Mark woke up with his face pressed into a pillow that reeked of supermarket hair dye and someone else’s sweat. For three full seconds, he thought he was hungover in a particularly shit business hotel. Then he reached for his phone and hit his breasts against the bedside table. That’s when he decided that he was really hungover and just went back to sleep

About a half hour later, he got up, yawned, open his eyes, and immediately noticed the shitty apartment he was in. He was in a narrow, low-ceilinged bedroom, so cold he could see his own breath. There were a few visible possessions that immediately caught his eye: a string of fairy lights over a cheap vanity laden with cosmetics, perfume, and hairspray; a warped IKEA wardrobe; a few pairs of high heels neatly stacked in a corner, and a half-empty wine bottle sweating on the windowsill. The entire room was neat but had the distinct odor of desperation and poverty.

Mark shivered and started to rub himself. That’s when he noticed his top—a ragged gray tank, not his usual style that didn’t hide much including a pair of breasts that were not, as far as he could tell, a hallucination. They were high, firm, and attached to a ribcage with the kind of muscle definition you only saw on pro athletes.

“Fuck,” he said, except the voice that came out was all wrong—higher than he’d expected, still rough from sleep, but definitely not his.

He leapt from the bed, legs tangling in the threadbare sheets. He landed with a graceless flop and stared at his own knees, which were flecked with faint blue bruises. He was wearing men’s boxers, at least a size too large. He yanked them down, already dreading what he might find. The area between his legs was shaved clean, save for a strip of platinum-blonde hair. Mark blinked. He’d expected—no, he didn’t know what he’d expected, honestly. But it wasn’t this: smooth, almost clinical, like a topiary. He ran a finger down, found nothing unexpected except for the absence of anything familiar.

He sat, hard, on the cold wood floor. For the first time since his father told him as a kid that his mother had abandoned him, hated him, Mark Steele wanted to scream.

Instead, he got up and went straight to the mirror. It was mounted above a sink that was streaked with toothpaste and what looked like foundation. He stared, fighting the urge to flinch. The woman in the mirror looked back at him with a level of exhaustion and annoyance he recognized intimately, but her face was not his.

It was a sharp, striking face, more beautiful than pretty. Her eyes—his eyes, apparently—were blue-green and ringed with thick black lashes. Her cheekbones were sharp, jawline severe but round. A constellation of freckles ran across the bridge of her nose. There were two tattoos he could see without undressing: a geometric fractal design at the girl’s left inner thigh which seemed to cover a slightly smaller birthmark, and a vertical lotus design extending down the spine of her back disappearing under the tank top.

He recognized the face immediately—Angel, from the Christmas party. Angel who he had fucked last night. He held his head in his hands and tried to convince himself saying repeatedly, “This can’t be real.” He pulled off the tank, stared at the body underneath. The muscle tone was ridiculous—shoulders, arms, the V of the stomach. Her breasts were not large, but perfectly sized for her frame. It was clear that the Angel was dedicated to maintaining an athletic frame. He turned, saw another tattoo: a black heart over the left hip.

He looked back at the face, into the eyes. “What the fuck,” he said, softer this time.

There was a clatter in the hallway. For a second Mark expected security, or at least Lena with an emergency latte. Instead, a voice came through the thin wall—woman, older, somewhere between annoyed and resigned.

“Angel! We’re out of wine again.”

Mark staggered to the bedroom, found a battered purse on the floor, and rummaged. Debit card: Valentine, Angelique. Library card, same. Work ID with a company he’d never heard of—“Licorice Elephant,” whatever the fuck that was. There was a condom, pepper spray, a lighter.

He sat on the edge of the knobby mattress. The window looked out over a concrete alley. It was gray, and damp, and absolutely not New York.

Mark folded his hands, forced himself to breathe. There had to be a reason for this—a prank, a drug, a dream. Or maybe he’d been murdered by Evangeline Hunter and reincarnated as…his one night stand. No, that seemed even less likely than magic. He rubbed his temples, tried to remember last night. The party. The woman—Angel. The room. The sex. Had she drugged him? Was this a psychotic break? He looked at the bed. There were no drugs, no signs of struggle, not even a stray hair except for the ones in his own head. His brain, ever the analyst, tried to run a scenario tree. The top three branches were “drug-induced psychosis,” “elaborate Silk Conglomerate revenge,” and “quantum-level fuckery.” The odds on the last one increased by the second.

He found himself standing in the bathroom again, facing the stranger in the mirror. Then he slapped himself a few times but that did nothing except cause his cheeks to turn red.

“Fine,” he said, through gritted teeth. “If this is how it is, I’ll figure it out.”

He considered showering, but the water in the flat sounded like it came from a Victorian-era sewer, so he passed. He put the tank back on and tried the wardrobe. It was a horror show: jeans, two crop tops, a sequin miniskirt, two cocktail dresses including the LBD Angel had worn that night, two pairs of Doc Martens, a men’s leather jacket with “PROPERTY OF TOM BLACKWOOD” scrawled on the inside label, and a threadbare bathrobe. He put on the jeans, which fit better than he wanted to admit, and the jacket, which smelled faintly of tobacco and motor oil.

He heard a shout from the hallway. “Angel! Where did you put the grater?”

He opened the door. The corridor was so narrow his shoulders brushed both walls. A woman with a knee brace stood at the far end, holding a can of Red Bull.

She looked him up and down. “Rough night?”

Mark shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Thought so. You’re out of fags.”

“Yeah,” he said again, voice coming easier now. But just the mention of a cigarette seemed to trigger a craving in him. But he didn’t smoke.

The woman rolled her eyes and shuffled back to what passed for a kitchen. “Don’t forget, you’re on early today. The Elephant’s got a client lunch.”

