?" she asked, eyes narrowing slightly. "Your clothes look big on you." Mark shrugged, aiming for casual. "Maybe a little. I've been taking the stairs at work instead of the elevator." "It's more than a little," Susan said, stepping closer. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and Mark was startled to realize she didn't have to reach up as far as usual. "And I swear you're shorter." "That's impossible," Mark laughed nervously. "People don't just shrink overnight." "Not overnight, no," Susan agreed. "But you don't seem as tall as you were last month. And your hair looks different. Thicker." Mark tried to brush off her observations with a joke about mid-life changes, but as they sat down to dinner, he caught Emma staring at him curiously. "What?" he asked his daughter. "You look pretty today, Dad," the twelve-year-old said simply, returning to her pasta. Pretty. The word echoed in Mark's mind. Not handsome, not good—pretty. He should have corrected her, explained that men weren't "pretty." But some part of him quietly glowed at the compliment. After dinner, Mark locked himself in the bathroom, ostensibly to shower but really to examine himself more thoroughly. He stripped down and stood before the full-length mirror on the back of the door, studying his changing body with growing alarm. His shoulders were narrower than he remembered, his waist more defined. The sparse hair on his chest seemed thinner, lighter. Even his hips seemed differently shaped, with a subtle curve that had definitely not been there before. And had he always had such long eyelashes? Such full lips? "What's happening to me?" he whispered, pressing his hands to his face. The skin beneath his fingers was soft, smooth—nothing like the slightly rough texture he was accustomed to, even right after shaving. In the shower, Mark found himself using Susan's shampoo and conditioner instead of his usual 3-in-1 body wash. The smell of vanilla and coconut was comforting somehow, and he spent extra time massaging it into his scalp, enjoying how it made his increasingly thick hair feel. That night, as Susan slept beside him, Mark lay awake, his mind repeatedly returning to Marquavius Carter. He pictured the basketball star's powerful presence, his confident smile, the moment their fingers had touched on the pen. "Static electricity," Carter had said, but Mark knew now it had been something far stranger, far more significant. Just before drifting off to sleep, Mark took his phone from the nightstand and opened Instagram again. Marquavius had posted a new photo—a selfie in the Heat locker room, fresh from another victory. Without thinking, Mark tapped the like button and then, alarmed by his own action, quickly closed the app. What would a professional basketball player want with a middle-aged accountant from the suburbs? The question followed Mark into uneasy dreams, where he stood courtside at an empty arena, watching Marquavius Carter practice alone, moving with impossible grace for a man his size. In the dream, Carter stopped suddenly and turned, looking directly at Mark—not as he was now, but as someone else entirely. Someone Carter smiled at with genuine interest. Someone who belonged in his world of glamour and athletic excellence. Chapter 5 Mark stared at his reflection in the department store mirror, turning sideways to examine his profile. The navy blue designer shirt he was trying on—something he'd never have considered a month ago—tapered perfectly at his increasingly narrow waist. "How's that one fitting, sir?" the sales associate asked, hovering nearby. Mark ran his hands down the silky fabric. "It's…perfect, actually." The price tag dangled from the sleeve—$175 for a shirt he'd have dismissed as absurdly overpriced just weeks ago. Today, somehow, it seemed reasonable. "I'll take it. And the other two as well." The associate smiled. "Excellent choices. Would you like to wear the blue one out?" "Yes," Mark heard himself say. "Please cut the tags." In the changing room, as he buttoned up his new shirt, Mark couldn't stop examining his transformed body. His chest seemed firmer despite losing nearly fifteen pounds in a couple weeks. His arms, while slimmer, showed definition he hadn't seen since college. Most disturbing—or was it exciting?—was his face. The persistent jowls that had appeared in his late thirties had vanished. His jawline was sharper, cheekbones more prominent, and the crow's feet around his eyes had softened. I look… good. Really good. The thought brought both pleasure and confusion. Mark Matthews had never been vain. Practicality had always been his guiding principle. Yet here he was, spending a Sunday afternoon shopping instead of reviewing the Henderson file, dropping over $500 on three shirts without flinching. As he exited the store, a young woman held the door, her gaze lingering on him a beat too long. Mark felt a thrill of satisfaction. Was she checking him out? The idea would have embarrassed him before. Now, it felt like validation. His phone buzzed—Susan, wondering when he'd be home. He texted back: "Still running errands. Back soon." The lie came easily. Susan didn't need to know about his shopping spree. He'd hide the bags in the trunk, transfer the clothes to his closet when she wasn't looking. The deception bothered him less than it should have. Back in his car, Mark checked his appearance in the rearview mirror. Had his hair always had these golden highlights? It was definitely longer, falling in a way that framed his face attractively. He ran his fingers through it, admiring how soft it felt. Mark drove home with the radio turned to a hip-hop station he'd never listened to before. Something about the beats resonated with him now, made him want to move in ways that had never occurred to him before. "What is happening to me?" he whispered to his reflection in the mirror. Monday morning arrived with a startling discovery. Mark's favorite Brooks Brothers suit hung off his frame like a hand-me-down from a larger brother. The pants needed to be cinched with a belt tightened to its last hole, and even then they sat lower on his hips than was professional. "Mark?" Susan appeared in the doorway of their bedroom, concern etched on her face. "That suit doesn't fit at all. Are you feeling okay? Maybe we should see Dr. Harrington." "I'm fine," Mark assured her, though he wasn't sure that was true. "Just lost some weight." "Twenty pounds in a month isn't 'just' anything," Susan countered. "And you seem… different." Mark avoided her gaze, focusing instead on adjusting his too-large jacket. "Different how?" "I don't know." Susan frowned. "You spent forty-five minutes in the bathroom this morning. You've never been vain before." Vain. The word stung, mostly because it was accurate. He had spent nearly an hour grooming—styling his inexplicably longer hair, applying some of Susan's facial moisturizer, examining his increasingly feminine features from every angle. "I have that presentation with the board today," he said dismissively. "Just wanted to look my best." "Since when do you care what Harold Bergman thinks about your appearance?" Susan asked. "You used to say numbers speak for themselves." Mark felt a flicker of irritation. "Well, maybe I'm evolving." He brushed past her to the closet, selecting a different tie—one with a bit more flair than his usual conservative stripes. "Mark, I'm worried about you," Susan said softly. "You've been checking yourself in every reflective surface. You barely touched your steak last night. And…" she hesitated, "you shrunk." "What?" Mark turned to face her. "You're shorter. I noticed when we hugged yesterday. I used to reach just to your chin, but now we're almost eye-to-eye." Ice settled in Mark's stomach. He'd noticed his pants dragging on the floor but had attributed it to weight loss making them sit lower. But actual height loss? That wasn't normal. That wasn't possible. "That's ridiculous," he said, more sharply than intended. "Adults don't shrink overnight." "Not overnight, no," Susan agreed. "But over the past month? Something's happening, Mark, and it's not just weight loss." Mark checked his watch—an excuse to end the conversation. "I'm going to be late. We'll talk about this tonight." Susan nodded, unconvinced. "Promise you'll call Dr. Harrington today?" "I promise," Mark lied, already knowing he wouldn't. Doctors meant tests, and tests meant scrutiny of changes he himself didn't understand. On the drive to work, Mark couldn't stop thinking about Susan's observation. At a red light, he pulled out his wallet and checked his driver's license. Height: 5'11". He'd have to find a way to measure himself at the office. The Henderson audit awaited him, but Mark found himself distracted, his usual focus shattered by his preoccupation with his body's changes. Twice he caught himself checking his reflection in his darkened computer screen. Once, he caught Hannah from HR watching him admire himself in the glass partition of his office. He'd smiled at her reflexively, and she'd actually blushed. Women never reacted to me that way before, he thought with a mixture of confusion and pleasure. At lunch, instead of eating at his desk, Mark found himself wandering to the high-end men's store two blocks from the office. He browsed silk ties and designer belts with unprecedented interest, eventually purchasing a sleek leather belt that cost more than his weekly grocery budget. "Your waist measurement, sir?" the salesman had asked. Mark hesitated. "I'm not sure anymore. I've been losing weight." The salesman measured him. "Thirty-two inches. You have an excellent physique." Mark flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Excellent physique. No one had ever described him that way before. He'd always been average—not fat, not fit, just…unremarkable. By late afternoon, the numbers on the Henderson spreadsheet seemed to swim before his eyes. Calculations that would have been automatic weeks ago now required concentration. When Gerald Bergman stopped by to check his progress, Mark found himself unusually flustered. "Matthews? You feeling alright? You look… different." "Just trying a new hairstyle," Mark said, self-consciously touching his increasingly longer locks. Bergman frowned. "Well, don't forget the Peterson presentation tomorrow. The partners will all be there." After Bergman left, Mark locked his office door and took out a tape measure he'd borrowed from the supply closet. Standing with his back against the wall, he marked his height with a pencil, then measured. 5'8". He stared at the measuring tape in disbelief. He'd lost three inches of height in a month. That wasn't just impossible—it was terrifying. "This can't be happening," he whispered, but the evidence was undeniable. On impulse, he pulled out his phone and opened Instagram, something he rarely did. He was startled to see that he'd viewed Marquavius Carter's profile fifteen times in the past week according to his history. Worse, he'd apparently followed not just Carter but several other Miami Heat players and various luxury brands. Carter had posted that morning—a photo at practice, his powerful body in motion, muscles rippling as he executed a perfect dunk. Mark felt an inexplicable flutter in his stomach as he stared at the image. Why am I so obsessed with him? Before he could stop himself, he'd liked the photo and left a comment: "Beast mode 🔥" Mark stared at his phone in horror. He'd never used the fire emoji in his life. He'd never commented on a celebrity's post. He'd certainly never used the phrase "beast mode." He quickly deleted the comment, his hands shaking. Whatever was happening to him went beyond physical changes. His very personality seemed to be shifting, his interests and behaviors transforming alongside his body. On the drive home, Mark made an impulsive detour to the mall again. He found himself drawn to a high-end skincare store, where he spent seventy dollars on face wash and moisturizer after a saleswoman commented on his "gorgeous complexion." "You have such beautiful skin," she'd said. "Are you wearing foundation?" "No," Mark had replied, confused. "I don't wear makeup." "Well, whatever your routine is, it's working. Your skin has this amazing glow." Mark had preened under the attention, forgetting momentarily that radical changes to one's skin tone and texture weren't normal for middle-aged men. At home, he hid his shopping bags in the trunk before entering the house. Susan was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. "How was your day?" she asked, studying him carefully. "Fine. Busy with the Henderson audit." Mark loosened his tie, conscious of Susan's scrutiny. "Something smells good." "I made that chicken you like," Susan said. "With the roasted vegetables. But first, we need to talk." Mark's stomach tightened. "About?" Susan pulled out her phone and showed him a photo—the Matthews family at last year's Christmas party. Mark stared at his former self: slightly overweight, balding at the temples, a conventional middle-aged accountant with unremarkable features. "This was you four months ago," Susan said softly. "Look at yourself now, Mark." She guided him to the full-length mirror in the hallway, standing beside him for comparison. The contrast was startling. Mark stood at least two inches shorter than he had been. His hair was fuller, longer, with a texture and shine it had never possessed before. His face looked a decade younger, with higher cheekbones and fuller lips. His once-solid frame had transformed into something more lithe, with a noticeably narrower waist and shoulders. "I…" Mark began, but found he had no explanation. "I don't know what's happening to me." "Neither do I," Susan said, her voice trembling slightly. "But it's not normal, Mark. People don't just change like this. Did you call the doctor?" "I forgot," Mark admitted. "I'll do it tomorrow." "Promise me," Susan insisted, taking his hands. He noticed with a jolt that his fingers seemed longer, more slender than before. Even his hands were changing. "I promise," he said, meaning it this time. The fear in Susan's eyes had penetrated the strange euphoria that had surrounded his transformation. This wasn't just weight loss or a midlife crisis makeover. Something profound was happening to him—something potentially dangerous. Later that night, after Susan had fallen asleep, Mark stood in the bathroom, door locked, examining his naked body in the mirror. His chest seemed less defined, his hips slightly wider. The body hair on his chest and legs had thinned dramatically. Even his skin tone had changed—warmer, more golden, with a smoothness that didn't seem natural for a man in his forties. He touched his face, tracing features that were becoming increasingly unfamiliar. His lips had definitely become fuller. His jawline, while still masculine, had softened subtly. His eyelashes seemed longer, darker. Mark's phone buzzed on the counter—a notification. Without thinking, he picked it up and saw that Marquavius Carter had posted again. His thumb hovered over the screen, drawn to view it despite his growing fear. "What's happening to me?" he whispered to his reflection, but the stranger in the mirror offered no answers. Chapter 6 Mark stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, unable to process what he was seeing. The small, tender lumps he'd first noticed as strange sensitivity yesterday had grown overnight into unmistakable breasts. Not large—perhaps an A-cup—but definitely, undeniably, female breasts. "This isn't possible," he whispered, his hands trembling as he touched the unfamiliar swells on his chest. They were sensitive to the touch, with darker, more pronounced nipples that pressed visibly against his white undershirt. The bathroom door suddenly rattled. "Mark? Are you almost done? I need to get ready for work," Susan called through the door. "Just a minute," he called back, his voice cracking slightly. He quickly pulled on his dress shirt, buttoning it with shaking fingers. The fabric, which had hung loosely on his frame just days ago, now stretched noticeably across his chest. He took a deep breath and opened the door. Susan was standing there, already dressed in her navy pantsuit, a concerned expression on her face. "Mark, we need to talk about what's happening to you," she said firmly. "You've lost weight, your face looks completely different, and—" her eyes dropped to his chest, where his shirt strained slightly against his new curves, "—what is going on with your body?" "Nothing," Mark said reflexively, sidling past her. "Just… losing weight, like you said." "Men don't lose weight in a way that gives them breasts," Susan said, following him into the bedroom. "And they don't shrink three inches in height. Or grow longer hair overnight. Or suddenly start using phrases like 'that's so cute' and 'period, full stop' in normal conversation." Mark adjusted his tie, avoiding her gaze. "I've been trying some new…vocabulary. Trying to connect better with the younger clients." "You told the mailman his uniform was 'giving postal realness' yesterday," Susan