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Author's Note:And we're back. Sorry for the MASSIVE delay between Ch.3 and 4. I was on track with the writing, was half way through Ch.6 when things in life got distracting. Ch.6 is now done. I wanted to have at least a week or two buffer of chapters before posting new ones. I'm currently writing Ch.7 as I type this. If you find any issues with it, DM me my stupid mistakes and I'll fix them. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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4.

Waking up, Jason was confused for a moment.

The sunlight filtering through the heavy velvet curtains was a pale, muted gold, casting long shadows across the room. He stretched, feeling the cool sheets against his skin, and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. The silence of the estate was heavy, an oppressive kind of quiet that suggested the house was holding its breath. He had spent his first night in the Whitmore estate not in a state of longing, but in a state of calculation. He rose and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of yesterday's tension.

This morning, Jason decided to go casual and simple. He skipped the makeup entirely, leaving his face bare and raw. Without the liner and tint, the ethereal quality of his features was even more pronounced, making him look like a delicate, wide eyed youth who had never known a day of hardship. He pulled on a simple, oversized white t-shirt and a pair of charcoal skinny jeans that hugged his lithe frame, a look that was understated yet remained stubbornly feminine in its silhouette. He gathered his long blonde hair and pulled it back into a high, tight ponytail, exposing the slender curve of his neck.

He put on the combat boots too, knowing how much they pissed off Arthur.

A knock on his door surprised him.

Greta stood in the doorway with a tentative expression. She looked at Jason, her gaze lingering on the high ponytail and the sheer, feminine delicacy of his features, and she blinked in a moment of genuine confusion. To her, Jason didn't look like a boy trying to be a girl; he simply looked like a girl who happened to be identified as a boy. She cleared her throat softly, her voice barely a whisper. "Good morning, sir...miss...umm..."

"Coop" he said with a smile. "Its easier and simpler to remember."

The young maid looked scared. "I don't think I can..."

He waved it off. "Its fine. I'm not going to tattle on you."

She smiled sincerely. "Good morning, Miss Coop, breakfast is to be served in the sun room."

Jason sighed at the "Miss Coop" bit but he was pretty sure the girl was just scared to step out of line.

He followed Greta through the echoing hallways, his combat boots thudding with a heavy, rhythmic contrast to her light, hurried steps.

The sun room was a modest glass enclosure attached to the east wing, designed more for utility than for the oppressive grandeur that defined the rest of the estate. Wicker chairs with faded cream cushions circled a wrought iron table, and a few overgrown ferns leaned against the glass panes, filtering the morning light into a soft, dappled green. It was the only room in the house that didn't feel like it was trying to intimidate the guests, though the atmosphere inside remained suffocatingly tense.

Only his "parents" were seated there today.

Upon entering, Arthur looked up from his newspaper. "At least you're not wearing a fucking dress" he grumbled but still clearly annoyed.

Eleanor beamed, patting the chair next to her. "Jason, dear, come sit by Mom."

Jason fought back the urge to roll his eyes. Out of all his newly found family, she had to be the worst. The others didn't go out of their way to hide who they really were. People like her bothered him the most. At least with Arthur, he honestly showed his thoughts in the open.

Jason mimicked her fake smile and took the seat.

Eleanor leaned in, her eyes scanning the simple white t-shirt and the high ponytail with a clinical curiosity. She didn't see the calculated strategy behind the outfit, only a boy who seemed stubbornly resistant to the structure of her world. "Since it is Saturday, I thought we might spend the morning reviewing your wardrobe," she suggested, her voice a melodic hum of manipulation. "A boy of your... unique temperament needs a certain level of polish if he is to be seen with the right people. Perhaps a trip to the city to find some tailored pieces that don't look so, well, oversized?"

Jason took a slow sip of his orange juice, his expression a mask of serene boredom. He could feel Arthur’s gaze burning into the side of his head, the man’s jaw clenched in a permanent state of irritation. To Arthur, the high ponytail was just another "fairy" whim, another piece of evidence that his son was a genetic disappointment. "I think I'll pass," Jason replied, his voice a soft, feminine lilt that seemed to grate on Arthur's nerves. "I have a few things I'd like to take care of today."