Mark’s mind lurched. Client lunch? What did Angel do?

He closed the door and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, knees to his chest. His mind raced, but the overwhelming sensation was not panic. It was rage. He was Mark fucking Steele. He’d built a billion-dollar empire from almost nothing. He’d survived a despotic father, prep school, Harvard, and a dozen hostile takeovers. He was not going to let this—whatever it was—defeat him.

He needed a plan.

But first, he needed to figure out what the hell “The Licorice Elephant” was.

***

25th December - London - Mark’s Penthouse

Across town, Angel woke up with a hangover that felt like it had been crafted by gang of dwarfs from Khazad-dûm. She opened her eyes and saw…white. White ceiling, white sheets, the kind of perfect whiteness that only came with obscene amounts of money and zero concern for practical cleaning. She blinked. Her head was killing her, but otherwise, she felt…good.

Better than good. Rested, warm, dry.

She recognized the bed from the previous night. It was huge, at least a California King, and the linen was softer than anything she’d ever stolen or slept on. She rolled onto her side and stood up. The floor was heated marble, the room minimalist except for a Warhol print propped against the wall. Angel looked around, slow. She remembered last night—the party, the money, the mark, the sex (could have been worse). But she didn’t remember going to sleep in that prick’s mausoleum.

She walked to the bathroom, feeling weirdly steady. The mirror was a single flawless slab of glass. She looked into it and saw Mark Steele. She squinted. The face looked back, equally confused. She tried smiling. The reflection did, and she nearly laughed at how awkward it looked—like a wolf trying to smile for a nature documentary.

Angel took inventory. The hair was full and dark, cropped slightly close with not a strand out of place. She had a short trimmed beard. She opened her mouth, inspected the teeth. Perfect. She pulled up her shirt—expensive, tailored, still holding the scent of the faint mid-priced perfume Angel sometimes wore—and looked at the body underneath. Jesus Christ. It was all muscle and vascularity, not an ounce of extra anything.

She ran her hands down, not even pretending to be coy, pulled down her boxers, and found the cock surrounded by a thick mat of pubic hair. The guy was kind of hairy but in a kind of sexy way. The cock was circumcised and flaccid at first but responded quickly to her touch. She whistled. “Now that’s an upgrade.” She liked the feel of it her hand—thick, pulpy and then becoming firm over the course of a few seconds. She pulled her boxers up and enjoyed the sight of the bulge straining against her boxers.

She tried the voice. It came out deep, with a hint of New York. “Fuck.” She laughed, loud and hoarse. She poked her own chest. “Damn, Mark. You work out, huh?”

Angel did a little flex for the mirror, then dropped the shirt and went exploring.

The penthouse was, in a word, minimalist: nothing out of place, not a crumb, not a speck. The fridge was empty except for a row of energy drinks and a block of artisanal cheddar. The coffee machine looked like it cost more than her foster parents’ car. She poured herself a glass of water—Fiji, obviously—and sat at the kitchen island, feet on the chair, just to see how it felt.

It felt amazing.

There was a phone on the counter, matte black, latest model. She picked it up, thumbprint unlock. Her thumb worked. She scrolled through the notifications—dozens of emails, half from a Lena Park, some flagged urgent, none of it making sense. She ignored them all, instead looking for clues.

Angel was not, by nature, a panicker. But this was new territory, even for her. She needed to figure out if she was losing her mind, or if this was, in fact, happening. She walked back to the bedroom, rummaged through the drawers. Every item of clothing was either bespoke or designer. She tried on a shirt, then the suit jacket. It fit perfectly. She looked in the mirror and saw power. Even hungover, she looked like someone who could snap the old Angel in half.

She grinned, then something caught her eye in the corner of the mirror; something glowing with a slow dull throb in a glass display case. She walked over and took it out—it was an old leather bound book containing the plays of William Shakespeare.

Angel stared. She remembered last night, the way Mark had looked at her, the way his eyes kept darting to the book on the shelf. She picked it up, thumbed through. There was something wedged between the pages: a rectangle of thick, shimmery parchment, like a small expensive bookmark. She pulled it out. It was cool to the touch, the shimmer almost gone, but she could still see it if she caught the light. She pressed it to her palm, felt a tickle run up her arm and settle at the base of her skull. She put it back in the book and closed it.

She knew what this was. It was a curse, a spell, a prank, whatever you wanted to call it. Some kind of cosmic fuckery, and she was the punchline. No, that was wrong. The real punchline was Mark Steele, wherever he was.

Angel laughed, long and hard. She looked at herself in the mirror again, really looked.

She was Mark Steele. For now, at least.

She picked up Mark’s Patek from a polished chestnut table top and checked the time—6:23 a.m.. Across town, someone was probably already searching for her, maybe even calling her name. Maybe her old body was dead. But that was their problem. She had a new body, a new life, and an entire empire at her disposal.

This was as good as it gets.

She poured herself a second glass of water, then sat down at the laptop and began to plan. She’d always wanted to see New York.

***

25th December - London - Angel’s Flat

Mark sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at his new hands. They were smaller than he was used to, but strong. He flexed the fingers again, and noted absentmindedly the perfectly manicured nails with red polish which matched those on her toes.

He had no idea what to do.

He looked at the purse on the floor. There was a single banknote in it—ten pounds, creased and torn. He fished it out, tried to remember the last time ten quid had meant anything to him.

The voice in the hallway called again, softer now. “Angel? You okay?”

He took a breath, deep and steady. “Yeah,” he said, surprised at how natural it sounded. “I’ll be fine.”

He was Mark Steele, and if he was stuck like this, he’d find a way to win. He just had to figure out the game first.