crossed her arms. "You don't even know what that means!" "I do too," Mark said defensively, though he honestly had no idea why he'd said it. The phrase had just bubbled up spontaneously. "Look, I'm fine. Just… experimenting with my look a little." Susan's expression softened slightly. "Is this a midlife crisis? Because if it is, we can talk about it. But you need to be honest with me." "I'm late for work," Mark said, grabbing his briefcase. "We'll talk tonight." As he headed for the door, Susan called after him, "I made an appointment with Dr. Harrington for you tomorrow. Nine-thirty. Don't even think about canceling." Mark waved acknowledgment without turning around, already focused on how he was going to manage at the office with his increasingly feminine body. The morning staff meeting was torture. Mark sat hunched forward, his suit jacket buttoned tightly despite the warmth of the conference room, trying to minimize the visibility of his chest. Every time he shifted in his seat, he felt the strange weight on his torso move with him. "Matthews, your thoughts on the Henderson account?" Gerald Bergman asked, interrupting Mark's discomfort. "What? Oh," Mark straightened slightly, then immediately hunched again when he felt his shirt pull against his chest. "I think we should, like, definitely review the depreciation schedules." Like? Did I just say 'like' in a professional meeting? Bergman raised an eyebrow. "Are you feeling alright, Matthews? You seem distracted." "Just tired," Mark mumbled. "I'll have the Henderson numbers by end of day." Back in his office, Mark closed the door and slumped into his chair. He unbuttoned his suffocatingly tight jacket, gasping with relief as the pressure eased. His fingers inadvertently brushed against his chest, and he flinched at the unexpected sensitivity. This can't be happening. Men don't grow breasts overnight. He pulled out his phone and began searching medical conditions. "Gynecomastia," he read. "Enlarged male breast tissue due to hormonal imbalance…" But the images looked nothing like what was happening to him. His chest wasn't just enlarged—it was reshaping into distinctly feminine breasts. As he scrolled through medical websites, an ad for a women's clothing retailer popped up. Mark's thumb hovered over the X to close it, but instead, he found himself clicking on the ad. Before he knew what was happening, he was browsing through blouses, dresses, and… bras. I need to know what size I am, he thought, the idea seeming perfectly reasonable in the moment. For medical reasons. To track the changes. Half an hour later, he'd taken surreptitious measurements of his chest using a ruler and calculator and determined he was approximately a 34A. The knowledge should have horrified him. Instead, he felt an odd sense of satisfaction. His phone pinged with a calendar reminder: "Henderson audit 11AM." Mark quickly closed the browser and tried to refocus on work. But the spreadsheet that had once been so clear now seemed confusing. The numbers blurred before his eyes, and calculations that had once been automatic now required conscious effort. "What's happening to my brain?" he whispered, rubbing his temples. By lunchtime, Mark had made little progress on the Henderson audit. Instead, he found himself returning repeatedly to clothing websites, now expanded to include designer labels he'd never considered before. That Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress would look amazing on me, he thought, then froze. But the thought didn't disturb him as much as it should have. Something about the elegant cut of the dress, the way it would highlight his increasingly narrow waist and accentuate his growing chest, seemed undeniably appealing. Mark's office phone rang, startling him. "Matthews," he answered automatically. "Mark, it's Susan. I just got a fraud alert from our credit card company. Did you try to spend two thousand dollars at Neiman Marcus online?" Mark glanced guiltily at his computer screen, where several designer dresses sat in a shopping cart. "I—no. Must be fraud," he lied, quickly closing the browser. "That's what I thought," Susan said, sounding relieved. "I told them to decline the transaction and issue a new card." "Good thinking," Mark replied, ignoring the stab of disappointment he felt. "Thanks for catching that." After hanging up, Mark pulled out his personal credit card instead. Susan won't see these statements for weeks, he reasoned, reopening the shopping site. And I need… I need… What did he need? Part of his mind—the shrinking, rational part—knew that buying women's clothing was absurd. But the growing, insistent voice convinced him it was necessary preparation for whatever was happening to his body. By the end of the workday, Mark had ordered over $4,200 worth of designer women's clothing. Dresses, blouses, skirts, and three different bras in various sizes to accommodate what he somehow knew would be continued growth. He'd arranged for everything to be delivered to a package pickup location rather than home or the office. As he drove home, Mark caught himself checking his appearance in the rearview mirror repeatedly, adjusting his increasingly wavy hair and examining his softening features with critical eyes. My eyebrows need shaping, he thought idly. And my skin could use a good exfoliating mask. "Stop it," he said aloud to himself. "You're Mark Matthews. Accountant. Husband. Father." But the words felt hollow, as if he were describing someone else. At home, Susan was waiting in the kitchen, a printout of web searches on the family computer in her hand. "'Male to female transformation'? 'Hormone therapy results'? 'How to hide breasts at work'?" she read, her voice trembling slightly. "Mark, if you're transitioning, I support you. But why are you hiding it from me?" "What? No!" Mark exclaimed, genuinely shocked. "I'm not… I didn't search those things." Susan pointed to the browser history. "It's all here, Mark. This afternoon while I was working from home." Mark stared at the printout in confusion. "I was at the office all day. I couldn't have—" "Then how do you explain this?" Susan took a step closer, reaching out to touch his chest. Mark flinched away. "You have breasts, Mark. Your face has completely changed in a month. Your hair is growing at an impossible rate. And now you're researching transition?" "I'm not transitioning," Mark insisted, though his hand unconsciously moved to cover his chest. "Something else is happening. Something I can't explain." "Then explain the package that arrived today," Susan said quietly, pointing to the dining room table. A large Sephora box sat there, opened to reveal an array of high-end makeup products. "I didn't order these." Mark stared at the box in horror. "Neither did I." But even as he denied it, a thrill of excitement ran through him at the sight of the limited-edition eyeshadow palette he'd been admiring online just yesterday. "Mark, please," Susan's voice softened. "Whatever is happening, we can face it together. But you have to be honest with me." Mark opened his mouth to respond, but found himself at a loss for words. How could he explain something he didn't understand himself? How could he tell her that his body was changing against his will, that his mind was filling with thoughts that weren't his own? "I don't know what's happening to me," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wake up different every day. My body, my thoughts… they're changing and I can't stop it." Susan approached cautiously and took his hand. "Then we'll figure it out together. Starting with that doctor's appointment tomorrow." Mark nodded, squeezing her hand gratefully. But as Susan turned to start dinner, he found his gaze drawn back to the Sephora box, a strange excitement building as he imagined trying the products on his increasingly feminine face. The Urban Decay setting spray will make my foundation last all day at the office, he thought, then bit his lip in confusion. Since when did he know anything about setting spray and foundation? He turned away from the makeup, determined to focus on helping Susan with dinner. But as he reached for plates in the cabinet, he found himself arranging them with an elegance he'd never bothered with before, adding a garnish to the simple pasta dish Susan had prepared. "Since when do you garnish spaghetti?" Susan asked, watching him with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Presentation is everything," Mark replied automatically, then froze. The words had come out in a slightly higher pitch than his normal speaking voice, with an inflection he'd never used before. They ate in uncomfortable silence, Mark acutely aware of the way his shirt continued to strain against his chest, and how he unconsciously adjusted his posture to a more feminine position. As they cleaned up, Susan finally broke the silence. "Whatever happens at the doctor tomorrow, I'm here for you. But I need you to promise me one thing." "What's that?" Mark asked, loading the dishwasher with more care than he'd ever shown before. "No more secrets. No more denial. We face this—whatever 'this' is—together." Mark nodded slowly. "I promise." Later that night, alone in the bathroom, Mark stood shirtless before the mirror, no longer trying to avoid the sight of his changing body. His waist had narrowed significantly. His hips had a slight but noticeable curve. His face, once angular and unremarkable, had softened into something undeniably pretty. And his chest—the two small but perfectly formed breasts that had appeared seemingly overnight—rose and fell with his breathing. Chapter 7 Mark sat in his car outside Dr. Harrington's office, tapping his increasingly slender fingers against the steering wheel. The appointment Susan had insisted on was in fifteen minutes. Through the window, he could see the receptionist glance at her watch, probably wondering when he'd come inside. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, studying his reflection in the rearview mirror. The face looking back at him was undeniably different—softer jawline, fuller lips, higher cheekbones, and skin with a distinctly golden glow that seemed to improve daily. "I look… good. Better than I have in years." He took out his phone and pulled up WebMD, scanning through symptoms for the fifth time that week. Nothing matched what was happening to him. No medical condition explained the complete physical transformation he was undergoing. "Maybe that's because there's nothing wrong with me," he said aloud, the words sounding strangely right. "People change. People… evolve." His phone buzzed with a text from Susan: "Are you at the doctor? Call me after." Mark stared at the message, an unfamiliar irritation rising in his chest. Since when did he need to report his whereabouts? Since when did improving one's appearance require medical intervention? His finger hovered over the reply button, but instead, he switched to Instagram, where he'd been spending increasing amounts of time. Marquavius Carter had posted a new photo—standing outside a Gucci store with shopping bags, captioned "Treat yourself 💯." Something about the image called to Mark. The confidence in Marquavius's stance, the casual display of wealth, the unapologetic self-indulgence. "That's it," Mark decided suddenly, starting the car. "I'm not sick. I'm just… becoming a better version of myself." He pulled away from the doctor's office, already mapping the route to Lenox Square Mall in his mind. The expensive shopping center was a forty-minute drive, but suddenly felt like exactly where he needed to be. Another text from Susan: "Did you check in yet? Dr. Harrington might be able to refer you to a specialist." Mark rolled his eyes—a gesture that felt increasingly natural—and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat without replying. The soft pop station he'd found himself listening to lately played through the speakers, and he hummed along, enjoying the way his voice seemed to naturally hit the higher notes now. At the mall, Mark parked near the high-end section entrance, drawn instinctively to the designer stores he'd previously avoided as wasteful. The familiar practical voice in his head—the one that had managed their family budget for years—tried to raise objections, but it was easily silenced by a new, more insistent voice. You deserve nice things. You're transforming. Your wardrobe should transform too. He straightened his shirt—a simple polo that now hung awkwardly on his increasingly feminine frame—and walked into the mall with newfound purpose. The first stop was Nordstrom. Mark had never understood why anyone would pay $200 for a shirt when perfectly good ones could be found at Kohl's for $30. Now, as he ran his fingers over a silky designer blouse, the price tag seemed almost reasonable. "Can I help you find something?" asked a stylish sales associate. Two months ago, Mark would have muttered "Just browsing" and retreated to the men's department. Today, he smiled. "I need a whole new wardrobe, actually. Something that makes a statement." An hour later, he'd spent over $2,000 on clothes he'd never have considered before—slim-fitting jeans that accentuated his increasingly curvy hips, blouses that draped perfectly over his growing chest, and accessories that completed each look. "Would you like to try our beauty counter as well?" the associate suggested as she rang up the purchases. "Your skin tone would look amazing with our summer collection." "I have a little time," Mark heard himself say, though the old Mark would have laughed at the suggestion. "What did you have in mind?" The beauty counter became another revelation. As the makeup artist demonstrated products on his increasingly receptive face, Mark studied his reflection with growing satisfaction. The subtle bronzer enhanced his mysteriously improving complexion. The tinted lip balm made his fuller lips pop. The brow gel defined features that seemed to become more delicate by the day. "You have such gorgeous bone structure," the makeup artist complimented him. "And your skin is amazing—what's your routine?" "Oh, you know," Mark replied vaguely, unwilling to admit that his "routine" consisted of the transformation that had been happening outside his control. "I'm trying some new products." He left the beauty counter with another $300 in purchases and a strange sense of accomplishment. In the bathroom mirror, he studied his made-up face, turning to examine it from different angles. For the first time since the changes began, he felt not horror but… excitement. His phone rang—Susan again. He declined the call and texted quickly: "Got held up at work. Reschedule dr appt for next week." The lie came easily. As did the next stop—the Louis Vuitton store, where a handbag caught his eye in a way that would have been unthinkable weeks ago. "This is beautiful," he said to the sales associate, running his increasingly delicate fingers over the textured leather. "It's one of our classic pieces," the associate agreed. "Would you like to try it on?" Mark slipped the bag over his arm, admiring how it complemented his new Nordstrom outfit. The price tag—$2,700—barely registered as he handed over his credit card. "Excellent choice," the associate said, carefully packaging the bag in its dust cover and branded box. "It suits you perfectly." By the time Mark finally left the mall, the trunk of his car was filled with shopping bags, and his credit card was maxed out. The practical voice that had managed the Matthews family finances for fifteen years had been completely silenced, replaced by a new voice that justified each purchase as "necessary" and "deserved." At home, Mark hid the bags in the trunk of his car before entering, prepared with a story about a work emergency that had prevented him from making the doctor's appointment. Susan was waiting in the kitchen, worry etched on her face. "Where have you been? I called the doctor's office and they said you never showed up." "I told you, work emergency," Mark replied, avoiding her gaze as he grabbed a sparkling water from the refrigerator—another new preference. "The Henderson audit had some serious issues. I had to handle it personally." "Your health is more important than work, Mark," Susan insisted. "These changes—" she gestured at him, taking in his made-up face, the new clothes he hadn't been able to resist wearing out of the store, his increasingly feminine posture, "—they're accelerating. I'm worried about you." For a moment, the old Mark surfaced, concerned by the genuine fear in his wife's eyes. But then he caught his reflection in the kitchen window—the improved version of himself, the version that was emerging day by day. "I think…" he began, carefully choosing his words, "maybe we've been looking at this all wrong. What if this isn't something bad happening to me? What if it's something… good?" Susan stared at him in disbelief. "Good? Mark, you've lost inches in height. You've developed… breasts. Your face is completely different. How is any of that 'good'?" Mark shrugged, a casual gesture that felt