Its not like he was purposedly doing a feminine voice. It was his voice.

"If you're taking him into the city, make sure you take him to a barber too" Arthur seethed. "No self respecting man has hair that long."

Jason laughed. "It won't work."

The sound was light and airy, a genuine giggle that sounded far too delicate for the tension in the room. He leaned back in his chair, the oversized white t-shirt slipping just enough to reveal the slender, feminine line of his shoulder. He knew exactly how he looked to Arthur: a fragile, misguided child playing a game of defiance. To Arthur, the long hair and the soft voice were symptoms of a weakness that needed to be excised like a tumor.

"You're still defying me?' Arthur's anger was rising again.

Jason shook his head.

"That's the funny thing about my face, Arthur," Jason said, his voice dipping into that soft, melodic tone that seemed to vibrate with a quiet, feminine grace. He leaned forward, the high ponytail shifting over his shoulder as he looked his father directly in the eye. "It doesn't matter if I shave it all off or let it grow to my waist. No matter how much I try to look like one of your 'men,' the world still sees a girl. I could wear a three piece suit and a scowl, and people would still call me 'miss' and open the door for me."

"You don't know that" Arthur countered. "Appearance is everything. You look like a boy and people see a boy, you look like a girl..."

Jason cut him off. "Been there, done that. Trust me, it doesn't work."

He'd tried more than once. No matter what he did, he was still a girl.

When he was a little kid, everyone told him he was such a "pretty little thing" and chastised any adult about making their little girl dress like a boy. At twelve where he’d chopped his hair into a jagged, masculine crop and worn the heaviest, clunkiest clothes he could find. He had dressed in drab flannels and oversized cargo pants, attempting to bury his frame in fabric. Yet, the results were always the same. His bone structure was too delicate, his skin too luminous, and his eyes held a softness that defied any amount of rugged layering. People didn't see a young boy; they saw a girl playing dress up in her brother's wardrobe. The world refused to let him be a "man" because his natural beauty was a gravity that pulled every gaze toward a feminine conclusion.

Arthur let out a harsh, guttural scoff, his lip curling in a sneer of pure disgust. "You're delusional. You confuse a lack of discipline with an innate quality. You look like a girl because you are weak, and you choose to lean into that weakness because it allows you to avoid the hardships of being a man." He leaned over the table, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "In my world, that kind of softness is a liability. It is a defect. You are nothing more than a decorative ornament with a stubborn streak, and I will not have a decorative ornament representing the Whitmore name."

Jason smirked. "Then your world is very narrow minded and small."

He stood up from the table, the movement fluid and effortless, a stark contrast to the rigid, strained posture Arthur maintained. Jason didn't look back at his father, instead turning his attention to the half-finished glass of orange juice. He took one last sip, his expression one of mild amusement, as if he were watching a particularly tedious play. The high ponytail swayed against his neck, a final flick of feminine defiance that seemed to send a fresh wave of irritation through Arthur.

Arthur looked ready to fight again but Eleanor wasn’t done. She placed a gentle hand on her husband’s arm as if to tell him let me take another shot. She turned to Jason and smiled that fake, sincere smile again. “Jason, please, let mother take you into the city. You start school on Monday, perhaps some new things will help you feel more adjusted?”

Jason admired this woman’s resolve.

Eleanor’s eyes were wide and shimmering with a maternal warmth that felt like a thin layer of ice over a dark lake. She was playing the role of the benevolent savior, attempting to lure him into a shopping trip that was less about fashion and more about a subtle scrubbing of his identity. To her, a trip to the city was an opportunity to dress him in clothes that would mute his feminine edge, effectively erasing the visual evidence of his defiance before the world could see him. She wanted to prune him like a bonsai tree, cutting away the parts that didn't fit her vision of a Whitmore heir.

"I don't need new clothes, Valor has uniforms right?" Jason wasn't going to let this woman dictate anything. "Besides, I'd like to explore the city on my own."