***

26th December - London - Angel’s Flat

Mark woke up with a headache the size of Westminster and an urgent need to pee. He fumbled out of bed and collided with the wall twice before finding the bathroom, where he spent twenty seconds remembering how to urinate without splattering everything.

He had tried going back to sleep to see if he would wake up as Mark again. Obviously, it hadn’t worked and he was still a girl. By the time he flushed, he’d noticed two things: the water in the flat ran brown for the first three seconds, and the entire apartment smelled like cheap instant coffee and lavender body spray.

He shuffled to the kitchen, where his flat mate was already up, balancing on her good leg and stirring porridge on the stove with the other.

She turned. “Sleeping Beauty returns. Thought you’d died in your sleep.”
Mark grunted, unsure what to say.

The previous day was a blur: trying to call his own phone number which first went unanswered, then becoming permanently engaged as if he had been blocked. Then trying to call his company and getting a customer service rep who sounded like she was twelve, and realizing immediately that that was a dead end. He could have tried going to his penthouse but the doorman would have blocked him on sight. He had searched his phone for any avenues of escape or just plain information but that was a dead end as well. Then he checked his account online and realized that he had less than a hundred pounds to his name.

He sat at the chipped table. The woman poured the porridge into two mismatched bowls and dropped one in front of him. “Eat up. You’re going to need it.”

He stared at the grayish mush. “What is this?”

“Overnight oats, chia seeds, almond milk, protein powder. Keeps the engines running.” She watched him, expectant.

He took a spoonful. It tasted like wallpaper paste, but his body liked it. He finished half the bowl before he realized what he was doing. He really had to find out what to call her. He looked around hoping to find the woman’s handbag, saw it on a kitchen counter, and quietly looked inside while her back was turned. He found her bank card and it read “Maud Winters.”

“Hey, if you’re trying to bum a cigarette from me, I haven’t got any. I’m trying to cut down anyway, too expensive.” Maud sat across from him, bracing her elbows on the table. “I talked to Deb last night. She said you’re on the schedule tomorrow. You’ll need to check in by four.”

Mark blinked. “Schedule?”

She gave him a look, equal parts worry and accusation. “Don’t tell me you forgot already. You sound funny. Are you trying out an American accent for the clients?”

“I… must’ve hit my head,” he said, improvising. “It’s all a bit fuzzy.”

Maud’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you should lay off the the Aldi Belvedere, then.”

He tried to steer the conversation away and tried to mimic Maud’s accent, just to stave off any more questions. It was surprisingly easy.

Maud stroked his hair gently, like a mother would her daughter. “Thanks again for getting the rent. Four months in arrears, and now—” She tapped her brace. “Consult was three hundred quid. Where the fuck did you get that kind of money?”

“A client,” he lied, guessing it had to be true.

“Right,” Maud said. “Must’ve been some client. I shouldn’t have wasted your money on the consult. The surgery for my ACL is going to cost over ten grand done private. I’ll just wait for the NHS appointment.”

Maud finished her porridge and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke out the cracked window.

Mark’s mouth watered at the smell—he’d never smoked a day in his life, but suddenly he wanted one more than he wanted anything. “I thought you said you didn’t have any fags? Can I have one?”

Maud stared. “And you actually believed me. You asked me to help you quit just last week. And since when do you smoke in the morning?”
He shrugged. “Just need to steady my nerves.”

She tossed him the pack. He fumbled with it, dropped the lighter, and eventually managed to get a cigarette between his lips. He coughed so hard it felt like he might vomit up the oats, but then his lungs settled and a heady wash of calm spread from his fingertips to his toes.

He exhaled. “Fuck.”

Maud cackled. “You look like a kid trying to act tough.” She eyed him, then her phone. “You should get some makeup on. Hide the raccoon eyes.”

Mark realized he had no idea how to do that.

He got up and rinsed the bowls, letting Maud do her thing. She vanished into the bathroom, and he took the opportunity to poke through Angel’s phone again. There were a few missed calls from someone labeled TOM B. and a string of increasingly desperate texts from “Elephant Crew,” which he guessed (yesterday) was the work group chat. The rest of the messages were the usual spam, threats from the landlord, and memes.

He scrolled the contacts, hoping for a clue. Every name was either a first name only or a nickname. No family, nothing from before. He tried to Google Angelique Valentine but she had no web presence. No LinkedIn, no Facebook, not even an Instagram. How old was she anyway? He sat back down, at a loss.

Maud emerged, face scrubbed and brace hidden under black pants. She tossed him a hoodie. “Put this on. It’s freezing out.”

He complied, grateful for the warmth.

“Listen,” Maud said, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you can’t just stop showing up for shifts. Deb will fire you, and then what?”

“I thought—” he hesitated, thinking up an excuse for his tardiness—“maybe I could try something else.”

She laughed, short and sharp. “You mean something ‘normal’? You tried that last year, remember? Office temping? You lasted one week, came back crying about spreadsheets and psychos in polyester.”

He did not remember, but he nodded along.

“Face it, Angel, we’re not like them. I know you’re smart and you can handle the work, but you’re not made for nine to five in an office. You work the stage, I train and supervise the newbies, and if we keep it up, we don’t end up homeless. Or dead.” Maud stabbed a finger at him. “You think I like it? I’d rather teach dance full time instead of working operations. But the world doesn’t pay for broken knees and sob stories.”

She lit another cigarette. Mark eyed it, but didn’t ask.

Maud leaned in, voice softening. “You okay? You seem… off.”

He shrugged, tried to look bored. “Didn’t sleep.”

She eyed him, unconvinced. “You sure you’re not using again?”

“I’m clean,” he said, and was surprised at how easy it came out.

She gave a grudging nod, then checked her phone. “Gotta jet. Hospital follow-up. You’ll be alright?”

He gave a thumbs-up.