increasingly natural. "I feel better than I have in years. My skin is clearer. I've lost that gut I could never get rid of. My hair is fuller." He ran his fingers through his increasingly long locks. "Maybe instead of fighting it, I should just… go with it?" "Go with it?" Susan repeated incredulously. "Mark, this isn't a new hairstyle we're talking about. This is your entire body changing in ways that defy medical explanation!" "And yet, I feel fine," Mark countered, a hint of the attitude that would soon become his hallmark slipping into his tone. "Better than fine, actually. So maybe the doctor can wait." He brushed past her, heading upstairs to the guest bathroom where he'd begun storing his growing collection of skincare and makeup products. Behind him, he heard Susan call his name, but the allure of trying on his new purchases was stronger than her concerns. In the bathroom, door locked, Mark carefully removed his new clothes from the shopping bags he'd smuggled in. He changed into a silky camisole and matching shorts set he'd purchased at the mall's lingerie store, admiring how the fabric draped over his increasingly feminine curves. "Look at you," he whispered to his reflection, turning to examine his profile. The changes that had terrified him weeks ago now filled him with a strange satisfaction. His waist had narrowed significantly, creating a more defined hourglass shape. His legs, once sturdy and masculine, had slimmed and toned. Even his hands looked different—the fingers longer, the wrists more delicate. He reached for the Louis Vuitton bag, slipping it over his shoulder and posing in the mirror. The person staring back barely resembled Mark Matthews, accountant and father of two. Instead, an attractive, feminine figure regarded him with glowing skin and confident posture. From downstairs, he heard Susan on the phone—probably talking to Dr. Harrington, trying to reschedule the appointment he had no intention of keeping. "She just doesn't understand," he murmured to his reflection. "How could she? She's not the one evolving." He carefully rehung his new clothes, planning outfits for the coming week. The Henderson audit, his family's financial situation, and Susan's concerns all seemed distant and unimportant compared to the transformation he was experiencing. As he finally emerged from the bathroom, Mark felt a strange sense of peace. Whatever was happening to him no longer seemed like something to fight. It was something to embrace, to celebrate, to enhance with the right clothes, the right makeup, the right accessories. And if that meant more shopping trips instead of doctor's appointments, well… that was simply the price of becoming who he was truly meant to be. Chapter 8 Mark Matthews stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his heart pounding. Overnight, his skin tone had deepened significantly. The subtle golden glow from last week had intensified into a warm caramel complexion—unmistakably that of a light-skinned Black woman. He touched his cheek cautiously, as if expecting the color to come off on his fingers. "This can't be happening," he whispered, though the evidence was undeniable. Not only had his skin tone changed, but his facial features seemed to have subtly shifted as well. His lips appeared fuller, his cheekbones higher, his eyes slightly more almond-shaped. The stranger in the mirror was beautiful, but she wasn't him—at least, she wasn't who he had been. "Mark? Are you coming out anytime soon? I need to get ready for work," Susan called through the door, her voice tinged with the frustration that had become constant in their interactions. "Just a minute," Mark replied, wincing at the higher pitch of his voice. He quickly applied the tinted moisturizer he'd secretly ordered last week, hoping to downplay the dramatic change in his complexion. It barely made a difference. If anything, it enhanced his new glow, making his skin appear dewy and radiant. His fingers trembled as he dabbed concealer under his eyes—when had he started using concealer?—and swiped on tinted lip balm. It's not like I can hide it anymore, he thought, a strange resignation washing over him. When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Susan was waiting, arms crossed. She took one look at him and her eyes widened. "Mark, what—" she began, then stopped, seemingly at a loss for words. "Did you… did you get some kind of skin treatment?" "No," Mark replied, avoiding her gaze as he moved past her toward the closet. "It's just… I don't know. Maybe stress?" "Stress doesn't change your skin color," Susan said, following him. "And it doesn't make you shrink five inches in two months, or grow breasts, or completely change your personality." Mark pulled out a silky blouse he'd hidden at the back of his closet. It was cream-colored with gold accents, chosen specifically to complement his increasingly feminized figure. The matching pencil skirt hung beside it, tags still attached. "I have a presentation today," he said, as if that explained his clothing choice. Susan stared at the outfit, then back at Mark's transformed face. "You're wearing women's clothes to work now? To an accounting firm? Mark, this is beyond—" "It's just an outfit," Mark snapped, instantly regretting his tone. "I'm sorry, I just… I need to look good today." "Look good or look like a woman?" Susan's voice cracked. "Mark, what's happening to you? Why won't you talk to me about this?" Mark felt a flash of genuine distress—a remnant of his old self recognizing the pain he was causing his wife. But alongside it came a new, dismissive thought: She just doesn't understand fashion or glowing up. "We'll talk tonight," he promised, though part of him already knew the conversation wouldn't happen. "I have to get ready." Susan stood watching as Mark—who now looked like a stranger in their bedroom—laid out his outfit with a level of care he'd never shown for his clothes before. She left without another word, closing the door quietly behind her. Alone, Mark slipped into the cream blouse, marveling at how the silk felt against his increasingly sensitive skin. The pencil skirt hugged his new curves perfectly. He'd lost another inch of height overnight, putting him at 5'6" now—still tall for a woman, but with his slimmer frame and increasingly feminine proportions, he looked elegant rather than imposing. He twisted his growing hair into a sleek bun at the nape of his neck, applied another coat of tinted lip balm, and slipped on the three-inch heels he'd hidden in a shoebox at the back of the closet. The final touch was a spritz of the perfume he'd ordered online—a floral scent with notes of jasmine and vanilla that made him feel inexplicably confident. I look amazing, he thought, turning to examine his profile in the mirror. The thought didn't even surprise him anymore. Downstairs, Emma was eating breakfast, her eyes widening as Mark entered the kitchen. "Dad?" she asked uncertainly. "You look… different." "Just trying a new style, sweetie," Mark replied, grabbing a protein shake instead of his usual coffee and toast. Solid food had lost its appeal lately—too many carbs, his new instincts told him. Emma studied him with the unfiltered honesty of a twelve-year-old. "You look like Zendaya's aunt or something." Mark felt a strange flush of pleasure at the comparison. "That's… thank you, I think." "Is that makeup?" Emma asked, leaning closer. "Just a little tinted moisturizer," Mark replied automatically, then caught himself. Since when did he know the difference between regular moisturizer and tinted? Susan entered the kitchen, already dressed for work, and the tension between them was palpable. She took in Mark's complete transformation—the outfit, the makeup, the heels—and her expression hardened. "Emma, can you finish getting ready upstairs? I need to talk to your father." Emma glanced between her parents, sensing the conflict, and quickly left. "You can't go to work like that," Susan said once they were alone. "Mark, people will think you're having some kind of breakdown." "Maybe I am," Mark replied, though he didn't feel broken. If anything, he felt more vibrant and alive than he had in years. "Dr. Harrington called. You missed your appointment. Again." Mark shrugged, a gesture that felt increasingly natural. "I'm fine. Better than fine, actually." "You're not fine!" Susan's voice rose. "Look at yourself! You're wearing women's clothes and makeup. Your skin is completely different. You've lost inches in height. How is any of this fine?" "Maybe I'm just becoming who I was always meant to be," Mark said, the words flowing from some part of his mind he didn't recognize. He adjusted his blouse and picked up his designer laptop bag—another recent acquisition. "That's it," Susan said, her voice eerily calm. "I'm calling your parents. And the doctor. This has gone too far." "Do whatever you need to do," Mark replied, already heading for the door. "I've got a meeting. Don't wait up—I might grab drinks with the team after." "What team? You've never gone for drinks after work in fifteen years!" But Mark was already closing the door behind him, the click of his heels on the driveway marking a decisive rhythm as he made his way to his car. At the office, he felt eyes on him the moment he walked through the door. The receptionist's jaw literally dropped. Two colleagues walking by stopped mid-conversation to stare. Mark smiled, a newfound confidence washing through him as he sauntered toward his office with a subtle sway in his hips. "Matthews? Is that you?" Gerald Bergman emerged from the conference room, his bushy eyebrows nearly meeting his receding hairline as he took in Mark's transformed appearance. "Morning, Gerald," Mark replied casually, as if nothing was unusual. "I have those projections ready for the Henderson account." Bergman seemed unable to process the disconnection between Mark's professional statement and his dramatically altered appearance. "My office. Now," he managed finally. Inside Bergman's office, Mark took a seat, crossing his legs at the ankle and smoothing his skirt with a delicate gesture that would have been unthinkable just weeks ago. "What the hell is going on, Matthews?" Bergman demanded. "You come in looking like… like… this, after weeks of increasingly bizarre behavior?" "I'm sorry, is there a dress code violation?" Mark asked, genuine confusion in his voice. The outfit was designer, after all—hardly inappropriate. "Dress code? Matthews, you're dressed like a woman! You look like a completely different person!" Bergman ran a hand through his thinning hair. "The board members from Peterson Industries are here today. How am I supposed to explain… this?" Mark felt a flash of indignation. "Explain what? That your senior accountant has excellent taste? That the Henderson numbers are the best they've been in five quarters?" "The Henderson numbers are wrong, Matthews. Your last three reports have been riddled with basic arithmetic errors. Johnson had to redo them all." This penetrated Mark's new confidence. "That's impossible. I triple-checked—" "You added when you should have multiplied in the depreciation columns. You transposed numbers throughout. This isn't like you, Matthews." Mark felt a moment of genuine confusion and distress. Numbers had always been his sanctuary—reliable, logical, comforting. The idea that he'd made elementary mistakes was deeply disturbing. But almost immediately, a new thought replaced the concern: Whatever. Numbers are boring anyway. Why does anyone care about depreciation schedules? "I'll review them," he said, though without much conviction. "That's not all," Bergman continued, pulling out a folder. "HR has received complaints about your emails." "My emails?" Mark blinked innocently. Bergman opened the folder and read: "'OMG this budget meeting is taking FOREVER. Someone rescue me! Crying face emoji, crying face emoji.'" He looked up. "You sent this to the entire accounting department during the quarterly review." "It was just a joke," Mark said with a dismissive wave. "Lighten up." "And this one," Bergman continued, "'My pronouns are princess, wifey, and babygirl.' With multiple heart emojis. Sent to three clients and the entire executive team." Mark felt a giggle bubbling up. "That was just a meme I saw. It was funny." "It wasn't funny, Matthews. It was inappropriate and unprofessional." Bergman pulled out another paper. "And yesterday you replied to Johnson's analysis of the tax implications for the Stewart merger with just—and I quote—'SOOOO TRUEEEE' followed by five heart emojis and a crown." Mark rolled his eyes, another gesture that felt increasingly natural. "Everyone's so sensitive. It's just how people talk online." "This isn't online, Matthews. This is a professional accounting firm." Bergman's expression softened slightly. "Mark, are you… are you going through something? A breakdown of some kind? Because if you need help—" "I don't need help," Mark interrupted, standing up smoothly despite the heels. "I need people to stop obsessing over my appearance and let me do my job." He adjusted his blouse. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." "Matthews, wait—" Bergman called after him, but Mark was already sashaying out of the office, his hips swaying with a confidence that belied the turmoil beneath. Back at his desk, Mark opened his laptop and immediately checked Instagram instead of his work emails. His follower count was growing—up to 2,300 now, mostly from posting selfies and fashion content. The thought that this would have horrified him just months ago was growing more distant, like a dream barely remembered upon waking. He opened his personal shopping account and began browsing designer handbags, the Henderson audit forgotten. A Prada tote caught his eye—the perfect accessory for his new cream and gold outfit. Without hesitation, he clicked "add to cart" and entered the credit card information he now knew by heart. As he waited for the confirmation email, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in his darkened phone screen. The face looking back was beautiful—high cheekbones, full lips, glowing caramel skin, with eyes that held a hint of mischief. It wasn't his face, and yet increasingly, it was the only face that felt right. "Mercedes," he whispered, trying the name that had begun appearing in his dreams. It felt right on his tongue, more natural than "Mark" ever had. A colleague walked by his office, double-taking at his transformed appearance. Mark—or perhaps increasingly, Mercedes—smiled and gave a little finger wave. "Hey girl," he called out to Hannah from HR, who had never been "girl" to him before. "Love those shoes! Where'd you get them?" Hannah stared, clearly struggling to reconcile the conservative accountant she'd known for years with the glamorous, feminine person now occupying his office. "Um, DSW?" she replied uncertainly. Mark's nose wrinkled slightly in distaste. "You should try Nordstrom. Much better selection." He turned back to his computer, the conversation already forgotten as he resumed browsing Gucci's new collection. As the day progressed, more colleagues stopped by his office, some with legitimate work questions, others clearly curious about his dramatic transformation. Mark dealt with each interaction with growing confidence, sprinkling his professional advice with "honey" and "sweetie" and evaluating each visitor's outfit with a critical eye. By afternoon, he'd ordered three more designer outfits, scheduled a consultation for eyelash extensions, and completely forgotten about the Henderson audit. When Bergman emailed asking for an update, Mark replied with: "Working hard or hardly working? 🐀𐀀𐀀𐀀𐈜𘁗𪑬𫀠𪁡ve it by EOD tomorrow, pinky promise! 💖" On his lunch break, instead of eating at his desk while reviewing spreadsheets as he'd done for fifteen years, Mark went to the high-end department store across the street. He spent forty minutes trying on designer sunglasses, taking selfies in each pair and posting them with captions like "Should I splurge? 💸" and "Treat yourself, queen! 