Bad Girl (Temp.) - Chapter 9 - The End of the Affair

June - New York - Angel and Maud

Maud’s condo had a view of Manhattan that was supposed to impress, but Angel paced past it without a glance. She was getting big. Not quite fat, but big; about six months pregnant but her abdominal muscles hid most of the changes.

Her reflection, caught in a window pane, was everything you would expect from a woman in her situation: breasts straining lightly against the cotton of her exercise bra, her belly showing a slight bulge as if she had gorged herself on too many french fires, the skin tight and shiny. She’d started sleeping over at Maud’s place every few weeks; she told Mark it was to let him get a break, but the truth was she missed the old world. The world before penthouse gyms and board meetings, before every night became a prenatal seminar.

She paced to the window and glared out at the lights. “I hate this,” she muttered.

Maud, curled up on the sofa in silk pajamas, watched her with one eye open. “You said that yesterday,” she said, “and the day before. And, no, you don’t hate it. By the way, you want to rotate to the other side of the room so you wear down the carpet evenly?”

Angel gave a dismissive chuckle, then winced as the baby did a roll in her gut. “I’m going to piss myself.”

“You always do.”

“Not always.”

“I’d bet the paint on the toilet disagrees.”

Angel was halfway to the bathroom before she realized Maud was right. She didn’t bother closing the door. “You ever do this?” she called over the sound of her own waterfall. “Ever get this fucking huge and just loathe yourself?”

Maud grunted. “I was a dancer, not a brood mare.”

“You know what I mean.”

Angel came out, adjusting the waistband of her shorts. She didn’t even own maternity clothes; Mark said he liked seeing her in his old Harvard T-shirts, and rubbing her belly, like she was a trophy he’d won at a carnival. Most days she didn’t mind. But right now—

She limped to the fridge, poured out a glass of oat milk, then downed it without tasting. She rubbed her lower back with both hands, feeling the old familiar ache settling into new, deeper roots. “Maud?”

“Yeah?”

“Was I like this before?” Angel asked, voice thin. “Was I always so… fucking anxious?”

Maud thought for a long moment. “You were worse,” she said. “You just hid it behind the dancing and the drama. Now you’ve run out of places to hide.”

Angel let the words sit. She moved to the couch, not really sitting, more like lowering herself one inch at a time until gravity took over.

The two women sat in silence. Angel could feel her own scent in the room, half sweat, half milk, all hormones. She didn’t care. She stretched out her legs and let her feet invade Maud’s personal space.

“Did you ever want kids?” she asked. “I mean, did you ever think about it?”

Maud rolled her eyes. “Sure. Back when I thought I was immortal and made of rubber. Then I met enough kids in this world to know it was a raw deal.”

Angel looked down at her belly. The skin was webbed with new marks, the tattoos around her hips stretched to comic dimensions, old ink now rendered surreal by pregnancy.

“Sometimes I dream it’s not really mine,” she said. “That I’m just… hosting it. That someone’s going to come and take it away at the end, like a rental.”

Maud’s voice went soft. “You think that because you’re scared of fucking up. Welcome to the club.”

Angel felt a knot of anxiety twist in her stomach, yet beneath it simmered an unexpected thrill. The notion of nurturing a life, of bringing forth a child, had never crossed her mind in her former existence. This little being growing inside her; it was nothing short of miraculous. The thought of motherhood seemed almost too grand for her to grasp. But did she truly deserve this gift?

Angel pressed her palm flat against the dome of her stomach. The baby kicked, hard. “I used to be Mark,” she whispered. “I was him. Now I’m this.”

She made a vague gesture at her own body. “I don’t know if I can be the mother this thing deserves.”

Maud turned and faced her fully, arms crossed. “Nobody can. Not at first. Not ever. That’s the lie. You really believe those picture-perfect moms online have it all together? Trust me, they’re just one meltdown away from losing it. The truth is, Angel, you just take it one day at a time. You get up, you care for your child, you hope for a supportive school environment, and you figure out the rest as you go along.”

“I don’t even know if I want to be a woman forever,” Angel said to herself. But she knew it was a lie the moment she did. She wanted this, really wanted this.

Maud looked at Angel with a frown then realized than pregnancy did weird things to women. “You’ve got three months at the shelter, nearly three years of pole-dancing, and one billionaire locked down. If anyone can mother on hard mode, it’s you.”

