"So let me get this straight," you say, trying to keep your voice steady despite its new higher pitch. "You hired contractors to renovate our bathroom, and they're showing up today?"
Veronica at least has the decency to look slightly embarrassed, her eyes darting to her phone rather than meeting yours. The cab swerves around a corner, jostling you against the door.
"It just made sense," she says, scrolling through emails with one hand while the other adjusts her blazer. "I've been wanting to redo that bathroom for ages. The timing worked out perfectly--they'll be done right when I get back."
"What was wrong with our bathroom?" you ask incredulously. The master bath was already a marble paradise compared to the dingy shower stall you had in your old apartment.
"The floors aren't heated," she says, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "And the lighting makes me look sallow. Plus, the tub isn't deep enough."
You stare at her, momentarily speechless. Your entire body has been transformed into a goth pinup fantasy, and she's concerned about bathtub depth.
"You could have mentioned this before I agreed to take the pill," you say.
She finally looks up from her phone, offering a small, apologetic smile. "I know, I'm sorry. I just... I didn't want you to say no to both things. And honestly, it's perfect timing! You'll be home all day anyway, and this way when I get back, we'll have a gorgeous new bathroom to celebrate in."
Her phone rings--her assistant, based on how quickly her expression shifts to professional mode.
"Liz, hi. Yes, I'm on my way. Did the Matsuhisa group confirm the dinner?" She holds up one finger to you in the universal "just a minute" gesture, completely absorbed in work mode.
You turn to look out the window, acutely aware of how your ass spreads wider on the seat than it used to. The jeans Veronica picked out are tight enough that you can feel every curve of your new lower body, the denim hugging places that never needed hugging before.
The cab pulls up to your building, and Veronica is still on the phone, now discussing presentation slides and how they "flow". She absently passes her credit card to the driver while continuing her conversation, then motions for you to get out.
Stepping onto the sidewalk is a new experience in itself. The Doc Martens Veronica got you are at least practical--flat and stable--but your legs move differently now, your hips naturally swaying with each step.
The doorman--Miguel, who's known you for months--doesn't give you a second glance as Veronica breezes past him, still talking on the phone. You follow in her wake, keeping your head down, heart thundering at the thought of being recognized.
"Good morning, Ms. Valentine," Miguel says, holding the door.
"Morning, Miguel," Veronica responds automatically, then adds, "This is Alice, she'll be staying with me for a while. House-sitting."
Miguel nods politely in your direction. "Welcome to The Azure, miss."
You mumble something that might be "thanks" and hurry after Veronica, who's already at the elevator, tapping her foot impatiently.
"I understand that, Liz, but the projections need to reflect the Q3 adjustments," she's saying, holding the elevator for you without looking up. "Tell Davis I'll call him from the airport."
The elevator doors close, and you're suddenly hyperaware of your reflection in the mirrored walls. The girl staring back at you is pale and curvy, with heavy-lidded eyes that make her look perpetually bedroom-ready. Your breasts, even compressed in the sports bra, create an unmistakable shelf beneath your t-shirt. A shelf that moves.
"Yes, I have the Stevenson brief in my carry-on," Veronica continues, fishing out her keys as the elevator reaches your floor. "I'll review it on the flight."
She unlocks the apartment door and walks in, kicking off her heels by the entryway. You follow, feeling like a visitor in your own home. Everything seems slightly larger from your new, shorter perspective.
"Listen, Liz, I need to go. Email me the revised agenda." Veronica finally ends the call and turns to you with a sigh. "Sorry about that, babe. Work is in-sane today."
"It's fine," you say, though it's not. You feel abandoned, like a pet being dropped off at a kennel.
Veronica glances at her watch--a sleek Cartier that was a "gift to herself" after landing the Prismatic Games account. "I've got about twenty minutes before the car comes. Let me show you what I got you."
She leads you to the walk-in closet, which has been rearranged to accommodate an entirely new wardrobe on what used to be your side. Where your suits and casual wear once hung, there's now a collection of black, purple, and dark red items that look like they were sourced from a Hot Topic fever dream.
"Okay, so this section is everyday wear," Veronica explains, gesturing to a row of band t-shirts, ripped jeans, and what appear to be several variations on fishnet stockings. "This is loungewear--" she points to some black leggings and oversized sweaters, "--and these are for sleeping." The sleep section consists mostly of tiny shorts and camisoles that would barely cover your new assets.
"Where are the normal clothes?" you ask, rifling through hangers. "Like, regular jeans? T-shirts that don't have skulls on them?"
Veronica laughs. "This is what goth girls wear, Alex. I had the personal shopper at Bonwit Teller put together a complete package. She was very thorough."
She reaches into a drawer and pulls out what looks like a leather dog collar with spikes. "I got you some accessories too. You know, to complete the look."