👑" When his phone rang—Susan calling for the third time that day—he silenced it without a second thought. Whatever she wanted to discuss could wait. Right now, he needed to decide between the Gucci cat-eye frames and the Prada oversized squares. Back at the office, he found a note on his desk requesting his presence in HR. With a dramatic sigh, he reapplied his lip balm, adjusted his blouse, and sauntered down the hallway, aware of eyes following his transformed figure. Let them stare, he thought with newfound confidence. They're just jealous. In the HR office, the discussion about "professional standards" and "concerning behavior patterns" washed over him like white noise. He nodded at appropriate intervals, occasionally examining his manicure or adjusting his hair. "Are you even listening, Mark?" the HR director finally asked, exasperated. "It's Mercedes, actually," he replied without thinking. "And yes, I hear you. Professional environment, blah blah. Can I go now? I have a dermologist appointment at four." "A what?" "Dermologist." He rolled his eyes. "For my skin? This glow doesn't maintain itself." As he left the HR office, the last remnant of Mark Matthews—the conscientious accountant, devoted husband, and father—tried desperately to surface through the growing personality of Mercedes. But the thought was fleeting, quickly replaced by excitement about his upcoming beauty appointment and the new clothes waiting at home. The transformation was accelerating, and Mark Matthews was running out of time. Chapter 9 Mark woke up to his phone buzzing with notifications. He reached for it with slender fingers tipped by a fresh gel manicure in a subtle nude shade—his third manicure this month, though he'd told Susan it was his first. The Instagram post he'd shared last night before bed had exploded overnight. "Feeling juicy 💋 #NewLips #FillerFriday #GlowUp," read the caption beneath a close-up selfie showcasing his newly plumped lips. He'd used the Valencia filter to highlight their fullness and the perfect application of the tinted gloss he'd sneaked from Sephora yesterday. Comments ranged from supportive to confused: "Okay sis, I see you! 🔥" "Love this journey for you!" "Mark… is everything okay?" "Who is this and why is he on my feed?" But one notification stood out from all the others. A direct message from MarquaviusCarter23. Mark's heart raced as he opened it, his newly manicured nails clicking against the screen. "those lips looking right 👀 you in miami next week? got seats for you courtside" He stared at the message, reading it over and over. Marquavius Carter—NBA superstar, fashion icon, the man whose touch had somehow started this whole transformation—had noticed him. Was flirting with him. Wanted to see him. "Oh. My. God," Mark whispered, his voice higher than it had been just weeks ago. He immediately started typing a response, then deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Nothing seemed right. His alarm beeped, reminding him it was Monday. Work. The Henderson audit. The partner meeting at 10. His quarterly presentation. Mark glanced at the message again, then at his reflection in the phone's black screen. The person staring back at him was becoming less and less recognizable—fuller lips, higher cheekbones, skin that glowed with a warm caramel tone, and eyes that seemed larger, more expressive. His once short-cropped hair now fell in soft waves to his shoulders, the natural brown giving way to honey-gold highlights he couldn't explain. "Not today," he decided aloud. "I can't do spreadsheets today." He opened his work email and composed a message to his boss: "Gerald, Need to take a personal day. Not feeling myself. Will reschedule Henderson presentation. -Mark" His finger hovered over the send button, momentarily struck by how unlike him this was. In fifteen years at Bergman & Associates, he'd never taken an unplanned day off. Never missed a deadline. Never rescheduled a presentation. But the old Mark Matthews was disappearing a little more each day, replaced by someone who apparently got lip fillers and DMs from NBA stars. He hit send, then immediately turned back to Marquavius's message. After several attempts, he settled on: "Thx for noticing 💋 Maybe I'll be there… depends what's in it for me 😉" He pressed send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately tossed the phone aside, shocked at his own boldness. Where had that come from? Since when did he use emojis, let alone flirtatious ones? Susan knocked on the bedroom door. "Mark? Aren't you getting ready for work?" "Taking a mental health day," he called back, pleased at how smoothly the lie came out. "Feeling stressed about the Henderson audit." There was a pause. "You? Taking a day off? Are you sure you're okay?" "I'm fine," he replied. "Just need a day to regroup. You go ahead to your meeting." Once he heard the front door close twenty minutes later, Mark padded downstairs in the silk pajama set he'd ordered online. The house was empty—Emma had left early for school, and Tyler was away at college. He had the whole day to himself. He made himself a skinny vanilla latte with the expensive espresso machine he'd impulsively purchased last week (charging it to the joint credit card and telling Susan it was on sale), then settled onto the couch with his phone and the remote. His thumb scrolled through Netflix, pausing momentarily on the documentaries and financial shows he used to watch. Nothing appealed. He switched to Hulu and immediately felt drawn to "The Real Housewives of Atlanta." "Perfect," he murmured, hitting play on the latest season. He'd never watched an episode before—in fact, he'd actively mocked Susan's occasional indulgence in such shows, calling them "mindless drivel" and "a waste of neurons." But now, as the opening sequence played, he felt genuinely excited, like he was about to learn something important. He curled his legs underneath him, a gesture that felt increasingly natural despite being one he'd never made before. Two episodes in, Mark was completely transfixed. The women on screen moved through their world with a confidence he'd never possessed but suddenly craved. Their vocabulary, cadence, and mannerisms were unlike anything in his normal social circles, yet he found himself mentally noting phrases and gestures. "Girl, do not come for me unless I send for you," one of the housewives declared during a heated argument over brunch, wagging her finger emphatically. "Period!" Mark repeated, testing the word and accompanying hand motion. It felt right somehow. Powerful. His phone buzzed with a response from Marquavius: "courtside comes with dinner after. you worth the investment?" Mark squealed—actually squealed—and immediately responded: "Honey, I'm the best investment you'll ever make. But I don't come cheap 💎" He hit send, then covered his mouth in shock. Where had that come from? The accountant in him was mortified—not only by the gold-digging implication but by the grammatical errors and slang he'd never used before. Yet it also felt… freeing. Fun. Like he was finally saying what he really meant instead of what was proper. He turned his attention back to the show, observing how the women interrupted each other with "Let me finish!" and "Don't play with me!" He noted how they emphasized points with dramatic head movements, how they used silence and looks to communicate displeasure, how they leveraged their beauty as currency. By lunchtime, Mark had watched four episodes and absorbed a lifetime of new expressions. He practiced them in the mirror as he made himself a kale smoothie (something he'd despised just weeks ago). "No shade, but…" he began, trying out the phrase with a subtle head tilt. "The way you handled that account was basic. And that's the tea." He snapped his fingers in a Z formation, then burst out laughing at his own reflection. His phone rang—Gerald from work. Mark let it go to voicemail. The old Mark would have been horrified at ignoring his boss's call. The new Mark just rolled his eyes and muttered, "Not today, Satan, not today," perfectly mimicking one of the housewives' signature lines. In the afternoon, Mark decided to take his transformation further. He went to the master bathroom and pulled out Susan's makeup bag, something he'd been eyeing with growing interest. He'd watched enough YouTube tutorials secretly over the past week to know the basics. "Foundation… concealer… contour…" he murmured, arranging the products on the counter. He worked with surprising dexterity, blending and patting as instructed by the beauty gurus he'd been following. An hour later, he stared at the results: perfectly contoured cheekbones, subtly smoky eyes, and glossy lips that looked even fuller with careful overlining. He looked… beautiful. There was no other word for it. "Yasss, queen," he whispered to his reflection, the phrase feeling natural on his newly plumped lips. "Serving looks!" His phone buzzed again—Marquavius responding: "expensive taste, huh? i like that in a woman" Mark froze, rereading the message. In a woman. Not "in a person" or even "in someone." Marquavius saw him as a woman. And the strangest part was… it didn't bother him. In fact, it sent a thrill through his entire body. "You have no idea, honey," he typed back. "I'm high maintenance but worth every penny 💅🏽" As he hit send, he noticed his reflection in the mirror again—the makeup, the manicure, the softened features, the now-obvious swells on his chest that he'd been hiding under loose shirts. The transformation was accelerating, becoming impossible to hide or deny. And he wasn't sure he wanted to stop it. He returned to the living room and put on another episode, this time taking notes on his phone. He created a list titled "How to be That Bitch" and began filling it with observations. By dinner time, Mark had watched an entire season and was speaking aloud to himself in his new voice—higher, more melodic, with the specific cadence and vocabulary he'd been studying all day. "The way these men think they can just come up in here with their little boy energy," he said to his reflection in the microwave as he heated up a frozen low-calorie meal. "Honey, if you ain't coming correct with Louboutins and a black card, don't waste my time. Period." He practiced the hair flip he'd seen the most stylish housewife perform, then tried the dramatic exit walk, adding extra sway to his increasingly feminine hips. When Susan texted to say she'd be home late, Mark felt only relief. He needed more time with his new mentors on screen, more time to practice his transformation before having to face his increasingly concerned wife. "Take your time, boo," he texted back, adding a heart emoji. "Self-care day over here." He settled back on the couch for more episodes, alternating between watching the show and practicing his new look and mannerisms in the full-length mirror in the hallway. His phone buzzed one more time—Marquavius again: "game next friday. sending car service for you. wear something tight." Mark felt his heart race and his newly sensitive skin flush with excitement. He typed his response without hesitation: "Better send a glam squad too if you want me looking right for those cameras, baby 💋" As he hit send, he caught sight of his reflection again—makeup perfectly applied, hair falling in soft waves, lips pouted in practiced seduction, and something else… confidence. A confidence Mark Matthews had never possessed in his life. "Mercedes," he whispered to his reflection, the name feeling right on his lips. "Mercedes Dior Carter." The old Mark, the accountant with the perfect attendance record and sensible shoes, seemed to fade a little more with each passing hour. In his place stood someone new—someone who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. And what Mercedes wanted was courtside seats, a five-star dinner, and Marquavius Carter's black card. "And that's what Imma get," she said to the empty room, practicing her snap for emphasis. Chapter 10 Susan Matthews stood frozen at the top of the stairs, watching a stranger descend from what used to be her husband's bedroom. "Mark?" she whispered, though the name no longer seemed to fit the creature before her. Mercedes Dior flipped her long, straight blonde hair over one shoulder and continued her practiced descent, each step a calculated performance. Her white long-sleeve crop top exposed a strip of tanned, toned midriff above a pleated tan mini skirt that barely covered the essentials. A delicate gold chain belt accentuated her impossibly narrow waist. Beige ankle boots with stiletto heels added four unnecessary inches to her already model-like height. "It's Mercedes, hon." The voice that emerged from those perfect red lips bore almost no resemblance to Mark's former baritone. "And I told you to call me that Nobody uses government names anymore." She punctuated this with an eye roll and a dismissive flick of her manicured hand. Susan's eyes brimmed with tears. "You can't go out like this. Please, Mark—Mercedes. Please. Think about the kids. Think about your job." Mercedes paused at the bottom of the stairs, checking her reflection in the entryway mirror. She adjusted the gold nameplate necklace that spelled out "MERCY" in delicate script, a gift she'd ordered for herself using Mark's credit card last week. "Don't worry about my job honey." She applied another coat of red lipstick, pouting at her reflection. "And the kids? Emma is at Jessica's house, and Tyler's at college." She turned to Susan with a suddenly stern expression. "And don't be calling them while I'm out, telling them their daddy lost his mind. I'll tell them when I'm ready." Susan stepped forward, her hand outstretched. "Mark, please. This isn't you. Something's happened to you. We can get help—" Mercedes's laughter cut through the room like glass. "Help? Honey, look at me." She gestured down her transformed body, from the perfect blonde hair to the gym-toned legs. "You think I want help going back to being a balding, boring-ass accountant with no ass and a Target wardrobe? Puh-lease." The doorbell rang, and Mercedes clapped her hands with childlike excitement. "My car is here!" She grabbed the small gold handbag from the entryway table, checking inside for her essentials—lip gloss, compact, phone, and the black Amex card she'd insisted Mark upgrade to last month. Susan blocked the door. "I won't let you leave like this. What if someone recognizes you?" Mercedes's expression hardened, a flash of something cold and calculating crossing her face. "Move, Susan. Now." The words carried none of the vocal fry or affected speech patterns she'd been using. For just a moment, something of Mark's authority resonated in her tone. Susan stepped aside, defeated. Mercedes immediately reverted to her practiced demeanor. "Don't wait up, hon! Quay's taking me to LIV after the game." She blew an air kiss and sashayed through the door toward the waiting black SUV with tinted windows. Susan caught one last glimpse of the stranger her husband had become—shoulders back, hips swaying, every movement designed to draw attention to the dramatic transformation that had occurred over the past two months. The driver opened the door, and Mercedes slid inside with practiced grace, crossing her long legs elegantly as the door closed. The SUV pulled away, taking with it the last traces of Mark Matthews. "Oh. My. God. If it isn't Mercy Dior with the courtside seats!" squealed Tiffany, the power forward's girlfriend, as Mercedes made her entrance into the VIP section of the Arena. Mercedes air-kissed her, careful not to smudge either of their immaculate makeup. "Hey, boo! Love the extensions! New?" "Girl, yes! Twenty-eight inches, Brazilian. Quay notice you yet?" Tiffany glanced toward the court where the Miami Heat were warming up. "Please," Mercedes flipped her hair dramatically. "He's been texting me all day. Sent this outfit over with a stylist this morning." She posed, making sure to emphasize how the skirt showcased her newly sculpted thighs. As she settled into her courtside seat, crossing her legs with practiced precision, Mercedes couldn't help but notice the exact spot where, just two months ago, Mark Matthews had stood with his son Tyler, waiting for an autograph that would change everything. The memory felt distant, as if belonging to someone else entirely. Mark's worried thoughts about mortgage payments and college tuition had been replaced with Mercedes's calculations of how much she could convince Marquavius to spend on her tonight. She pulled out her phone, perfectly manicured nails clicking against the screen as she took a selfie, making sure to capture both her outfit and the court behind her. "Courtside waiting for my baby to dominate 💋🔥 #HeatNation" she captioned before posting it to her rapidly growing Instagram. The arena announcer's voice boomed through the speakers: "Aaaaaand now, your Miami Heeeeat starting lineup!" Mercedes straightened, knowing the cameras would find her when they announced Marquavius's name. She'd practiced this moment in the mirror for hours, perfecting the blend of disinterest and seduction that made the other NBA girlfriends so envious. "At power forward, number twenty-three, Marquaaaavius Caaarter!" On cue, the arena cameras swung from Marquavius jogging onto the court to his gorgeous girlfriend courtside. Mercedes gave her practiced hair flip and subtle pout, aware that her image was now projected on the massive screens above. Thousands of eyes fixed on her, exactly as she'd planned. From the court, Marquavius broke formation to jog over to the sideline. The giant player bent down, his massive frame making Mercedes look delicate in comparison. "Damn, baby, you looking like a whole meal tonight," he growled, loud enough for nearby fans to hear. Mercedes batted her eyelashes and leaned forward just enough to give him a glimpse of cleavage. "Win for me tonight, daddy." She delivered the line with practiced breathiness, aware of the envious stares from women around her. Somewhere deep inside, a fragment of Mark Matthews recoiled in horror at the words coming from his