Angel let the compliment hang. She felt a tear sting the corner of her eye, and for a split second she wanted to say more; to spill about the body swap, about the weird, cursed parchment, about the terror that one morning she’d wake up back in Mark’s skin with nothing to show for it but regret. But she didn’t. She just looked at Maud, at her lined face and soft hair, and felt an old ache, the kind that came from knowing someone had your back no matter what.

Maud reached out and squeezed her calf, hard. “You need to sleep,” she said.

“I can’t,” Angel said. “If I lie down, I’ll suffocate. If I sit up, my feet turn into sausages.”

Maud stood, grabbed a spare pillow, and stuffed it behind Angel’s lumbar. “Then you sleep here,” she ordered. “I’ll do the dishes, then I’ll join you.”

Angel closed her eyes. She felt Maud’s hand, strong and rough, stroking her hair the way mothers in TV shows did. She breathed in the scent of home: old laundry, cheap wine, a ghost of talcum powder from the eighties.

“Maud?” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Mark will be a good dad?”

Maud’s answer was immediate. “He’d better be, or I’ll punch him myself.”

Angel smiled, then let the darkness enfold her. She drifted, half-dreaming, until Maud’s weight settled beside her and the world narrowed down to warmth and shared breath.

The chairs were molded green plastic and the yoga mats, courtesy of the city, had a film of someone else’s sweat embedded in the foam. Angel watched the circle of bellies, each one a little more swollen, a little more certain of its own purpose, and wondered for the dozenth time if anyone in the room could tell she was a fraud.

She took the mat closest to the fire exit, a habit from the club—always know your escape. Mark slid in beside her, all elbows and knees. He didn’t comment, but his face was a public service announcement for suppressed feeling. She caught him staring at her belly, at the pulse of something alive beneath the shirt, and for a half second, she wished she could share it with him. Not the baby—just the weird awe of being a container for a future that was not entirely your own.

The instructor was an ex-doula turned birth coach, a woman with the haircut of a children’s librarian and the exact same cheery attitude. “Welcome, all,” she said. “Tonight, we’ll focus on breathing through pain.”

Angel let out a sharp puff of air through his nose, and Mark looked at her, half amused, half warning.

“Partners... ” the doula said, “ ...find your comfort position. You’ll need each other.”

The other couples giggled, nestled into each other, some with matching water bottles, some with matching smiles. Angel watched one woman, thin and perfect and serene, rest her head on her husband’s shoulder. She had a bump like a basketball tucked under her shirt; her husband rubbed slow circles on her back, like he’d read the manual.

The doula moved around the circle, correcting postures. “Relax your shoulders. Breathe into the tension. Remember, you’re a team; mother and partner.”

Angel shifted in her seat. The baby kicked, then twisted, then settled low.

“Is it weird for you?” she whispered to Mark.

He leaned close. “What, the class?”

“Me. Like this.”

He hesitated, then: “No weirder than waking up in your body every day for six months.”

She smirked. “You love it.”

“Maybe I do.”

The doula barked: “Alright, everyone, let’s get into the Hands and Knees position. This is excellent for back labor. Partners, your job is to learn how to apply counter-pressure or massage your partner's back while in this position. Counter-pressure is key. It means using firm, steady pressure with your hands, fists, or even a tennis ball on the lower back or sacrum during a contraction. This technique is especially helpful when the baby is positioned in a way that causes back pain. The pressure can really help ease that intense discomfort. I’ll show you exactly where and how to apply that pressure, so pay close attention!”

Mark looked sheepish. “Let’s just do it.”

Mark positioned himself behind Angel, his arms encircling her waist with a clumsy uncertainty. His hands, once so familiar and commanding, now felt oversized and tentative against her skin. He pressed into her hips, searching for the tense muscles that needed relief. Following the doula's instructions, he focused on applying steady pressure, kneading her lower back with just the right amount of force, feeling the warmth of her body beneath his palms.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, his voice almost hesitant.

Angel nodded, her breath catching slightly as he found the right spots. The tension in her back began to melt under his touch, and she leaned into him, seeking comfort. The rhythm of his hands was unpracticed but earnest.

“Just like that,” she encouraged, her voice softening. She could feel the connection between them deepen, the awkwardness fading as he focused on her needs. “That’s good,” she muttered.

He held it, steady, then let go. She missed the contact, immediately.

“Thanks,” she said.

He came around to face her, and she saw the look: the old Mark, calculating, then melting, unsure what to do with his own tenderness.