When she left, the flat felt even smaller, and the smell of her cigarette lingered like a dare.

Mark stared at the phone, willing it to ring. He needed a plan, but all he had was oats, a hoodie, and the creeping dread that he was now responsible for another human being’s life.

***

27th December - London - Angel’s Flat

By the next morning, Mark had run through every possible scenario for getting his old life back. He’d tried calling himself (engaged again), tried emailing Lena Park (auto-reply), then tried calling his New York penthouse (that was blocked as well). Meanwhile, his body—Angel’s—was suffering: cramps, jitters, and a pounding headache that even three aspirin and a hot bath couldn’t cure.

At 9:00 sharp, Maud returned, looking even more exhausted than before. “You’re not dressed,” she said, exasperated.

“Dressed for what?”

She rolled her eyes. “The club. You’ve got a shift at ten. Deb’s expecting you, and if you no-show again, you’re out. There are lines of girls waiting to take your place. Deb’s got the best terms in all of London, you know that.”

By this time, Mark had done a web search for the Licorice Elephant and he knew exactly what Maud meant. He’d spent two days hiding in the flat, hoping the problem would solve itself. It hadn’t. He was still a woman, still broke, still expected to work at the Elephant.

He tried to argue. “I’m not feeling well.”

Maud snorted. “None of us are, darling. Get your bloody arse in gear.”

She thrust a gym bag into his hands. “Outfit’s in there. You know the drill.”

He carried the bag to the bathroom and locked the door. The gym bag contained what he assumed was standard-issue dancer gear: three sets of lingerie (black, red, blue), a makeup bag, a pair of heels so high they looked like torture instruments, and a tiny bottle of body oil.

He sat on the toilet and put his head in his hands. He’d faced down billionaires, lawyers, even his own childhood traumas. But the thought of stripping in public, with this body, was the most terrifying thing he’d ever encountered.

He struggled into the blue bra, careful not to tear the lace. It fit perfectly, pushing his cleavage into a shape which was probably illegal. He shimmied into the panties, nearly losing his balance as the unfamiliar parts rearranged themselves. They rode up in a way that felt both invasive—he had never worn anything that ran up his butt crack—and perversely comforting. He stared at his reflection. The woman in the mirror was ready to sell the world a dream. He tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Maud called from outside. “You okay in there?”

He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. He had absolutely no idea how to put on make-up so walked out in his bra and panties with his foundation and mascara in hand and looked desperately at Maud.
Maud laughed. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

He shrugged, feeling his cheeks burn.

Maud sighed and helped him out. They didn’t have much time so he landed up with a kind of smudged look. “We’ll clean it up later at the club,” Maud told him. He let her believe that. He put on a pair of Angel’s jeans, a cotton shirt, and puff coat and set off with Maud.

***

On the way to the club, she filled him in. “Since you seem to have developed amnesia, I’d better fill you in on the basics. Stage shows are every half hour but if you’re feeling out of sorts, you can skip those and try to get clients the usual way. I’ll show you the regular and VIP private rooms when we get there. And don’t do extras even if they ask—it’s against the law, you hear—don’t fucking do it. They pay for company, not for… you know.”

He nodded, grateful.

Maud’s limp was more pronounced today, but she kept pace, talking the whole way. “Stick to your strengths. You’re the best at improv, just talk to them, flirt, make them feel like kings. If you don’t want to show your bits, don’t. Ruby does full nude, but she’s an exhibitionist. You just do what feels right.”

He was starting to feel less panicked, more resigned.

They arrived at the club—a black-painted box with neon script and a line of bored-looking men out front. Maud held the door for him, and he stepped inside.

The smell hit him first: sweat, perfume, sanitizer. The lights were low, the air thick. The Licorice Elephant looked less like a strip club and more like the VIP lounge of a Bond villain’s yacht—three floors of black lacquer, brushed steel, and enough velvet to upholster Versailles. Maud led Mark in through a side entrance, where a retired bouncer in a suit buzzed them up to the staff-only level.

“House rule,” Maud whispered as they passed the security cameras. “No cell phones on the floor. What happens at the Elephant, stays at the Elephant.”

Mark tried not to notice the tingle that ran up his spine at the prospect of surveillance, or the way the lighting hit his (her) legs in the glass of the stairwell. The banister was slippery with disinfectant, and he gripped it out of habit, surprised by the strength in the hands he’d barely learned to use.

Maud’s limp got worse as she climbed, but she powered through. They emerged into a corridor lined with massive gold-framed mirrors. Every doorway had a plush curtain. The first opened onto a makeup room, where half a dozen women were already doing battle with eyeliner, false lashes, and glitter. Every hair color in the spectrum was represented, but all the women were beautiful in the way that Instagram couldn’t fake: hard eyes, knowing smirks, and bodies that looked sculpted by struggle.
Mark hovered at the threshold.

A woman in cherry-red lingerie looked up from her compact and grinned. “Hey! Fresh meat!”

Maud raised her eyebrows, feeling more protective of Angel than she usually was. “Don’t call her that. She taught you remember?”

“It’s a term of endearment, I always call Angel ‘Fresh Meat’”

The woman—Ruby—eyed Mark up and down. “Why haven’t you changed yet?”

He blanched. “I, uh—” He hesitated.

Maud elbowed him. “Don’t be shy.”

As he turned around, Mark could see Ruby walk up to Maud and whisper conspiratorially, A few seconds later, she was nodding vigorously as if agreeing to some plan of action.

Mark fumbled out of the hoodie and jeans, praying the body beneath wouldn’t betray him. He stood in the blue lingerie he had put on back in the apartment. Then he took a deep breath and turned round, feeling absurdly exposed. The women exchanged looks.