Eleanor's smile didn't falter, but her eyes sharpened. The thought of Jason wandering the city alone, dressed in that confusing blend of combat boots and a soft, feminine silhouette, was a risk she wasn't willing to take. To her, he was a liability, a social stain that could easily attract the wrong kind of attention or, worse, spark a scandal that would leak back to their circles before he even stepped foot on a campus. If he were to be seen as a "freak" in public, it would undermine the carefully curated image of the Whitmore legacy.

It would ruin their plans too.

Eleanor's expression tightened, the mask of maternal grace slipping for a fraction of a second. The idea of Jason wandering the city unaccompanied was anathema to her, not because she cared for his safety, but because she lacked control over him. "Explore on your own? Jason, you've only just arrived. You don't know the layout of the city, nor do you have a way to navigate without a guide. It would be imprudent, and quite frankly, dangerous."

"I did live in the city you know" he reminded her.

Eleanor smiled but it was weak. "Yes but your part of the city is quite different than..."

"Enough!" Arthur barked. He looked at Jason. "Go on your own."

The permission was not a gesture of trust, but a calculated risk. Arthur’s eyes swept over Jason’s lithe frame, lingering on the high ponytail and the way the white t-shirt draped over his delicate shoulders. He didn't see a son; he saw a social liability. The thought of Eleanor being spotted in the high-end boutiques of the city with a boy who looked like a girl was an unthinkable risk. To the Whitmore circle, perception was the only currency that mattered, and Jason was currently a bankrupt asset. Arthur knew that if his wife was spotted with this freak, they would never be able to explain it to their friends without risking their own standing. He needed to refine this anomaly, scrub away the feminine softness, and mold him into something presentable before he ever let the public know Jason belonged to them.

He needed to postpone the meeting with the Bradfords as long as possible. If they perceived that Thing as a future son-in-law, it would be the end of them.

The tension in the sun room was thick enough to choke on, and Arthur’s face had shifted from a deep red to a pale, simmering fury. He opened his mouth to deliver what sounded like a final, crushing blow, but the heavy glass doors swung open with a sharp clatter. Clara and Julian strolled in, their presence acting like a sudden gust of wind that disrupted the stagnant air of the room.

"Breakfast started twenty minutes ago" Arthur shifted his ire from Jason to the late comers.

Julian dropped into a chair. "Dad, its Saturday, give us a break."

"Your si--brother got here on time" Arthur snapped.

Jason hid his smirk. The old bastard almost called him "sister".

The slip up was not lost on Clara either who hid her amused smile.

Eleanor, ever the tactician, saw a way to turn a chaotic morning into a controlled operation. She didn't want Jason wandering the city alone, but she knew that forcing him into a car with her would only result in more friction. If she could place him under the supervision of his siblings, she could maintain a layer of separation while still ensuring he was monitored. She beamed at Julian and Clara, her voice returning to that practiced, shimmering tone. "Since you two are already awake and refreshed, perhaps you could accompany Jason into the city? It would be a wonderful way for you to bond, and you can ensure he doesn't wander into any... unfashionable districts."

Julian was quick in his response. "Pass. I'm not wasting my Saturday tagging along with two chicks while they shop all day."

Arthur glared but Julian ignored him.

Clara was beaming. Jason inwardly cringed. The thought of being her dressup doll all afternoon was a scary prospect.

Thinking quickly, he pulled out his phone and fired off a text:

Jess. I'm in the East End. Need to go shopping. You free?

The response came seconds later:

Coop? Seriously!!!You know I'm always up to shopping with you, girl!

He rolled his eyes at the "girl" but smiled nonetheless.

Setting the phone on the table, he smiled innocently at his family. "A friend from the city just texted. She wants to meet up with me today to show me around." He turned to his sister, still smiling sweetly. "Can I get a raincheck hanging out with you, sis?"

The mention of a female friend seemed to spark a quick eye contact between Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore. It didn't go unnoticed. The glance told him everything he needed to know. These people would not let it go. After all, he knew their secret plan. But he also knew they couldn't reveal their hand so easily. It was a deadly game of cards now and unfortunately for them, he was a pro.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea..." Arthur started before his wife butted in.