Next came breathing and panting.

The doula gave everyone a summary of everything they had gone through before: “Alright, everyone, listen up! We’re going to practice what to do in the 'Transition' phase. This is where the urge to push hits hard, but remember: if you’re not fully dilated at 10 cm, pushing can backfire and slow things down. Instead, use panting to get through it. Now, when we reach the 'Crowning' phase, as your baby’s head starts to emerge, I’ll need you to stop pushing. This is crucial for allowing your tissues to stretch gently and avoid tearing.

“We’ll practice the 'Hee-Hee-Hoo' technique: two quick inhales through the mouth followed by a long, blowing exhale. It goes like this: ‘Hee-Hee-Hoo.’ Keep those shoulders relaxed and focus on that exhale. No holding your breath! Trust me, it’ll make all the difference.”

Angel watched the others—their synced breaths, their obvious comfort—and felt like she’d landed on the wrong planet. Mark crouched down to Angel's level, his hands enveloping hers as he locked his gaze onto her eyes. A sense of calm washed over them both, the world outside fading into a distant hum.

“Okay, here comes the urge,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “Look at me. Hee-hee-hoo.” He demonstrated the technique, his breath flowing in sync with hers. “Good! Again with me: Hee-hee-hoo.”

Angel felt the rhythm settle between them. “Keep your breaths light and shallow,” he encouraged, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’re doing great.”

During a break, Mark leaned in. “You want to bail?”

She shook her head. “No. I want to see how it ends.”

When the class reconvened, the doula passed out ultrasound photos. “Anyone want to share?”

The circle went around. Each woman showed off a ghostly black-and-white snapshot. “That’s our girl—twenty weeks.” “He’s already got my nose.” “She kicked during the whole scan.”

Angel stared at her own picture, the outline of a tiny skeleton. She hesitated, then passed it to Mark.

He looked at it a long time. “It’s real,” he said.

She nodded. “Too real.”

The last exercise was a guided visualization. “Close your eyes,” the doula said. “Picture the moment you meet your baby. What do you feel?”

Angel tried to do it. She saw herself, cradling a pink, wrinkled creature, its eyes shut tight, its mouth open and screaming. She wanted to love it, but all she could think of was whether the soul inside was hers, or Mark’s, or some ghost from the parchment that started this mess. She wondered what the child would call her. She wondered if it would recognize her as its mother.

She opened her eyes and saw that Mark was watching her, his expression unreadable. She touched his cheek, just once, a silent thank-you for being there, for not bolting.

When the class ended, Angel moved to leave, but Mark stopped her, wrapping her in his arms impulsively. “You’re going to be amazing,” he said. Angel surrendered to his embrace, allowing herself to melt against his solid frame. The baby was real and she wanted it more than anything she had wanted in her life.

July - London

The long table in Silk’s Boardroom was a single slab of onyx, polished until it mirrored the ceiling. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city in sharp irregular portals, turning London into something distorted and dissected. The only thing on the table, apart from three glasses of untouched water and a tray of black coffee, was a small brittle sheet of parchment. The swap document. The thing that had fucked their lives for a year and still held them in its teeth.

Evangeline Hunter sat at the head, chair turned slightly so she could catch both the skyline and the faces of her enemies. Angel sat on the right, Mark on the left. Neither had touched the coffee.

Evangeline leaned back in her chair, a sly smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Congratulations, Mark,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “Securing a minority stake in the Silk Conglomerate is no small feat. Two seats on the board; impressive, really.” She paused, letting the words hang in the air like a fine mist before continuing. “But let’s be honest, shall we? It won’t be nearly enough to steer the ship in a new direction.”

Mark's jaw tightened, and he exchanged a glance with Angel, whose expression remained inscrutable. “What’s your angle, Evangeline?” Mark asked, his tone measured but edged with curiosity.

“Oh, I didn’t bring you both here just to tie up loose ends or to negotiate a truce regarding the hostile takeover bid,” she replied, her eyes glinting like shards of glass. “No, this is about something much more... personal.”

Angel leaned forward, her instincts prickling with unease. “What do you mean?”

Evangeline straightened, her demeanor shifting from playful to deadly serious. “I want to ensure the legacy of the Hunter family remains intact. And if that means using you two as pawns in a larger strategy, then so be it. I’m not here to coddle you; I’m here to remind you of the stakes.”