Ruby opened Mark’s bag and tossed him the matching thigh-highs, and a suspender belt. “Put that on.”

The stockings were soft as air and he managed somehow to put them on without causing them to run; and the suspender belt clicked together with a practiced snap with Maud’s help

Ruby gave him a once-over. “Much better. Next time, try not to look like you’re being sent to the gallows.”

She led him to a row of lockers. “This one’s yours. Code is 3434.” She grinned. “We all use the same one. No secrets here.”

Mark stashed his clothes and tried to breathe.

Maud returned, carrying a pair of gleaming black kitten heels. “We won’t do the stilettos or platforms tonight but you’ll have to get used to them in the next few days. You can go barefoot today for any private dances but watch where you’re walking. Deb will understand once I explain things to her.”

The pre-shift meeting was led by Deborah Wells herself. She was tall, silver-haired, and dressed in a tailored pantsuit that radiated power. Her eyes flicked over the room, missing nothing.

“My weekly reminder of the House rules,” she said. “No booze on shift. No freebies for friends. Any client gives you trouble, you get a bouncer. If you’re caught doing anything illegal, you’re gone. We clear?”

A chorus of “Yes, Deborah.”

She eyed Mark as if assessing his posture and his inappropriate heels.
“Angel. Glad to see you back.”

He nodded, doing his best not to look terrified.

Deborah ran through the schedule: Maud had called ahead to tell Deb that Angel couldn’t do any stage work that night. Angel had been scheduled to be on main at eleven but would head straight to the Floor Walk and circulate and socialize with guests instead, offering private dances. “You remember the drill?”

He nodded again.

“Good. Any questions?”

Mark’s mind was blank. He shook his head.

The meeting adjourned, and the girls scattered to the dressing room. Ruby took Mark aside. “You nervous?”

He debated lying, then shook his head. “Petrified.”

She laughed. “Good. Means you care. Just remember: they’re the ones who should be scared of you.”

Mark had no idea what he was doing.

***

27th December - The Licorice Elephant

At 10:20pm, Maud found him pacing by the lockers. “You look like you’re going to hurl.”

“I might,” he said looking down. Then he said, “Maud, I need your help. I don’t have a clue what to do.”

When Mark looked up, he didn’t see a look of anger or exasperation, but one of concern. Maud couldn’t figure out what had happened to Angel in just a matter of days.

“Wanna run through it?” she said.

He nodded, and she led him to a side room, set up like a rehearsal studio: full-length mirrors, portable pole, sound system. The floor was scuffed to hell, but polished enough to show the whites of his knuckles.

Maud sat on a stool. “I’ll cue the music. You just move, feel it out, show me what you have. Just don’t wear the heels for dancing tonight, you’ll break an ankle.”

He stared at the pole, then at the reflection of himself—herself—in the mirror. He’d never performed in his life. He’d barely danced at his own prom, and now he was expected to undulate for a room of strangers.

He tried to remember what he’d seen at other clubs; what he’d seen other women do on other (non-professional) dance floors to entice men: slow, deliberate movements, a lot of eye contact, hips and butt doing most of the talking.

He wrapped a hand around the pole for support and tried a spin. His body surprised him—it wanted to move, and the arms that felt so useless suddenly had leverage. He hooked a knee and managed a basic swirl, not graceful but passable.

Maud clapped. “Not bad. Now give it some attitude.”

He tried again, slower. He watched the mirror and realized the trick was to ignore the audience and play to yourself. He arched, let the rhythm do the work, and felt the whole body respond. It was mortifying, but also…liberating. For the first time since the swap, he wasn’t thinking about what he’d lost. He was thinking about what he could do.

Maud smiled. “That’s it. You’re a natural. Feel the music and keep moving. When you’ve got that, try looking at me as if I’m one of your clients. Great!”

He felt a surge of pride, immediately quashed by self-loathing. “What if I mess up?”

“Then you own it,” Maud said. “Nobody here wants perfection. They want honesty. You go with what comes naturally today and we’ll start from scratch again tomorrow.”

She dug in her bag and laid out Angel’s cosmetics neatly on a table. “Here. Mascara. You look like a drowned rat.”

Maud applied it to his lashes, expertly, and for a second their faces were so close he could feel her breath. There was a maternal tenderness to it, but also a kind of pride. Then she did the rest of his face.

“You remind me of the girl I picked up off the streets three years ago. Didn’t know how to dance but had rhythm; almost clueless about how to do her make-up apart from her eyeliner and lipstick. I don’t know what happened to you but we’ll get you back to your old self in no time,” Maud said. “Okay, you’re ready,”

Mark nodded, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

***

Back in the dressing room, Ruby was working the new girls, offering them tips and fake insults in equal measure. Mark kept to the sidelines, watching the clock.

At 10:55pm, Maud appeared with a clipboard. “Stage time.”

He followed her through the warren of corridors to the main floor. Ruby and some other girls went on stage, while Maud ushered Mark to the floor where he would be serving drinks and engaging in small talk.

Mark had always been interested in the mechanics of making money. Even as a billionaire CEO, he had time to lend a listening ear to the nickel and dime stuff the average grifter was engaged in. The economy of the Licorice Elephant was, however, the ultimate humiliation.

“Angel, I know that last job you did has done a number on you,” Maud said with a look of concern. “God knows what those assholes fed you. I know you did it for me—for us—so that makes me even more liable. So I’m going to explain everything to you like it’s your first time. The floor walk is your bread and butter here. You’ll be moving through the club, engaging with guests, building rapport. It’s all about making them feel special enough to want to buy private dances or snag a VIP room experience. Got it?”

Mark nodded, trying to absorb all of it.

“Good. After the stage shows, this is where the real money comes in. You need to personalize your interactions. One-on-one attention is key—make them feel like they’re the only person in the room. That’s how you increase their spending.”