lips, but that voice grew fainter each day. "Count on it." Marquavius's eyes darkened with possession and desire. He reached out, his massive hand engulfing hers as he placed a heavy diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist. "Something to hold you over till after the game." Mercedes gasped with genuine delight, instantly calculating its value. "Oh, Quay! It's gorgeous!" She tilted her wrist, making sure the nearby women could see the ice catching the arena lights. Marquavius grinned, clearly pleased with her reaction. "Only the best for my girl." He glanced at his teammates, who were watching the exchange with knowing smirks. "Gotta go dominate now. Watch me." "With pleasure, baby." Mercedes blew him a kiss as he jogged back to center court. She spent the first quarter alternating between posting photos of her new bracelet and calling encouragement to Marquavius. "That's right, baby! They can't guard you!" Her voice carried across the courtside seats, drawing looks from other fans. During a timeout, she caught sight of a familiar face several rows back—Tyler Matthews, Mark's college-aged son, staring at her in open-mouthed shock. Their eyes locked for a brief, horrifying moment before Mercedes quickly looked away, heart suddenly racing. He recognizes me, a panicked voice that still sounded like Mark whispered inside her mind. "Shut up," she hissed to herself, immediately returning her attention to the court where Marquavius was now driving toward the basket. "You got this, baby!" she shouted, pushing away the momentary panic. By halftime, Mercedes had successfully avoided looking in Tyler's direction again. She made her way to the VIP lounge, swaying her hips with each step, aware of the eyes following her movement. The white crop top and tan mini skirt combination had been a strategic choice—revealing enough to keep Marquavius's attention, expensive enough to establish her status among the other players' girlfriends. "Mercy!" called Jasmine, the center's wife. "Girl, Quay is playing out of his mind tonight. Must be trying to impress you." Mercedes smiled, sipping champagne through a straw to protect her lipstick. "As he should be. Men need to work for this." She gestured down her body with a perfectly manicured hand. "How'd y'all meet again?" asked a rookie's girlfriend, eyes wide with admiration. "Was it at that charity gala?" "That's our business," Mercedes replied with practiced mysteriousness. She'd perfected the art of deflection over the past weeks, creating an aura of exclusivity around her relationship with Marquavius. The truth—that she had once been Mark Matthews, middle-aged accountant and father of two—remained her carefully guarded secret. Each day, the transformation seemed more complete, the person she had been fading like a distant dream. For the second half, Mercedes returned to her courtside seat, but made sure to sit on the opposite side from where she'd spotted Tyler. She crossed her legs elegantly, aware that the cameras found her repeatedly during breaks in play. When the final buzzer sounded and the Heat had secured their victory, Mercedes stood with practiced poise, waiting for Marquavius to finish his post-game interviews. He emerged from the tunnel forty minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in a custom suit that highlighted his powerful physique. His teammates filtered out around him, several nodding respectfully to Mercedes. "Ready, babygirl?" Marquavius extended his hand, engulfing hers completely. "Been ready, daddy," she purred, pressing herself against his side. "You promised me LIV after." "Got a VIP section waiting for us." He guided her toward the players' exit, his hand possessively on the small of her back. "The whole team's coming, but don't worry—you the only one I'm looking at tonight." As they reached the exit, Mercedes spotted Tyler again, standing near the doors with a confused, devastated expression. For a split second, Mark's consciousness surged forward, almost calling out to his son. Mercedes quickly turned away, pressing her body closer to Marquavius's side. "Let's take the private exit, baby. Too many fans trying to get your attention, and tonight I want you all to myself." Marquavius grinned, clearly pleased with her possessiveness. "Anything for you, princess" LIV nightclub pulsed with bass-heavy music and flashing lights. Mercedes sat perched on Marquavius's lap in the elevated VIP section, her tan mini skirt riding dangerously high on her thighs. Bottles of premium champagne littered the table, sparklers occasionally erupting from new arrivals. "You see how they all staring at you?" Marquavius whispered in her ear, his massive hand spanning her entire waist. "Best-looking woman in Miami, and you all mine." Mercedes preened under the attention, adjusting her position to better showcase her assets. "And don't you forget it, daddy." She took a sip of champagne, leaving a perfect red lipstick mark on the glass. From across the VIP section, she noticed several players from opposing teams watching her, their interest obvious. She gave them just enough eye contact to stroke Marquavius's jealousy before turning her attention fully back to him. "Dance with me," she demanded suddenly, standing and pulling him toward the VIP dance floor. Under the pulsing lights, Mercedes moved with intuitive sensuality, her body knowing exactly how to entice. She pressed her back against Marquavius's chest, guiding his hands to her hips as she swayed to the rhythm. "Damn, Mercy," he growled in her ear. "Where'd you learn to move like that?" Mercedes turned to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Some things a girl just knows," she purred. As the night wore on, their entourage grew, with more players, models, and Miami celebrities joining their section. Mercedes maintained her position as the center of attention, the perfect accessory on Marquavius's arm—beautiful, charming, and completely focused on her man. When she excused herself to the ladies' room, she caught her reflection in the mirror and paused. For just a moment, she thought she saw Mark Matthews staring back at her—confused, trapped, terrified. She blinked, and the image was gone, replaced by the flawless facade of Mercedes Dior Carter. She reapplied her red lipstick, fluffed her blonde hair, and adjusted her crop top. "He's gone," she whispered to herself. "And I'm never going back." Returning to the VIP section, Mercedes slid gracefully back onto Marquavius's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing a red kiss to his cheek, marking her territory. "Take me home, daddy," she whispered in his ear. "I want to thank you properly for my new bracelet." As they left the club, paparazzi cameras flashed, capturing the NBA star and his stunning blonde girlfriend. Mercedes posed expertly, decades of Mark's camera shyness instantly replaced with innate knowledge of her best angles. In the back of Marquavius's Bentley, Mercedes checked her phone one last time. Seventeen missed calls from Susan. Three from Tyler. One voicemail from her former accounting firm, asking when Mark would be returning from his unexplained absence. With manicured nails, she deleted them all without listening, then powered off the phone. Mercedes Dior Carter had more important things to focus on tonight than the shattered remnants of Mark Matthews's former life. Chapter 11 A shaft of early morning sunlight sliced through the gap in Marquavius Carter's blackout curtains, falling across Mark Matthews' face. His eyes fluttered open, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling. This wasn't his bedroom. This wasn't his house. This wasn't his life. Reality crashed down on him with merciless clarity as fragments of the previous night flooded back: cocktails at LIV, the VIP section, Marquavius's hand possessively resting on his thigh, the invitation back to his penthouse, and then… "Oh my God," Mark gasped, his voice higher than it had been a month ago but still recognizably his own. He clutched the silk sheets to his chest, suddenly aware of his nakedness beneath them. Of the unfamiliar weight on his chest. Of the soreness in places he didn't want to contemplate. Beside him, Marquavius Carter—NBA superstar, multimillionaire, and now apparently his lover—slept peacefully, one muscular arm flung across the king-sized bed. Mark sat up carefully, his suddenly long hair falling around his shoulders. In the room's dim light, he could make out his clothes scattered across the floor—a silver sequined dress, underwear he would never have chosen for himself, and heels that would have been impossible to walk in just weeks ago. The room spun as Mark tried to process what had happened. He was Mark Matthews—husband, father, accountant. Conservative. Conventional. He had a mortgage, a retirement plan, a family. And yet here he was, in another man's bed, in a body that less and less resembled his own with each passing day. "What have I done?" he whispered, his hands trembling as they explored his transformed face—fuller lips, higher cheekbones, smoother skin. His wedding ring was gone, removed days ago when it no longer fit his slimmer fingers. Mark slid quietly from the bed, careful not to wake Marquavius. His legs felt unsteady as he tiptoed to the bathroom, closing the door silently behind him before flipping on the light. The mirror revealed a stranger. A beautiful woman with caramel-colored skin stared back at him, her honey-blonde hair tousled from sleep, her eyes wide with horror. His—her—body had transformed dramatically: narrow waist, fuller hips, undeniable breasts, and curves in places that had once been angular and masculine. "This isn't me," Mark whispered, though the lips that formed the words belonged to someone else entirely. "I need to go home. I need to explain to Susan. To fix this. There has to be a way to reverse whatever's happening." He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face as if it might wash away the transformation. It didn't. The makeup he'd applied so carefully last night—when had he learned to do a smoky eye?—smudged under his fingers. Mark grabbed a plush hand towel and wiped his face clean, searching for traces of his former self beneath the foundation and contour. What he found instead was a flawlessly beautiful feminine face, one that looked more natural without the makeup than with it. "I can't stay here," he decided, suddenly frantic. "I need to leave. Now." He crept back into the bedroom, gathering the unfamiliar clothes with shaking hands. The silver dress felt alien in his grip—and yet he couldn't deny the thrill that had run through him when Marquavius had first seen him in it, the basketball star's eyes darkening with unmistakable desire. "Stop it," Mark hissed to himself, pushing away the memory. "That's not me. That's not what I want." But even as he denied it, another part of his mind was already arguing: But it felt so good to be wanted like that. To be the center of his attention. To be beautiful. "No," Mark said more firmly, though his voice didn't carry the conviction it once would have. He stepped into the underwear—lacy, uncomfortable, nothing like the practical boxers he'd worn his entire adult life—and reached for the dress. As he struggled with the zipper, a text notification lit up his phone on the nightstand. Reflexively, he checked it. It was from Tyler: "Dad? Mom's really worried. It's been three days. Please just let us know you're okay." Three days? Mark's stomach lurched. He'd left home Friday afternoon, telling Susan he was working late. It was now Monday morning. He'd completely lost track of time, lost in a haze of clubs, shopping, and Marquavius's intoxicating attention. His fingers hovered over the phone, ready to reply, to explain, to beg forgiveness—but what could he possibly say? How could he explain that he was disappearing, being erased and replaced by someone named Mercedes? Before he could decide, the screen lit up with an incoming call. Susan's face—smiling in happier times—filled the display. Mark's heart hammered in his chest as he reached for the phone. Behind him, the bed sheets rustled. "Morning, babygirl," Marquavius's deep voice rumbled, still heavy with sleep. "You looking good even first thing in the morning." Mark froze, the phone continuing to vibrate in his hand. Susan was calling, desperate to reach her husband, while that husband stood half-dressed in another man's bedroom, being called "babygirl" by an NBA star. The absurdity of it, the horror, the sheer impossibility crashed over Mark. His vision tunneled, black spots dancing at the edges as the room tilted sideways. "I can't—this isn't—I need to—" he stammered, struggling to form coherent thoughts as panic overwhelmed him. "Hey, you okay?" Marquavius was suddenly beside him, strong hands steadying him as he swayed. "Mercedes? Talk to me." Mercedes. The name hit Mark like a physical blow. It wasn't his name. He was Mark Matthews. He had built a life with that name. Created a family. Established an identity. But as the phone stopped vibrating in his hand, something else vibrated through his consciousness—a sensation like warm honey flowing through his veins, smoothing over the jagged edges of his panic, softening his resistance. Mercedes sounds so right when he says it. "I—I'm fine," he heard himself saying, the voice higher, melodic, nothing like his own. "Just got dizzy for a second." Marquavius guided him to sit on the edge of the bed. "You had a lot to drink last night. Let me get you some water." As the basketball player moved to the mini-fridge in the corner, Mark stared down at the phone in his hand. Susan had left a voicemail. His thumb hovered over the notification. What would I even say to her? 'Sorry I disappeared for three days, but I'm turning into someone else and falling for an NBA player'? The thought was ridiculous. Impossible to explain. And with each passing moment, it felt increasingly distant, like trying to recall a dream after waking. "Here," Marquavius handed him a bottle of water. "Drink this. Then maybe we can get breakfast somewhere nice. I know this spot that does amazing avocado toast." Avocado toast. Three days ago, Mark would have scoffed at such a trendy, overpriced breakfast option. But now, his mouth watered at the thought. "That sounds perfect," his mouth said before his brain could object. What are you doing? the remaining fragment of Mark screamed silently. You need to leave! Call Susan! Explain! Fight this! But as Marquavius leaned down to kiss him, his massive hand gently cradling Mark's now-delicate jaw, the protest grew fainter. "You were amazing last night," Marquavius murmured against his lips. "Never met anyone like you, Mercedes." The name no longer felt foreign. It felt… right. Like it had always been waiting for him, and he'd only just discovered it. This isn't me, Mark thought weakly, even as his transformed body responded to Marquavius's touch, leaning into the kiss with practiced ease. But what if it is? another part of his mind countered. What if this is who you were always meant to be? The phone slipped from his fingers onto the plush carpet, Susan's voicemail unheard. Mark—no, Mercedes—reached up to wrap her arms around Marquavius's neck, surrendering to the sensation of being held, desired, cherished in a way Mark Matthews had never experienced. "I need to shower," she said, pulling back slightly. "Can't go to breakfast looking like this." "You look perfect to me," Marquavius replied, his gaze traveling appreciatively over her transformed body. The compliment sent a thrill through her that silenced Mark's fading protests. Had anyone ever looked at Mark Matthews with such desire? Had anyone ever made him feel so beautiful, so wanted? As she stepped into the luxurious marble shower, letting the hot water cascade over her new curves, Mercedes examined her thoughts with surprising clarity. Maybe this wasn't a curse or a mistake. Maybe it was liberation. Mark Matthews had been… what? Boring. Predictable. Trapped in a life of spreadsheets and mortgage payments and PTA meetings. Mercedes Dior was none of those things. Mercedes wore designer clothes and drank champagne in VIP sections. Mercedes had the attention of one of the most desirable men in Miami. Mercedes didn't worry about retirement plans or college funds or whether the Hendersons would judge her lawn maintenance. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in Marquavius's monogrammed silk robe, the last echoes of Mark's panic had faded entirely. The silver dress from last night seemed tacky in the morning light. She couldn't possibly wear that to breakfast. "Baby," she called, her voice naturally adopting the slightly husky, feminine tone that had developed over the past weeks. "I need something else to wear. This dress is giving walk of shame, and that's not cute." Marquavius looked up from his phone. "Already handled. Got my assistant to bring over some options." He gestured to several shopping bags that had appeared by the door. "Hope you like them. Got your size from the tags on your dress." Mercedes felt a rush of pleasure as she explored the bags—a Fendi sundress, Gucci sandals, a complete set of La Perla lingerie, even a selection of makeup in exactly the right shades for her skin tone. "This is perfect," she breathed, genuinely delighted. "You're so thoughtful." Mark Matthews would have been horrified at the expense, at the presumption, at the entire situation. But Mark Matthews was fading fast, becoming nothing more than a distant memory, like a TV character from a show she used to watch. As she applied the new makeup with practiced precision—when had those skills become so natural?