Eleanor's smile remained fixed, though her eyes were calculating. If he had friends, perhaps it could be leveraged later. "Of course, dear. It would be lovely for you to reconnect with your peers. Just be sure to be home for dinner by six."

Jason didn't acknowledge her. Instead, he stood, wiped his mouth with one of their overly expensive napkins and excused himself.

*****

Jason called for a cab as soon as he left the sunroom. He wasn't going to rely on the Whitmore's. Besides, he didn't want the driver to report back to them.

The Uber arrived in a sleek, black sedan that blended into the manicured greenery of the estate's long drive. As the car glided away from the imposing stone walls of the mansion, Jason leaned back into the leather seat and let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He pulled out his phone, the screen reflecting in his wide, clear eyes. He felt a lightness return to his chest, the suffocating weight of Arthur's bigotry and Eleanor's artificial sweetness fading in the rearview mirror.

The drive toward the East Side took him through the city's shifting architecture, from the gothic remnants of the old districts to the gleaming, glass spires of the financial hub. As they entered the luxury shopping corridor, the scenery shifted into a curated paradise of wide sidewalks, gold-rimmed storefronts, and the hushed hum of wealth. This was a place where the air smelled of expensive perfume and desperation, a playground for people like the Whitmores who spent their lives obsessing over the brand of their shoes while their souls decayed.

It was far different from the parts of the city he preferred to frequent. Not that he'd never been to the East Side---he'd come here several times. He just didn't like the people who frequented the area, especially in those high-end boutiques and restaurants.

"Where should I drop you, Miss?" asked the driver, having only been ordered to take him into the city.

Jason pulled out his phone, texting Jess: Where R U?

The reply was instant: Vexalon.

Jason grunted. Of course she was at Vexalon, where else would she be.

Vexalon was not just a boutique; it was a temple of avant-garde luxury, the flagship storefront for the Vex clothing line that catered to those who viewed fashion as a weapon rather than a garment. The store occupied a sprawling corner of the district, its exterior a seamless blend of matte black steel and towering glass panels that reflected the city's skyline like a dark mirror. As Jason stepped out of the sedan, he adjusted the strap of his bag and felt the familiar shift in his demeanor. Here, in the heart of the East End, the feminine delicacy of his features was not a liability to be scrubbed away, but a currency that granted him entry.

Except he wasn't exactly dressed like the typical Vex shopper.

Walking through the front doors, Jason couldn't help but smile at the marvel of the place.

The interior of Vexalon was a stark, minimalist cavern of polished obsidian and white neon, designed to make the customer feel small and insignificant before the clothing could elevate them. There were no traditional racks; instead, holographic displays floated in the air, shimmering with the latest avant-garde silhouettes that blurred the line between masculine and feminine. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and ozone, and the silence was so heavy it felt curated. At the center of the room stood a reception desk carved from a single slab of translucent white quartz, manned by a young woman whose expression was as cold and precise as the architecture.

She looked to be in her early twenties, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun so tight it seemed to stretch the skin of her forehead. A small, silver nametag pinned to her tailored blazer read *Melissa*. As Jason approached, her gaze traveled downward, scanning the oversized white t-shirt and the scuffed combat boots with a slow, rhythmic flick of her eyelids. The disdain was immediate and effortless. To Melissa, Jason didn't look like a customer; he looked like a mistake that had wandered in from the street, a smudge of casual mediocrity on the pristine canvas of her showroom.

Melissa didn't speak at first, instead leaning slightly to the side as if to avoid any potential contamination from his lack of brand names. She shifted her weight, her posture stiffening into a wall of professional frost. "Welcome to Vexalon," she said, her voice dripping with a rehearsed, hollow courtesy that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Are you looking for the entrance to the public gallery? This section is reserved for our curated appointments."

The attitude. Where did someone working here get such an attitude like that?

He frowned. Is this the kind of people that Jess was hiring?

Keeping a neutral disposition, he approached the counter. "I have an appointment actually."

The girl---Melissa---all but sneered. "You? You're joking right?"