“Okay, but what if they ask about prices?” Mark asked, anxiety creeping in.

“Easy. You’ll explain the options for private dances—lap dances start at twenty quid a song. If they’re interested in VIP rooms, that’s a hundred for three songs. Your goal is to persuade them to upgrade. It’s all about upselling.”

“Upselling? How does that work?”

Maud saw the worried look on Mark’s face. “Don’t worry. Like I told you, there’s no sex involved. That’s illegal. When guests walk in, the waitstaff will push drinks right away. Those drinks are pricey—fifteen to twenty pounds for just a basic spirit and mixer. Start with that as your first upsell. Then, you can pitch bottle service or fancy non-alcoholic drinks which can cost a fortune.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “And then what?”

“That’s where you come in,” she continued, her tone turning serious. “The floor walk is basically a live sales process. You’re selling yourself for private dances. Chat, flirt, build that connection. You’re not just offering a dance; you’re selling an experience. Say something like, ‘One song isn’t enough to relax. Why not get three?’ Boom! You just multiplied the cost.”

He swallowed hard. “And the VIP area?”

“Exactly. You want to move them from the main room to a private VIP room. That’s the big leagues. Packages can cost hundreds, even thousands of pounds, depending on the time of night and the crowd. You and the waitstaff will work together to sell that premium experience. Emphasize exclusivity, privacy, and superior service. Make them feel like they’re getting something special.”

Mark took a deep breath. “Got it. Engage, upsell, and make them feel special.”

“Right!” Maud clapped him on the shoulder, a hint of encouragement in her voice. “Now go out there and own it.”

Mark nodded, wishing he could just reboot his system. His skin felt hot, itchy. Every time he looked down, he saw breasts jiggling beneath lace mesh. He’d caught three men staring at him before he even made it to the main floor. It wasn’t creepy, it was literally the whole point.

The club was already filling—city traders, packs of rugby lads, a few grim-faced salarymen who drank only tonic and stared at the wallpaper. Mark moved through the crowd like a nervous cat, sticking to the shadows and trying not to make eye contact.

It didn’t work.

First client was a finance bro in a skinny tie and cufflinks that probably cost more than Mark’s entire wardrobe. He leered as Mark slid into the booth. “Angel, right? You’re the one with the tattoos.”

Mark managed a smile. “That’s me.”

The man looked him up and down, pausing at every curve, every inch of exposed flesh. Mark wanted to punch him, or run, but instead he crossed his legs and shifted so the guy got a better look at the goods. That’s what he was there for, after all.

“You look different from your photos,” the client said.

Mark blinked. “Better or worse?”

The man grinned. “Better, obviously. I love the tattoo on your thigh.”

They made small talk and Mark kept his thighs slightly wider than normal so that the man could take a look at the fractal tattoo on his left inner thigh. The man tried to steer it to sex within sixty seconds. Mark dodged, kept it light. He found himself defaulting to old habits—mirroring the client’s body language, probing for weaknesses, talking about the FTSE 100 like he actually gave a shit. It worked. The man loosened, started bragging about his bonus, his car, his ex.

After ten minutes, the guy bought a private dance. Mark followed him into one of the VIP booths, heart pounding. He ran through the drill Maud had taught him—make eye contact, touch his shoulder (no more than three seconds), drop to a crouch and sway hips in time to the music. The man watched, rapt, eyes glued to the place where Mark’s ass met the curve of his thigh.

Mark finished the routine and stood, legs shaky.

“Not bad,” the man said, handing over a folded twenty. “You’ve got a great body, but you should smile more.”

Mark took the money, resisting the urge to set it on fire.

***

The next few hours were a blur. Mark danced for seven clients. Three wanted to talk about football, two wanted to talk about crypto, one wanted to talk about his divorce. Only one tried to put his hand somewhere it didn’t belong, and Mark slapped it away before he even thought about it. The guy apologized profusely and left him a big tip; nothing more embarrassing than being thrown out by a bouncer.

He got better at the walk—his kitten heels were easier now, the hip sway automatic. The body responded, even when the mind screamed. By the fifth client, Mark found himself leaning in, whispering in the man’s ear, and actually enjoying the way the guy squirmed under the attention.

It was a rush, a power trip, something he knew all about even as a man; but it came at a price.

By midnight, Mark’s head hurt from the perfume, the neon, and the endless feedback loop of men staring at his tits. Every time he caught his own reflection, he flinched. He was getting used to the body, but not to the way people looked at it.

Backstage, he collapsed onto the sofa, feet throbbing. Maud joined him, kneecap brace gleaming under the lights.

“Not dead yet?” she teased.

Mark shook his head. “Almost.”

Maud handed him a bottle of water. “You did good tonight. Even Deb said so.”

He took a long drink. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

Maud raised an eyebrow.

“The way they look at you,” Mark said. “Like you’re not even human. Just…parts.”

Maud smiled, sad and proud. “Welcome to the jungle, sweetheart.”

They sat in silence for a while. Other dancers drifted in and out, chattering about rude customers, bad tippers, the new girl who cried after every set.

Mark stared at his own hands, the tattoos, the way the nails caught the light. “Do you ever wish you were someone else?”

“All the time,” Maud said. “But this is the skin I’ve got. So I make it work.”

Mark found himself thinking that the girls at the club weren’t so bad. If he had the money again, maybe he would even “save” them. He nodded, not trusting himself to say more.

***

After the shift, Maud found him at the bar, drinking orange juice and staring into space.

“House takes thirty percent,” she said. “Deb’s giving you 50% off the floor fee tonight, ‘cause you’re rusty. But only tonight.”