—Mercedes studied her reflection. This face, this body, this identity felt more authentic than anything she'd experienced before. The doubt and confusion that had plagued her for weeks had vanished. Marquavius appeared behind her in the mirror, his powerful physique making her look delicate by comparison. "You about ready, babygirl? Got us a table waiting." "Almost," she replied, carefully applying the MAC lip gloss he'd selected for her. "Perfection takes time, daddy." The endearment slipped out naturally, and the pleased smile that crossed Marquavius's face sent a wave of satisfaction through her. This was power of a different kind than Mark had ever known—the power to captivate, to enthrall, to command attention simply by existing. Her phone buzzed again from where it had fallen by the bed. Mercedes glanced at it briefly, saw Susan's name on the display, and felt… nothing. No guilt. No connection. Just mild annoyance at the interruption. "Someone keeps blowing up your phone," Marquavius observed. Mercedes shrugged, applying a final touch of highlight to her cheekbones. "Just spam, probably. Not important." And in that moment, she meant it. The life of Mark Matthews—his family, his job, his responsibilities—belonged to someone else, someone she used to be but no longer was. "Ready," she announced, standing and smoothing down the designer sundress that hugged her curves perfectly. "Let's get that avocado toast, boo. Your girl is starving." As they left the penthouse, Mercedes Dior slipped her arm through Marquavius Carter's, stepping confidently in her new sandals, her honey-blonde hair catching the morning sunlight. Behind them, the phone buzzed once more on the bedroom floor, then fell silent. Mark Matthews had left the building. Mercedes Dior had taken permanent residence. And she had no intention of ever looking back. Chapter 12 The Henderson audit lay forgotten on Mercedes' desk, spreadsheets showing obvious calculation errors she couldn't bring herself to care about. Three months ago, those numbers would have kept Mark Matthews awake at night. Now, Mercedes Dior scrolled through Marquavius Carter's Instagram, admiring his latest post—a mirror selfie in the Heat locker room, muscles glistening, with the caption "Vegas bound after this W. Bringing someone special this time 👑." Her phone buzzed with his text: "Got the tickets. Private jet leaves Thursday morning. Pack light, baby. We buying everything new when we land." Mercedes smiled, manicured nails tapping a quick response: "Can't wait, daddy 🐀𲰮" Gerald Bergman appeared in her doorway, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern that had become familiar over the past weeks. "Matthews, did you see my email about the quarterly report? The board meeting is tomorrow, and—" He stopped mid-sentence, taking in Mercedes' appearance. In the three months since touching the magical pen, Mark Matthews had completely disappeared. In his place sat Mercedes Dior—5'6" with curves in all the right places, caramel-colored skin, full lips, and long jet black hair cascading past her shoulders. Today she wore a form-fitting black minidress that hugged her new hips, and four-inch gold designer heels she ordered online using Mark's credit card. "I'm handling it," Mercedes replied dismissively, not bothering to look up from her phone. "You haven't submitted anything," Bergman said, his voice tightening. "And the numbers from last week's presentation were completely wrong. Johnson had to redo everything overnight." Mercedes finally looked up, rolling her eyes dramatically. "And? He fixed it, right? So what's the problem?" "The problem," Bergman said, stepping fully into her office and closing the door, "is that this isn't like you, Mark." "Mercedes," she corrected automatically. "What?" "My name is Mercedes. Mercedes Dior." She twirled a strand of blonde hair around her finger. "Mark doesn't work here anymore." Bergman stared at her, completely lost. "This isn't funny. Whatever… phase you're going through, it's affecting your work. The partners are concerned." Mercedes sighed heavily, as if explaining simple concepts to a child. "Look, Gerald. Let me make this easy for you." She stood up, gathering her designer handbag and the framed photo of Marquavius she'd placed on her desk. "I quit." "You… what?" Bergman's face flushed red. "You can't just quit. The Henderson audit—" "Is boring," Mercedes finished for him. "Numbers are boring. This whole place is boring." She gestured around the office she'd once taken such pride in. "I got bigger plans now." "Mark, you've worked here for fifteen years! You have a pension, benefits, a family to support—" Mercedes laughed, the sound musical and unfamiliar. "Gerald, honey, look at me." She struck a pose, one hip jutted out. "Do I look like I need a pension plan? I got a new investor." She held up her phone, showing Bergman her lock screen—a photo of her with Marquavius at a Miami nightclub, his arm possessively around her waist. Bergman's jaw dropped. "Is that Marquavius Carter? The basketball player?" "Mmm-hmm," Mercedes confirmed with a smug smile. "My man. Taking me to Vegas on Thursday on his private jet." She began collecting her few personal items into her bag—makeup, a compact mirror, her phone charger. "This is insane," Bergman whispered. "You need help, Mark. Professional help. Whatever's happening to you—" "What's happening is I finally figured out what I'm worth," Mercedes cut him off. "And it's a hell of a lot more than sixty-five thousand a year plus dental." She slipped the company badge from around her neck and placed it on the desk. "Consider this my notice. Actually, not even notice. I'm done. Today." "The partners won't accept this," Bergman warned. "Fifteen years of service, and you're throwing it away for… what? To be some athlete's arm candy?" Mercedes' eyes flashed dangerously. "Better his arm candy than your calculating monkey." She stepped around the desk, the click of her heels sharp on the tile floor. "Tell the partners whatever you want. Tell them Mark had a breakdown if it makes you feel better. But trust me when I say he's not coming back." She brushed past Bergman, then paused at the doorway, turning back with a rehearsed hair flip she'd practiced in the mirror for hours. "Oh, and Johnson's been cooking the books on the Peterson account for months. Might want to look into that before the SEC does." With that parting shot, Mercedes sashayed down the hallway, aware of eyes following her from every office and cubicle. The accounting firm that had been Mark Matthews' professional home for fifteen years fell silent as she passed, heads turning, whispers following in her wake. At the elevator, Hannah from HR hurried to catch up with her. "Mark—I mean, um… are you really leaving? Just like that?" Mercedes stepped into the elevator and turned to face her former colleague. "Just like that, honey. Some of us were meant for bigger things than spreadsheets." She blew a kiss as the doors closed between them. In her car—a recent upgrade to a white BMW leased using the last of Mark's savings—Mercedes checked her reflection in the mirror, adjusting her lipstick and fixing a stray hair. The transformation was now complete physically, but she knew the hardest part still lay ahead. Telling Susan. The Matthews family home looked exactly as it always had—a modest suburban two-story with neatly trimmed hedges and a basketball hoop over the garage. Mercedes sat in the driveway for several minutes, steeling herself for what would come next. Susan's car was in the garage, which meant she was home from the elementary school where she taught. Emma would still be in her seventh-grade classes for another hour. This was the window Mercedes had planned for. Stepping out of the BMW, she smoothed her skirt and checked her appearance one last time. The diamond studs in her ears—an early gift from Marquavius—caught the afternoon sunlight as she walked to the front door, using her key for what she knew would be the final time. "Hello?" she called, stepping into the foyer. The house smelled of cinnamon—Susan must have been baking again, a stress response to the chaos of the past months. "In the kitchen," Susan's voice called back, normal and unsuspecting. Mercedes took a deep breath and walked through the living room, past family photos still featuring Mark Matthews—photos that now looked like they depicted a stranger. In the kitchen, Susan stood at the counter, kneading bread dough, flour dusting her practical cardigan. She looked up and froze, the bowl slipping from her hands and clattering on the counter. Three months of gradual changes had culminated in a person Susan barely recognized. "Mark. Please. You've been coming home later every night, sleeping in the guest room, avoiding me and Emma. I've been patient. I've suggested doctors, therapists, specialists… and you keep saying 'tomorrow' or 'next week.' But it's been months, and you're getting worse." "Not worse," Mercedes corrected. "Different. Better, actually." She set her designer bag on the kitchen island. "And I'm not Mark anymore. I'm Mercedes. Mercedes Dior." Susan stared as if seeing a ghost. "This isn't funny. This isn't a game. This is our life, our family!" "That's why I'm here." Mercedes met Susan's gaze steadily. "To tell you I'm leaving. Today." The color drained from Susan's face. "Leaving? To go where?" "Vegas, at first. With Marquavius." "The basketball player? The one you've been obsessed with?" Susan's voice cracked. "Mark, listen to yourself! You're a forty-three-year-old accountant with a family, not some… some groupie!" Mercedes shook her head. "I'm not Mark. Mark's gone. He's been disappearing for months, and you've seen it happening. I'm Mercedes now. And Quay cares about me. Wants me. Treats me like I deserve." "This is insane." Susan gripped the counter for support. "You need help. Professional help. We can still fix this—" "Nothing's broken," Mercedes interrupted. "For the first time, everything feels right. I'm becoming who I was always meant to be." "A basketball player's girlfriend?" Susan's shock was giving way to anger. "That's what you think you were 'meant to be'? What about being Emma's father? What about our marriage? Nineteen years, Mark. Nineteen years!" Mercedes winced slightly at the mention of Emma. "I've set up an account for her. For college. And I'm signing the house over to you." She reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope. "My lawyer prepared everything. You'll be taken care of." Susan stared at the envelope as if it might bite her. "Your lawyer? When did you get a lawyer?" "Last week. Quay recommended him." "'Quay,'" Susan repeated, the nickname sounding foreign and wrong on her lips. "So that's it? You're abandoning your family for some… fantasy life with a celebrity?" Mercedes' expression hardened. "It's not fantasy. It's happening. He loves me. Wants to take care of me." She gestured to her designer outfit, her professionally styled hair, her manicured nails. "This is who I am now." "Who you are?" Susan's voice rose dangerously. "You're a middle-aged man having a psychotic break!" "You never could see past Mark Matthews, the reliable accountant," Mercedes said coldly. "Never saw what I could be. What I deserved." "What you deserve?" Susan was shaking now. "What about what Emma deserves? A father who doesn't abandon her? Who doesn't… transform into someone unrecognizable?" The mention of Emma pierced through Mercedes' carefully constructed facade, touching the small part of Mark that still existed somewhere deep inside. For a brief moment, uncertainty flickered across her face. "Emma will understand someday," she said finally, though her voice lacked conviction. "She's young. Adaptable." "She's twelve!" Susan exploded. "Her father is turning into… into…" She gestured at Mercedes' transformed appearance, at a loss for words. "A beautiful woman who's finally living her best life?" Mercedes supplied, her confidence returning. "Trust me, there are worse things." Susan shook her head in disbelief. "I don't even know who you are anymore." "That's what I've been trying to tell you," Mercedes replied, picking up her bag. "I'm Mercedes Dior now. And on Thursday, I'm flying to Vegas with Marquavius Carter on his private jet." "What about your job? Your retirement account? Your responsibilities?" Susan's practical concerns emerged through her shock. "I quit today. And money won't be an issue anymore." Mercedes smoothed her skirt. "Quay takes care of his woman." Susan's expression hardened. "So that's it? Twenty years of life together erased because some basketball player made you feel special? Do you hear yourself?" Mercedes adjusted one of her diamond earrings. "I hear someone who finally knows her worth." She pulled out her phone, checking the time. "I have to go. I'm meeting my stylist to shop for Vegas. You can call my lawyer if you have questions about the paperwork." "Your stylist," Susan repeated numbly. "While your daughter is at school, learning her father abandoned the family." For the first time, real pain flashed across Mercedes' face. "I didn't… I'm not…" She took a steadying breath. "Tell Emma I love her. That this isn't about her." "Then who is it about, Mark? Because it certainly isn't about us—your family who has supported you through everything. It's about you. Only you." Mercedes fought back unexpected tears, her perfectly applied makeup at risk. "I can't be Mark anymore. I can't live that lie." "So you're choosing to live a different lie instead?" Susan asked quietly. "Pretending to be something you're not?" "This is who I am now," Mercedes insisted, though her voice wavered slightly. "The real me." "The real you," Susan echoed hollowly. "Well, I hope 'the real you' finds what she's looking for in Vegas. Because she's losing everything that ever mattered here." Mercedes turned away, unable to meet Susan's gaze any longer. "I left my keys on the table by the door. The BMW is leased under my new name, so you don't need to worry about it." "Your new name," Susan repeated. "Mercedes Dior. Did he pick it for you?" "I chose it myself," Mercedes replied, though this wasn't entirely true. The name had simply appeared in her mind one morning, feeling more right than "Mark" ever had. "Of course you did." Susan's voice had gone flat, emotionless. "Goodbye, then… Mercedes. I hope it's worth it." Mercedes paused at the kitchen doorway, looking back one last time at the woman who had been her wife, at the home that had been her anchor. For a fleeting moment, something like regret passed through her, a whisper of Mark fighting to be heard through the fog of transformation. But then her phone buzzed with a text from Marquavius—"Can't wait to see you tonight, babygirl"—and the moment passed. Mercedes Dior straightened her shoulders, flipped her hair, and walked out without looking back. In the driveway, she slid into her BMW and checked her makeup in the mirror, wiping away a single tear that had escaped. "Vegas, baby," she whispered to her reflection, pushing down the last remnants of guilt. "Time to collect what you deserve." Mercedes Dior saw only the road ahead, leading to designer boutiques, private jets, and the arms of an NBA star who wanted her exactly as she was. Chapter 13 "Umm, excuse me? I literally asked for the champagne like five whole minutes ago, and y'all still ain't brought it," Mercedes called out, not bothering to look up from her phone as she snapped another selfie in the mirror of Miami's most exclusive boutique. "And not that cheap stuff you was about to bring. The Dom. Period." Her voice carried through Saks Fifth Avenue's VIP lounge, where Marquavius Carter had arranged for a private shopping experience. Mercedes adjusted her light blue cropped long-sleeve top, the ribbed material hugging her transformed body perfectly. The delicate lace adorning the sleeves offered a feminine touch that made her feel powerful. Her form-fitting high-waisted blue leggings accentuated curves that seemed to grow more perfect by the day, while her white boots with fluffy trim added just the right amount of drama. "Sorry about that, Mrs. Carter," the stylist apologized, practically running over with a tray of champagne flutes. "We've just opened the Dom Pérignon Rosé you requested." Mercedes barely acknowledged her, instead angling her structured white handbag with its gold clasp to ensure it was visible in her selfie. "This lighting is trash. How you expect anyone