She didn't even bother to check the digital ledger on her tablet. Her gaze lingered on the oversized white t-shirt and the scuffed combat boots, her lip curling with a practiced, high-society disdain. To her, Jason was nothing more than a confused adolescent who had wandered into a temple of high fashion by mistake. This was some street urchin, not even worthy to grace her presence.

Jason smirked. "What's funny about saying I have an appointment? I'm a customer, are you denying my patronage?"

Who the hell taught this girl to speak to people like this?

Melissa let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded like a piece of glass breaking. She didn't even look at the tablet again, instead crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back. "Patronage? Honey, look at yourself. You're wearing a t-shirt that's three sizes too large and boots that look like they've been through a war zone. This is Vexalon’s flagship boutique, not a thrift shop in the slums. The only way someone like you gets an appointment here is if they're delivering a package."

Jason smirked, mildly amused. "You sure you want to go there?"

Melissa sighed, a sound of exaggerated boredom, and finally tapped her tablet with a manicured nail. "Let me guess, you're with some trust fund brat who thinks they can 'discover' new talent? Or perhaps you're just a lost groupie looking for a signature piece?" She looked him up and down once more, her eyes lingering on the high ponytail. "Listen, sweetie, Vexalon isn't for everyone. We sell a vision of power and exclusivity. You, on the other hand, look like you’re playing dress-up in a basement. Now, please step aside so the actual clients can enter without having to navigate around a... whatever it is you're supposed to be."

"You're the dumbest person I've ever met" Jason smirked again. He was about to open his mouth to say why but it was clear Melissa was done with him.

"Security!" she shouted, drawing the attention of the guard stationed near the front entrance.

The guard, a broad man with a buzz cut and a look of permanent suspicion, stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing on the obsidian floor. He loomed over Jason, his shadow swallowing the smaller boy. "Problem here?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Melissa pointed a sharp, manicured finger at Jason, her expression one of pure triumph. "This child is trespassing and refusing to leave. She claimed to have an appointment, which is a lie, and she's becoming disruptive to the atmosphere of the store. Please escort her out immediately before she soils the floors with those boots."

The guard grimaced, sighed and apologetically reached for Jason's arm.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The voice came from behind them, in the direction of the elevators.

Jess.

The voice was a whip, cutting through the tension of the showroom. Jessica Howe stepped into the light, a vision of effortless power and striking beauty. Her long, raven black hair flowed like a river of silk over a trendy, short hip hugging dress that hugged her curves perfectly, paired with sleek knee boots that clicked with authority on the obsidian floor. She was the kind of woman who didn't just enter a room; she commanded it, drawing the instinctive gaze of every man and woman present. Her presence was an electric charge, a blend of high fashion and raw, feminine magnetism that made Melissa look like a pale imitation of a professional.

Jess strutted over, like she owned the place.

Well that was technically half true, he supposed.

"Miss Howe!" Both Melissa and the guard said at once.

Jess crossed her arms. "What's going on here?"

Melissa was stunned to see the CEO in person, a woman who rarely showed her face these days because she was so busy. The young receptionist took a moment to gather her words, putting on a fake smile before answering. "This girl had the wrong idea about our clientele. Harry was just about to escort her out."

Jess turned to Jason, amused. "Why?"

Melissa was stunned again. Was the boss testing her? "Look at her, she clearly doesn't belong here."

Jess didn't look at the receptionist. Instead, she burst into a fit of genuine, melodic laughter, her head tilting back as she clutched her stomach. The sound echoed through the obsidian hall, drawing the eyes of several other high profile clients. She looked at Jason, her eyes shimmering with an amused, knowing glint. "Oh my god, Coop, I can't believe you actually let her do this. The look on your face was priceless."

Jason smirked and shrugged. "I was curious to see how she'd take it."

Jess sighed and rolled her eyes. Then she turned to Melissa. "You can't throw her out." She paused for dramatic effect. "She owns the building."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Author’s note: As I’m sure all of you know, comments are life blood to an author. I’m not begging or demanding, but I certainly would appreciate anything you have to say (or ask). It doesn’t have to be long and involved, just give me your reaction to the story. Thanks in advance...EOF