He looked at his final earnings after Maud helped him settle up for the night. From the cash he earned from customers he deducted the House Fee, the 30% commission, the tip outs to the DJ, floor manager and security; what he had now was about 150 pounds. He’d worked six hours, sweated through three bras, and listened to more mansplaining than he’d endured in his entire previous life. He thought of his old salary—what he used to make in a minute, and felt tears starting to challenge his otherwise stoic exterior.

Maud must have read his mind. “It’s honest work,” she said. “Nobody here’s going to judge you for surviving.”

He nodded.

In the flat, Maud made tea and microwaved leftover porridge. Mark ate in silence, then collapsed into bed without bothering to change. He lay awake for a long time, feeling every ache in his body. He thought about power—what it was, who had it, and how quickly it could vanish. He thought about the men at the club, the way they’d eyed him, and how he’d smiled back, weaponizing the body he’d been given. He thought about Angelique Valentine—what kind of person she’d been, what kind of life she’d lived.

“Next week will be easier,” Maud had said. “You’re strong, Angel. You’ve survived worse.”

He wasn’t so sure. But for tonight, it was enough to have made it through.

27th December - New York - Angel (as Mark)

By the time Angel—Mark—landed in New Jersey, she had everything planned to a tee.

The private jet was staffed by a smiling crew who called her “Mr. Steele” and didn’t bat an eye when she asked for a double bourbon soon after breakfast. She read the Wall Street Journal cover to cover before the wheels even touched the tarmac.

At Teterboro Airport, a car waited. Black, tinted, identical to every other billionaire’s ride. The driver barely made eye contact as he shuttled her through the city, past the winter-blasted parks and glass towers. Angel looked out the window, amused and slightly aroused by the ease with which the world deferred to Mark’s silhouette. The power wasn’t just real; it was addictive.

The building—Steele Tower, of course—loomed over Midtown like a Bond villain’s lair, all blue glass and geometric lines. Security at the front desk waved her through. The woman at reception glanced up, then returned to her screen, unmoved by Angel’s slightly off-kilter smile.

Upstairs, the office suite was an ice palace: white marble, chrome, and a view of the city that made her want to howl. She walked the perimeter, feeling the weight of the suit and the expensive shoes, the way they reshaped her walk. She tried a few of Mark’s old gestures she’d seen in online photos —hands in pockets, jaw clenched, a curt nod—and was delighted at how natural it felt.

The phone rang, a metallic trill that seemed to vibrate in her bones.

She answered on the first ring. “Steele.”

“Mr. Steele,” said the woman on the line, voice perfectly modulated, “your legal is waiting in the conference room. Would you like coffee?”

Angel grinned. “Black. No sugar.”

She hung up, flexed her new fingers, and walked to the conference room.

Victoria Middleton was already seated, her back perfectly straight, a sheaf of documents in front of her. She wore a grey suit with subtle blue stripes and a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. Angel sized her up: intelligent, ambitious, probably took no shit from anyone except the man whose body she now wore.

“Victoria,” Angel said, sliding into the chair.

She passed a folder across the table. “The situation is as follows: Silk Conglomerate has accelerated their proxy fight. Temple is calling for an emergency board meeting tomorrow at eight a.m. Hunter is shopping their pitch to the analysts.”

Angel scanned the doc. It was all legalese and flow charts, but she could read between the lines: hostile takeover, two days to derail, and up to three potential traitors in the C-suite. She whistled.

“Where’s Lena?”

Victoria hesitated. “She asked for the morning off—personal errand. I can bring her in remotely.”

Angel shook her head. “Let her finish. She’s got better things to do than play defense.”

Victoria’s eyes flicked up, a shade of surprise. “Of course.”

Angel studied her. Victoria had a scar on her left temple, barely visible under the makeup, and wore a watch that cost more than most cars. Her hands were steady, her face a mask. But there was something underneath—a flicker of doubt, or maybe hope.

“Anything else?” Angel asked.

Victoria’s tone was almost gentle. “Is everything all right, Mark?”

Angel laughed. “I’m fine. Just had a week to clear my head.”

Victoria accepted the answer. “Tomorrow, then.”

After she left, Angel spent an hour reading the board profiles again. Jane Temple, the iron lady, ran the audit committee like an Inquisition. Two other board members owed her favors, but the others were swing votes. She needed a plan.

At 6:00, she texted Lena:

“Need your eyes on Silk’s off-book assets. Dinner?”

Lena responded instantly: “9pm, your place. I’ll bring the wine.”

Angel felt a shiver run up her spine. She’d never met Lena in the flesh, but, from his texts, the old Mark had always held her at arm’s length—too ambitious, too clever, a threat. Angel wanted to see what happened when that leash came off.

***

The rest of the day was an endless parade of underlings and supplicants. Angel met with the comms team and the HR director who looked like he could use a Xanax smoothie. She nodded, made notes, and played Mark to the hilt: decisive, cold, always in control.

She found herself enjoying the attention, the way people listened when she spoke. Even the men who’d have dismissed her in her old body now hung on her every word. It was exhilarating.

She wondered how Mark had ever gotten bored of this. She chuckled quietly to herself. Of course he didn’t; that’s why she'd been constantly getting calls from her old phone which she had since blocked. Her PAs had also been informed that any call from an Angelique Valentine was unwelcome and that the woman was persona non grata.

At nine sharp, Lena Park arrived at her penthouse suite.

She was shorter than Angel expected but radiated a presence that filled the whole room. Her suit was bespoke, but the shirt was open at the collar, and her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail. She strode in, set the wine on the counter, and surveyed the penthouse as if she were evaluating a rival’s balance sheet.

“You’ve done some redecorating,” Lena said, voice dry.

Angel smiled inwardly, happy for the new information Lena has just provided. She poured two glasses. “You noticed.”