to shop when y'all got us looking busted in these mirrors?" Quay watched from a plush velvet chair in the corner, his 6'6" frame making the furniture look comically small. His eyes never left Mercedes as she posed, complained, and commanded the room. Where others saw rudeness, he saw confidence. Where the staff heard entitlement, he heard a woman who knew her worth. "We'll be in Vegas next weekend," Mercedes announced, finally taking a flute of champagne and sipping it with practiced elegance. "I need looks that's gonna make them other NBA wives sick with jealousy. Like, hospital-level envious. You feel me?" The stylist nodded eagerly. "Absolutely, Mrs. Carter. I've pulled some exclusive pieces from our newest collections that haven't even hit the sales floor yet." "They better not have. I ain't wearing nothing that regular people can buy." Mercedes set down her champagne and strutted toward the rack of dresses. "And stop calling me Mrs. Carter. It's Mercedes. Or Mercy if you absolutely killing the styling game, which…" she looked the woman up and down critically, "we ain't there yet." Two months ago, this person had been Mark Matthews, conservative accountant and father of two. Now, almost no trace of that existence remained—except perhaps the analytical way Mercedes assessed each garment's quality before dismissing most of them with a flick of her manicured hand. "This giving me clearance rack. This giving me TJ Maxx realness. This?" She held up a designer gown worth thousands. "This giving me mother of the bride at a budget wedding. Try again, sweetie." Across the store, a small crowd had gathered—other shoppers trying to glimpse the NBA star and his notoriously demanding wife. Mercedes noticed immediately. "Quay, the peasants are staring. Tell security to move them back." She didn't bother lowering her voice. "I can't concentrate on fashion when I got an audience of basic bitches in last season's bags." Marquavius shifted uncomfortably but signaled to his security team. "Whatever you need, babygirl." Mercedes rewarded him with a dazzling smile that transformed her entire demeanor for the three seconds it lasted. "That's why you my daddy." Then, turning back to the stylist with the smile vanishing instantly: "I need options that's gonna make me look expensive. I already am expensive, but I need to remind people, you know what I'm sayin'?" "Of course," the stylist nodded, rushing to bring more options. Mercedes turned her attention to a nearby jewelry case. "Open this," she commanded a different sales associate who had been hovering nearby. "Certainly," the man said, producing a key. "Did you have a particular piece in mind?" "I got eyes, don't I? I can tell you what I want when I see it." Mercedes leaned over the case, her structured white handbag dangling from her wrist. "What's the most expensive thing in here?" The associate pointed to a diamond necklace. "This piece is $87,000. It features VVS1 diamonds in a—" "I'll take it," Mercedes interrupted. "Quay, come see what I found for Vegas." Marquavius made his way over, placing a protective hand on the small of Mercedes' back. "Anything you want, babygirl." "See? That's a real man," Mercedes announced loudly to no one in particular. "Don't be settling for these boys who gotta check their bank account before they say yes. My man just says yes first and the accountant figures it out later." The memory of being an accountant himself flickered briefly in Mercedes' mind before evaporating like mist. That life seemed increasingly like someone else's distant past. "I need to try on more dresses," Mercedes declared, snapping her fingers. "And somebody better bring me more champagne. This glass empty and that's disrespectful to my thirst." As if summoned by magic, three staff members appeared—one with champagne, one with a new rack of dresses, and one ready to assist with the fitting room. Mercedes surveyed them with regal disdain. "That's better. Now y'all learning." In the fitting room—which had been specially prepared with extra mirrors, rose petals, and a small table of macarons—Mercedes slipped into a skintight silver dress with a plunging neckline. "Quay!" she called out. "Come see if this worth your money!" Marquavius dutifully entered the private fitting suite, his eyes widening as Mercedes posed with one hand on her hip. "Damn, babygirl," he breathed. "You look—" "I know," Mercedes cut him off with a smirk. "But is it Vegas worthy? Is it 'make them hoes cry' worthy? 'Cause that's the standard." "It's perfect," he assured her, reaching for his wallet as if by reflex. Mercedes turned to examine herself from another angle. "Hmm, I need something sluttier for the club night and something classier for dinner at Nobu. This can be for the daytime shopping. I'ma need at least eight more outfits." The stylist, who had been waiting patiently by the door, jumped into action. "I have several options that would be perfect for different occasions. Would you like to see the Balmain collection that just arrived?" "Balmain so last season," Mercedes said dismissively. "But bring it anyway. Maybe they finally did something interesting." While trying on the fourteenth dress, Mercedes caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and paused. For just a moment, Mark Matthews stared back at her—confused, trapped, horrified. The reflection seemed to ask: What have you become? Mercedes blinked, and the vision vanished, replaced by her gorgeous, transformed reality. She tossed her long, straight black hair and adjusted the plunging neckline of the red dress she was currently modeling. "This the one," she declared, running her hands over her hips. "This the 'your man gonna risk it all' dress." Outside the fitting room, a commotion caught her attention. She heard a familiar voice—high-pitched, demanding, similar to her own. "Ugh, they let another player's girl in here during MY private shopping time?" Mercedes rolled her eyes dramatically. "Security slipping today." She strutted out of the fitting room to find Justine Peterson—wife of the Heat's starting center—browsing nearby racks with her own entourage. "Well, if it isn't Justine with the knockoff Birkin," Mercedes called out loudly. "How you doing, boo? Still getting your jewelry from the mall kiosk?" Justine's head snapped up, her expression morphing from surprise to thinly veiled hostility. "Mercedes! I didn't know the thrift store section was having a sale today." "Thrift store?" Mercedes gasped, placing a hand over her heart. "Honey, everything I touch turns into luxury. Meanwhile, them shoes you wearing are screaming DSW clearance." The two women air-kissed with frozen smiles while their respective NBA husbands exchanged uncomfortable nods across the store. "You coming to Vegas next weekend?" Mercedes asked, already knowing the answer—she'd checked the team schedule and knew exactly which players' wives would be there. "Of course," Justine replied. "Derek just bought me a whole new wardrobe for it." Mercedes smirked. "That's cute. Hope he saved some of his per diem for y'all's dinner. Anyway, I got a private styling session to get back to. Some of us can't just grab whatever's on the rack and call it fashion." Before Justine could respond, Mercedes turned on her heel and sashayed back to her fitting area, making sure to add extra sway to her hips knowing that Quay was watching. "Pull me something that gonna make Justine Peterson contemplate retirement," she instructed the stylist in a stage whisper. "And put that red dress on hold. Matter fact, I want everything in a size smaller too. Nothing makes a statement like wearing something too small on purpose." The next hour passed in a blur of designer names, champagne refills, and Mercedes' increasingly specific demands: "This zipper too loud. Next." "I need something with better hashtag potential. This dress ain't even social media worthy." "Why this fabric not making that swishy sound when I walk? I need people to hear me coming." "This color is giving government office. Bring me something that's giving 'my man drops forty points a night.'" Through it all, Quay sat patiently, nodding appreciatively and periodically authorizing charges on his black card. His teammates often complained about their wives' spending, but Quay found Mercedes' materialism endearing—evidence of her transformation from the plain, practical person she'd once been into this glamorous creature who commanded attention everywhere she went. "Baby," Mercedes called, emerging in yet another outfit—a barely-there gold dress that seemed to defy the laws of physics. "You think this too much for the blackjack tables?" "No such thing as too much when it's on you," Quay replied, his admiration evident. Mercedes beamed, then immediately turned to the stylist with a frown. "I need better underwear for this. What's the point of a dress showing everything if what's underneath ain't worth seeing? Bring me the La Perla collection. All of it." By the time they finished, Marquavius had spent well over $50,000, and Mercedes had accumulated enough outfits for a month in Vegas, despite their trip being scheduled for just three days. "We'll need all this delivered to our penthouse," Mercedes informed the exhausted sales staff. "And don't fold nothing wrong. I can tell if a dress been folded wrong just by looking at it." As they prepared to leave, Mercedes paused to take a final selfie in front of the store's logo wall, positioning her structured white handbag prominently in the frame. "'Just a little retail therapy before Vegas 💅🏽 Bag: @Prada, Attitude: Priceless, Man: MVP 💋 #ShoppingSpree #NBAwife #WhenHeKnowsYourWorth,'" she dictated to Quay, who dutifully typed it into her phone. On their way out, Mercedes spotted a young woman staring at them. "Take a picture, honey, it'll last longer," she called out. Then, with a sudden shift to surprising kindness, she added, "Actually, you want a real picture? Come here." The startled fan approached nervously. "Quay, take our picture," Mercedes commanded, handing him her phone and posing with the fan. "What's your name, boo?" "A-Amanda," the girl stammered. "Well, A-Amanda," Mercedes said with a genuine smile that transformed her face, "follow me on Instagram. I'll send you this pic. And maybe give you some style advice, 'cause that top with them pants is a crime in all fifty states." As they finally exited the mall, trailed by security guards carrying their purchases, Mercedes looped her arm through Quay's massive one. "You spent too much on me today," she said, though her tone suggested she didn't believe this for a second. "Nothing's too much for you," Marquavius replied, kissing the top of her head. "I know," Mercedes agreed, checking her reflection in a store window they passed. "But it's cute that you know it too." In that store window, for just a flickering moment, Mark Matthews appeared again—a fading ghost trapped behind the glass, watching his former life disappear completely beneath layers of designer clothes and a personality that grew more confident and outrageous by the day. Mercedes blinked, and there was only her gorgeous reflection staring back—exactly as it should be. Chapter 14 The presidential suite at the Bellagio sprawled across two thousand square feet of pure luxury, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the Las Vegas Strip. Mercedes stood mesmerized by the famous fountains below, their synchronized water jets dancing to a distant melody. The afternoon sun caught the spray, creating ephemeral rainbows that appeared and vanished in seconds. "Thirty thousand a night," she purred, running her fingertips along the cool Italian marble countertop of the private bar. She turned to admire her reflection in the mirrored wall behind the liquor display, pleased with how her honey-blonde hair caught the light. "You do know how to treat your queen right." The suite was a monument to opulence—a dining room that could seat twelve, a media room with theater seating, a private massage room, and a master bedroom with a California king bed draped in Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count higher than most people's credit scores. Fresh-cut orchids adorned every surface, their subtle fragrance mixing with Mercedes' Clive Christian perfume—another recent gift from Quay that had cost nearly a thousand dollars per ounce. Marquavius lounged on the oversized sectional, his six-foot-six frame somehow making even the massive furniture look small. He'd already kicked off his custom Ferragamo loafers, his gold championship watch glinting as he scrolled through his phone. His attention periodically flicked up to Mercedes's silhouette against the Vegas skyline. "Come here, babygirl," he called, setting his phone aside and patting the space beside him. "I been watching that ass all night at the club. Driving me crazy." Mercedes turned slowly, deliberately, knowing exactly how to maximize the moment. She'd changed from her courtside outfit into a skin-tight red bandage dress by Hervé Léger that had cost more than her ex-husband's monthly mortgage payment. The hem barely covered the essentials, and the plunging neckline showcased her perfect breasts—another gift from Quay, though not one purchased at a store. "You been watching?" She pouted playfully, her lips glossy with Dior Rouge. "All those bottles you bought for the table and you still had time to watch me?" She sauntered toward him, each step a calculated performance in five-inch Christian Louboutin heels. "Did you see all those other players trying to get my number while you were signing autographs?" Marquavius's expression darkened slightly, his jaw tensing. "What players?" "Mmm, jealous baby?" Mercedes smiled, enjoying the power she wielded. "Don't worry. I told them I'm only interested in men who average double-doubles." She reached the couch and stood over him, looking down with practiced dominance despite being nearly a foot shorter. "And who buy me things." Before Marquavius could respond, she straddled him in one fluid motion, her dress riding up her toned thighs. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles beneath his silk Versace shirt. "You know what I want now," she whispered against his ear, nibbling on his earlobe. The diamond studs he'd given her last month caught the light as she moved. "Anything, babygirl. Name it." His large hands moved to her waist, fingers digging into her skin. "I saw this cute little Birkin at the Hermès store downstairs." She rolled her hips slowly against him, her voice dropping to a breathy whisper. "The crocodile one. In that pretty blue color." "How much?" His hands tightened on her waist. "Fifty thousand," she breathed, kissing along his jaw, leaving traces of red lipstick on his skin. "But I'm worth it, right daddy?" "Damn, Mercedes—" She silenced him with a kiss, deep and demanding. When she pulled back, she fixed him with a stare that had been perfected over months of practice. "Yes or no, baby? Mama needs a new bag." She ground against him harder. "Yes," he groaned, completely under her spell. "Anything you want. You know that." Mercedes smiled triumphantly. "That's my big man." She reached between them, undoing his belt with practiced ease. "Now let me show you what fifty thousand dollars gets you." She slid off his lap onto her knees on the plush carpet, looking up at him through her lashes. "Remember our first time in Minnie? This gonna make that look like amateur hour." Marquavius's head fell back against the couch as Mercedes took control, her red-lacquered nails contrasting against his dark skin as she freed him from his designer jeans. "Damn, babygirl," he moaned as she demonstrated her skills, the Vegas skyline providing a cinematic backdrop to their private performance. Later, the California king bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets became their playground. Mercedes made sure to position them where they could see their reflection in the mirrored ceiling—her specific request when booking what she considered proper Vegas accommodations. "Look at us, baby," she commanded, now on all fours as Marquavius gripped her hips from behind. Her blonde extensions splayed across the pillow, her back arched at a perfect angle. "We look like a million bucks." The headboard began to bang rhythmically against the wall as Marquavius found his rhythm. Mercedes's moans grew louder, calibrated to stroke his ego as much as for her own enjoyment. "Tell me I'm the baddest," she demanded between gasps. "Tell me I'm worth every penny." "You the baddest, babygirl," he grunted, completely entranced by the visual of her perfect body moving against his. "Ain't nobody like you. Not in Miami, not anywhere." Mercedes smiled, knowing she had him exactly where she wanted. "Harder, baby. I want the whole floor to hear what you doing to me." The sensation of being pounded by Marquavis felt oh so right as she said it. Their Vegas suite became a temple to excess—champagne bottles emptied, room service trays discarded, and Mercedes's calculated passion leaving Marquavius convinced he was the luckiest man