"I'm not wearing a collar," you say flatly.
"It's not a collar, it's a choker," she corrects, setting it aside. "And you don't have to wear anything you don't want to. I just thought it would be fun to fully commit to the aesthetic."
She moves to another drawer, pulling it open to reveal an array of black lace underwear. "These are all your size. The bras are front-clasping--easier to manage with those monsters."
You feel your face heating up. The idea of wearing lacy underwear is somehow more embarrassing than the transformation itself.
"Oh, and these are for when the contractors are here," she adds, pulling out what appears to be a normal hoodie and sweatpants. "So you can be comfortable and covered."
"How thoughtful," you mutter. You plan to wear those ALL THE TIME.
Veronica checks her watch again. "Shit, I need to finish packing my toiletries."
She hurries to the guest bathroom, motioning for you to follow. "I set up all your stuff in here since the master bath will be under construction."
The guest bathroom is small but elegant, with a walk-in shower, single vanity, and toilet. On the counter, Veronica has arranged a collection of products with labels like "Gentle Facial Cleanser" and "Hydrating Body Lotion."
"I got you the basics," she explains, opening the medicine cabinet to reveal even more bottles. "Cleanser, toner, moisturizer. Oh, and dry shampoo--trust me, you'll need it with that hair."
You stare at the array of products. "I've never used more than soap and shampoo in my life."
"Well, girls need more," Veronica says matter-of-factly. "Especially pale girls. Your skin will get blotchy if you don't take care of it."
She grabs her own toiletry bag and starts filling it with her higher-end versions of the products she's left for you. "There's some basic makeup in the drawer if you want to experiment, but nothing crazy. Just mascara, lip gloss, that kind of thing."
"I'm good," you say quickly.
Her phone chimes. "Car's downstairs," she says, zipping up her toiletry bag. "I've got to go."
You follow her back to the entryway, where she slips into her heels and grabs her carry-on.
"The contractors will be here at eleven," she says, checking her phone again. "Their company is called Elite Renovations. The lead guy is Marco. Just show them to the bathroom and stay out of their way."
"What if they ask me questions about the renovation?"
"They have all the specs. If there are any decisions to be made, tell them to call me." She reaches into her purse and pulls out an Uber Eats gift card. "This is for food delivery. I felt guilty. Please don't go grocery shopping looking like that--the last thing I need is some creep following you home."
You take the card, feeling simultaneously infantilized and relieved at the excuse to avoid public outings.
"Oh, and one more thing," Veronica says, her expression softening slightly. "Thank you for doing this. I know it's weird and inconvenient, but it really does mean a lot to me."
Before you can respond, she leans in and kisses you. It's different from this angle--you have to tilt your head up instead of down--but her lips are still soft, still taste like the expensive lip balm she always uses.
As she pulls away, her hand connects with your ass in a playful but firm spank, making you yelp in surprise.
"That's for luck," she grins, opening the door. "I'll call you tonight. Try not to burn the place down or seduce the contractors."
"Very funny," you mutter.
She blows one last kiss and then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
You stand in the entryway, suddenly, overwhelmingly alone in your new body. The apartment feels too big, too quiet. You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror--a petite, pale girl with heavy-lidded eyes and a body that belongs on a pin-up calendar.
"Fuck my life," you whisper, and your reflection's dark lips move in perfect sync.
---
You've been alone in the apartment for exactly forty-seven minutes, and already it's a disaster.
"Mother FUCKER," you hiss as the sugar canister topples sideways, white granules spilling across the marble countertop like a miniature cocaine bust. You reach for a paper towel, but your unfamiliar proportions betray you again--your tits swing forward like wrecking balls, knocking over the mug you'd just filled with coffee.
Hot liquid cascades across the counter, creating a muddy brown river that carries sugar crystals to the edge and onto the floor. In your rush to grab more paper towels, your hip clips the edge of the open cabinet door. Pain radiates through your new, wider hipbone.
"Goddammit!" You clutch your side, bending forward, which causes your chest to pendulum downward, nearly dipping into the coffee puddle.
Coffee-making shouldn't require this much spatial awareness. Before the transformation, you operated in the kitchen on autopilot--grab mug, add coffee, done. Now your body extends into space in ways your brain hasn't mapped yet. Those heavy tits arrive at the counter edge before your hands do. Your ass knocks into cabinets you thought you'd cleared. Your center of gravity is completely fucked, leaving you perpetually off-balance.
After cleaning up the mess and remaking your coffee (this time standing a calculated three inches farther from the counter), you decide to distract yourself with work. Veronica may have turned you into a goth girl pinup, but your brain still functions. Maybe you can knock out a few freelance gigs on Fiverr while waiting for the contractors.