They sat on the balcony, city lights stretching in all directions. Lena sipped her wine and looked at Angel over the rim of the glass. “You seem different,” she said.

Angel laughed. “Enlightenment. Or maybe jet lag.”

Lena considered her boss, then shrugged. “Whatever it is, keep it. It looks good on you.”

It was crystal clear to Angel that Lena still wanted to get inside Mark’s pants. They spent an hour trading notes, digging through Silk’s shell companies and blind trusts. Lena’s brain worked like a knife, cutting through bullshit and bad data. Angel found herself genuinely impressed.
She also found herself staring at Lena’s lips, the way they curved when she smiled, the way she chewed the end of her pen when she thought hard.

At midnight, Lena closed her laptop and stretched, arms over her head. “You’re still staring,” she said.

Angel felt her face flush, but Mark’s body didn’t give it away.

They sat in silence for a while. Angel tried to focus on the city, but her eyes kept drifting back to Lena—wondering what she would look like with her hair loose on her back, and without the severe pantsuit which she chose to wear that evening, contrary to her actual intentions. She wondered what it would feel like to touch her, to hold her, to—

She realized, with a start, that she was hard. Really hard.

It was like someone had swapped her entire circulatory system for rocket fuel. She shifted in the chair, trying to ignore it, but the sensation only got worse.

Lena looked at her, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “You okay?”
Angel coughed, reached for her wine, and nearly spilled it. “Fine. Just… tired.”

Lena didn’t push. She finished her drink and packed her things. “See you at the board meeting?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Lena hesitated at the door, then looked back. “You’re going to win tomorrow.”

Angel smiled, and for a moment, it was real. “I know.”

After Lena left, Angel went straight to the bathroom, locked the door, and pulled down her pants.

The erection was—impressive. She’d seen porn, she’d even used a strap-on once or twice, but nothing prepared her for the reality of flesh, blood, and pulse. She touched it, experimentally, then with more force. The pleasure was electric. Sharp, fast, all-consuming. She stroked harder, biting her own lip, and felt the climax build like a tidal wave.

When it hit, she almost blacked out.

She leaned against the counter, breathing hard, staring at the mess in her hand. For a moment, she wanted to cry. Then she laughed—a wild, ragged sound—and cleaned up.

She looked in the mirror and saw Mark Steele’s face, flushed and alive.

“I get it now,” she said to the reflection.

She went to bed, and dreamed of Lena.

***

28th December - New York - Angel (as Mark)

The board meeting was a bloodbath.

Jane Temple ran the table, her voice honeyed but deadly. She made her case for the Silk deal, painting it as a merger of equals, a “unified vision for the future.” The other directors nodded, wary but tempted.

When it was Angel’s turn, she stood and paced the room.

“We’ve all read the prospectus,” she said. “But let’s be honest. Silk doesn’t want a partnership. They want us gone.”

Temple tried to interrupt, but Angel held up a hand.

“They’ve stacked the board, lined up proxies, and run a whisper campaign with the press. It’s textbook. And we’re falling for it.”

She looked around the room, made eye contact with every director.
“I don’t care if you like me. But if you let Silk in, you’re signing your own death warrants. They’ll carve us up and sell the bones.”

A tense silence.

Then Lena spoke up, sharp and clear. “I’ve analyzed the numbers. Mark’s right. The merger would gut our R&D and hand control to the Hong Kong office.”

Another director, emboldened, nodded. “We’d be out within a year.”

Temple bristled, but the tide had turned. Angel sat, hands steepled, and watched as the vote went her way. Six to three, motion denied.

Afterwards, Victoria met her in the hall.

“Well played,” Victoria said, eyes gleaming. “You found your killer instinct again.”

Angel smiled. “Never lost it.”

Victoria hesitated, then handed her a folder. “There’s something you should see.”

Angel opened it. Inside was a dossier on Evangeline Hunter, the Silk CEO. It was exhaustive: business interests, shell companies, and a few odd references to “parchment artifacts.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “You believe in magic, Victoria?”

Victoria’s lips curled. “No. But I believe in patterns. And Hunter’s got a lot of them.”

Angel tucked the folder under her arm. “Thanks.”

Victoria lingered. “You’re really okay, aren’t you?”

“Never better,” Angel said, meaning every word.

***

That night, Angel threw a party. She invited the entire board, plus Lena and Victoria. She watched the way people mingled, the way they looked to her for direction, the way Lena stood at her side, sharp and competent and always one step ahead.

After midnight, Lena pulled Mark aside. “What’s the plan now?”

Angel grinned. “We take the fight to Silk. And we make this company better than it’s ever been.”

Lena’s eyes shone. “I’m with you.”

They clinked glasses, and for a moment, Angel forgot everything but the pleasure of the moment.

The next morning, Angel woke before dawn. She ran five miles through the city, relishing the cold air and the burn in her muscles.

She returned to the penthouse, showered, and dressed for the day. She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the tie, and saw not just Mark Steele, but something new—someone stronger, smarter, alive.

The phone buzzed. It was Evangeline Hunter.

She answered. “Steele.”

A laugh, low and musical. “So you figured it out.”

Angel’s heart hammered. She hadn’t figured it out but Hunter seemed happy to confirm everything.

Evangeline’s voice was smooth as silk. “You’re doing better than I expected. Mark was always clever, but you?”

Angel smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Evangeline said. “But don’t get cocky. I’m going to London. Soon. I want to see how the other side is holding up.”

Angel felt a jolt of fear—and excitement.

“See you soon, Evangeline.”

The line went dead.

Angel set the phone down, hands steady.

It was only a matter of time before Hunter made her move. But for now, she had a company to run, a city to conquer, and a date with Lena at eight.

HE smiled into the mirror. “Let’s play.”