in the NBA. Hours later, as Marquavius finally collapsed in exhausted sleep, Mercedes slipped from the bed. She padded naked to the living area, picked up her phone, and sent a quick text to her stylist with a picture of the Hermès bag. "Getting this tomorrow. Need outfit ideas." She took a selfie in the mirror, artfully covering just enough to keep it Instagram-appropriate, her body glistening with the aftermath of their encounter, hair deliciously mussed. "Vegas nights with my MVP 💎👑 #WhatHappensInVegas #ActuallyGetsPriced #WorthEveryPenny," she captioned before posting it to her story. Marquavius's wallet on the counter caught her eye. She slipped out his black card and tucked it into her clutch for tomorrow's shopping spree. Why wait for him to wake up when Saks opened at 10? She poured herself a glass of Dom Pérignon from the half-empty bottle on the bar, savoring its crisp taste as she looked out at the Vegas lights. Three months ago, she'd been Mark Matthews, a conservative accountant with a mortgage, two kids, and a Costco membership. A flash of memory invaded her perfect moment – the dull marriage to Susan, the boring job, the pathetic struggle to make ends meet while maintaining a middle-class facade. Mercedes physically recoiled, nearly spitting out her champagne at the thought of that dreary existence. She actually gagged slightly, pressing manicured fingers to her throat. "Disgusting," she whispered, banishing the memory of Mark like a bad taste. That life was a prison she'd escaped – all those years of being ordinary, unappreciated, invisible. She returned to bed, curling up next to Marquavius's massive frame, already planning which jewelry store to hit first in the morning. "Best investment you ever made," she whispered to his sleeping form, admiring how the diamond earrings he'd given her sparkled even in the dim light of the bedroom. She traced a red nail down his chest possessively. "And don't you forget it, daddy. Chapter 15 Several months later, in the presidential suite at the St. Regis Miami felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the day. Mercedes had spent the afternoon filming for her reality show pilot, "Trophy Life," followed by a three-hour shopping spree at Bal Harbour that required two SUVs to transport her purchases home. Now, finally alone with Quay, she felt the carefully maintained facade of Mercedes Dior Carter—NBA's most demanding wife—softening just slightly. "Baby, you want anything before I shower?" Quay called from the bathroom, where the sound of running water had just begun. Mercedes glanced up from her phone, where she'd been scrolling through comments on her latest Instagram post. "Just you, daddy," she called back, her voice carrying a genuine warmth absent from her public persona. Alone, she moved to the edge of the bed, admiring the plush white bedding that housekeeping had turned down. The suite had been their home for the past week while their mansion underwent renovations—specifically, the expansion of Mercedes' closet to accommodate her growing collection of designer pieces. She slipped out of her day clothes—a Balmain dress that cost more than Mark Matthews' monthly mortgage payment—and into the powder blue silk nightgown Quay had surprised her with that morning. The delicate lace trim felt cool against her skin as she examined herself in the full-length mirror. "Not bad for five months pregnant," she murmured, turning to the side to observe her growing baby bump. The nightgown draped perfectly over her new curves, custom-made by a Parisian designer who specialized in luxury maternity lingerie. When Quay emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, towel wrapped around his waist and water still beading on his muscular chest, Mercedes was perched on the edge of the bed, arranging her hair for maximum effect. "Damn, baby," he breathed, taking in the sight of her in the blue nightgown. "You look better than any trophy in my collection." Mercedes preened under his admiration, though she pretended to be unaffected. "This old thing? Just something to sleep in." She glanced up through her lashes. "Unless you had other plans?" Quay's smile was answer enough. He crossed the room in three long strides, his 6'6" frame making even the massive suite seem smaller. Without a word, he settled behind her on the bed, his powerful arms encircling her waist, hands coming to rest gently on her growing belly. "How's my little princess today?" he murmured against Mercedes' neck. "She's been kicking up a storm. Already taking after her daddy with those strong legs." Mercedes leaned back into his embrace, allowing herself a moment of genuine vulnerability. "The doctor says everything looks perfect." "Just like her mama," Quay said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. Mercedes reached for her phone on the nightstand. "We need to capture this moment for the baby book." "You mean for Instagram," Quay teased, but didn't object. "A girl's gotta feed her following," Mercedes replied with a mischievous smile. "Do you know how many DMs I get asking about my pregnancy skincare routine? The people need content, Quay." She positioned her phone at the perfect angle, ensuring it captured both her glowing skin and Quay's adoring gaze as he held her from behind. Their legs intertwined naturally, his muscular frame making her look delicate despite her pregnancy. "Smile, daddy," she instructed, though the command lacked the sharp edge it carried when directed at assistants or service staff. Quay obediently rested his chin on her shoulder, his arms tightening protectively around her midsection. Mercedes snapped several photos in quick succession, expert at finding her best angles even in intimate moments. "Perfect," she declared, immediately scrolling through the options. "This one's definitely giving 'blessed and unbothered' energy." "You gonna post that tonight?" Quay asked, his hands now sliding up to massage her shoulders. "Mmm, maybe," Mercedes murmured, distracted by his touch. "Engagement rates are highest around 9 PM. My social media strategist says we need to maintain the perfect balance of aspirational and accessible." "Accessible? You?" Quay chuckled against her skin. "Baby, you made a valet cry yesterday because he opened your door with the wrong hand." "It affected my exit angle!" Mercedes protested, though a smile played at her lips. "Besides, you know what I mean. People need to see moments like this." She set her phone aside and turned slightly in his embrace. "The real us." "The real us," Quay repeated softly, studying her face with an intensity that still made her heart race. "You know what I love about you, Mercedes?" "My perfect ass? My amazing taste? The way I make you look good on red carpets?" she suggested, ticking off points on her manicured fingers. "The way you never settled," he said instead, surprising her. "The world tried to put you in a box, and you said 'nah.' That takes courage." Mercedes blinked, momentarily speechless. Behind the carefully crafted exterior of entitlement and designer labels, something vulnerable flickered in her eyes—a flash of the transformation journey that had brought her here. "I almost didn't," she admitted quietly. "That day in the arena, when you handed me the pen… part of me was terrified of what was happening." She placed her hand over his where it rested on her belly. "But it was like something inside me had been waiting to come out my whole life." Quay nodded, understanding in his eyes. "I saw it, even then. Something special about you. Like a diamond nobody had bothered to polish." Mercedes laughed, the sound softer than her usual performative giggle. "Now look at me. All shine." "All mine," Quay corrected, turning her fully in his arms until she was facing him. The towel around his waist had loosened, revealing more of his athletic physique. "And I ain't ever letting you go." Mercedes felt her breath catch as she looked up at him. For all her affected airs and outrageous demands, the connection between them was real. Somehow, through the magical transformation that had turned Mark Matthews into Mercedes Dior, she had found not just a new body and identity, but a soul connection she'd never imagined possible. "Better not," she whispered, pressing herself against his chest. "Cause I'm high maintenance, and moving would be a whole thing with all my shoes." Quay laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest against her cheek. "That's my girl. Always practical." "Speaking of practical," Mercedes murmured, her hands now trailing down his abs appreciatively, "let's not waste this perfectly good bed." She reached for her phone one last time, quickly finishing her caption before tossing it aside: "Private nights with my MVP 💍 #BabyCarterComingSoon #HeCouldntResistAllThis #BlessedAndUnbothered" As Quay lowered her onto the plush white sheets, Mercedes wrapped her arms around his neck, surrendering to the moment. Tomorrow she would resume her role as the NBA's most demanding trophy wife—issuing impossible instructions to assistants, making salespeople tremble, and ensuring everyone knew exactly who Mercedes Dior Carter was in the pecking order of Miami society. But tonight, in the privacy of their suite, she allowed herself to simply be loved—completely, passionately, and without reservation. "I love you, Mercedes," Quay whispered against her lips as his hands traced the delicate lace of her blue nightgown. "I love you more, daddy," she replied, and for once, there wasn't a hint of performance in her words. Chapter 16 Mercedes Dior Carter barely registered the announcer's voice echoing through the arena as she adjusted the Hermès silk scarf draped artfully over her seven-month baby bump. Her courtside seat—the same one she'd occupied for every home game this season—had been specially modified with extra cushioning to accommodate her pregnancy. Not that she'd asked for it; Quay had simply made it happen, like he did with everything she wanted. "Girl, your glow is literally blinding me right now," said Tiffany, wife of the Heat's small forward, sliding into the vacant seat beside her. "That Tom Ford dress is giving mother goddess energy." Mercedes flipped her perfectly highlighted honey-blonde hair extensions and preened. "Period, boo. It's custom. Had to serve preggo realness without looking like I'm wearing a tent." She ran manicured fingers—nude coffin-shaped acrylics with subtle diamond accents—over the curved silhouette of her designer maternity dress. "And those Louboutins? In your third trimester? You're actually insane." Tiffany shook her head in admiration. "Beauty is pain, sweetie." Mercedes adjusted the red-bottomed heels that had cost Quay $3,200 last weekend. "My baby girl isn't about to have a mother who wears flats. What kind of life lesson would that be?" The arena was filling up for the season's final home game. Mercedes surveyed the crowd with practiced indifference, occasionally acknowledging the side-glances and whispers with a subtle hair toss. After a year as Marquavius Carter's wife, she'd grown accustomed to the attention. Her phone buzzed with a notification. She pulled it from her custom Birkin bag (a "push present" Quay had given her early—"Just the first of many, babygirl") and checked the screen. "Ugh, my stylist is stressing me," she sighed dramatically. "Like, sir, I already told you the theme for the baby shower is 'diamonds and denim.' Not rhinestones. Not crystals. Actual diamonds." She tapped out a reply, her acrylic nails clicking against the screen. "The centerpieces need to be dripping, literally dripping, with ice." "Your baby shower is going to break the internet," Tiffany said. "I heard you hired the Kardashians' event planner?" "Had to fire her, actually." Mercedes rolled her eyes as she applied another coat of Fenty gloss to her plumped lips. "She tried to tell me my color scheme was 'too much.' Like, excuse me? Too much? For my daughter? Carter heiresses don't do subtle, periodt." "Speaking of Carter heiresses, have you and Quay settled on a name yet?" Mercedes smiled mysteriously. "We have, but it's exclusive until the reveal at the shower. Let's just say it's giving luxury brand energy with a unique spelling that's going to require her own hashtag." The team was taking the court for warm-ups now. Mercedes immediately spotted Quay—impossible to miss at 6'6" with his athletic build and signature diamond earrings (which she'd selected to match her own collection). He was in his pre-game ritual, but still found her in the crowd, shooting her a wink that sent a flutter through her chest. "Look at my man," she purred. "Thirty points tonight, watch." "You manifesting?" Tiffany asked. "Girl, please. I know exactly what motivates him." Mercedes lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. "Told him this morning if he breaks thirty, I'll wear that little Agent Provocateur number he likes. The pregnancy-safe version, obviously." She pulled out her custom jewel-encrusted fan (another Quay gift, "for when you get hot watching me play, babygirl") and began waving it lazily, enjoying the envious glances from women in the nearby rows. Her 8-carat diamond engagement ring caught the arena lights, sending prisms dancing across her meticulously contoured décolletage. "Oop, incoming," Tiffany murmured, nodding toward a woman approaching their seats. Mercedes sighed dramatically as she recognized Susan Matthews—her former wife—making her way down the aisle, looking completely out of place in her sensible department store blouse and slacks. The arena lights dimmed as the starting lineups were announced. Mercedes sat up straighter, her expression transforming into one of genuine excitement as the announcer called out: "And at power forward, number twenty-three, your MVP candidate, Marquaaaaavius 'Quay' Caaaarter!" As Quay jogged onto the court, he made a deliberate detour to the sideline, stopping directly in front of Mercedes. The crowd roared as he bent down, first kissing her stomach and then her lips. "Win for us, daddy," she purred loud enough for nearby fans to hear. "Always do, babygirl," he replied before returning to his team. The cameras, predictably, found her immediately, projecting her image on the jumbotron. Mercedes was ready, offering her practiced three-quarter profile that showcased both her flawless makeup and her baby bump in the most flattering angle possible. "That's right, get my good side," she murmured, blowing a kiss to the camera. As the game began, Mercedes alternated between watching Quay dominate on the court and checking her social media accounts. Her following had exploded over the past year—3.2 million on Instagram, partnerships with fashion brands, a beauty line in development, and a reality show offer on the table. When Quay scored a powerful dunk over two defenders, Mercedes stood up, cheering with genuine enthusiasm. "That's my husband! Nobody can guard him! Period!" During a timeout, as the players huddled around their coach, Mercedes caught Quay glancing at her. She blew him a kiss, and he grinned in response. "You two are literally couple goals," Tiffany sighed. "It's called manifestation, honey." Mercedes adjusted her diamond necklace—a "just because" gift from last week. "I knew exactly what I wanted, and I got it." As she watched Quay return to the court, Mercedes felt the baby kick. She placed a hand on her stomach, a rare genuine smile softening her usually calculated expression. One year ago, she had been Mark Matthews—a mediocre accountant with a receding hairline and a closet full of polo shirts from the Kohl's clearance rack. Now she was Mercedes Dior Carter—NBA royalty, fashion influencer, and soon-to-be mother of Quay's daughter. The transformation was complete. Permanent. Perfect. When the final buzzer sounded (Miami victorious, with Quay scoring 32 points), Mercedes stood with the grace of someone who had spent a lifetime in five-inch heels rather than just twelve months. Cameras tracked her as Quay jogged over, still glistening with sweat, to kiss her again. "You my good luck charm, babygirl," he replied, his hand possessively on her waist. "Always." As they made their way toward the tunnel, surrounded by security, Mercedes caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass partition. The woman looking back bore no resemblance to Mark Matthews—not in appearance, not in mannerisms, not in essence. Mercedes Dior Carter flipped her honey-blonde wig one final time, offering a perfect pout to the cameras that followed their exit. Mark Matthews was dead. Mercedes Dior Carter was thriving. And she wouldn't have it any other way. "Carry my Birkin, daddy," she commanded sweetly, handing the $30,000 bag to Quay as she sashayed toward the players' exit. "Your daughter's getting heavy, and these Louboutins weren't made for heavy lifting." The Miami Heat's star power forward, MVP candidate, and one of the NBA's most dominant players, took the designer handbag without hesitation. "Anything for my girls," he said. And Mercedes smiled, knowing it was absolutely true.