Mark clenched his fists. “You think you can intimidate us? We’re not backing down.”

Evangeline chuckled softly. “Oh, I don’t need to intimidate you, Mark. The truth is far more effective. You’re already in deeper than you realize, and soon enough, you’ll see just how little control you truly have.”

“You’ve both done quite well,” she said. “Better than I expected. You’ve dismantled Richard’s empire. Funded shelters. Caught the attention of every board in the city. It almost makes me want to vomit.”

Mark shifted. “We’re not here for flattery or insults, Ms. Hunter.”

“No, of course not. You’re here for closure.”

She paused “And I will admit you’ve surprised me, Angelique. I sort of guessed that Mark would thrive. But you’ve become almost respectable, some would say a credit to her sex.” Evangeline sniggered as she finished. “So I have a reward for you.”

She reached under the table and produced a leather document folder. It was old, scuffed at the corners. She opened it with deliberate slowness, took a photo out and slid it across the table.

It landed in front of Angel with a soft swish. The photo was small, creased, the color faded to bloodless sepia. A woman, young, with wild dark curls and a mouth set in a half-smile, held a newborn wrapped in a red shawl. The baby was tiny, barely visible, but its eyes were open, staring straight into the camera.

Angel inhaled. Something in the woman’s face was familiar. Not just the shape of the mouth, or the stubborn set of the jaw, but the haunted look—the thing you only saw in the mirror after too many nights of not enough sleep.

Mark took the photo from Angel’s trembling hands. He turned it over. On the back, in faded blue ink, a line: “For my son. If you ever see this, know I never left you. I love you.”

He looked up. “Who is this?”

Evangeline steepled her fingers. “That, Angel, is your mother. Eleanor Hunter. My sister.”

Angel felt like the floor had dropped out from under her. “No,” she said. “That’s impossible. My mother died of an overdose. I was six. My father told me... ”

“Your father lied,” Evangeline said, her voice suddenly sharp. “He erased her. Richard Steele wanted the Hunter fortune. He seduced Eleanor, married her in secret, then drove her mad with suspicion. Gaslit her. Abused her. When she tried to leave, he staged her death. Faked the papers. Stole you, and raised you as his own.”

Angel’s hand was on the table, nails digging into the onyx. “Why are you telling us now?”
Evangeline didn’t blink. “Because I promised your mother I would. And because, for all his brilliance, Richard Steele was a coward. He hated the idea that you might ever know where you came from.”

Angel sat back. The world blurred at the edges. Her whole life; the lonely boarding schools, the endless performance, the sense that she’d never fit; suddenly made sense, and none of it mattered.

“You should know,” Evangeline said, “that what happened to you is not unique.”

Mark looked up, startled. “Other people have... ?”

“Not many,” Evangeline said. “It’s an old thing, predating Christendom. Older than any of our little dynasties. It’s a talisman, yes, but also a curse. For those who... ” she smiled “ ...transgress. It’s been in my family for centuries, usually in a vault, sometimes in a courtroom. Every generation, there’s at least one person who can’t resist the urge to ‘improve’ themselves at the expense of others. The parchment always finds them.”

Mark’s mouth was dry. “So what are we supposed to be, exactly? Guinea pigs?”

Evangeline shook her head. “No, Mark. You’re the lesson. The parchment is about balance. It always does what is right; even if it hurts.”

Angel’s hands gripped the chair arms so hard her knuckles went white. “What’s it balancing?”

Evangeline’s gaze turned to her, then back to Mark. “Your arrogance. Your legacy. The damage you did, and the damage done to you. Sometimes it swaps souls, not bodies. Sometimes it lets you live as the person you’ve wronged. Sometimes it just lets you feel what you’ve buried. The magic is unpredictable, but the outcome is always the same.”

Angel felt sick. “So… this was punishment? For my father?”

Evangeline’s voice turned glacial. “Not for your father. For you. Because you were him. Arrogant. Ruthless. Blind. You inherited his mission to destroy my family, to annihilate what he couldn’t take by force. You tore down charities. You laughed at the poor. You even tried to evict your own mother’s last refuge.”

Angel sat up. “That’s not... ”

Evangeline cut him off. “You don’t need to justify yourself. The parchment didn’t pick you at random. It was drawn to the mess you made. And to the mess you inherited.”

“Is that all there is? All this, just for revenge?” she whispered.

Evangeline looked intently at her, not a hint of sympathy in her voice. “You learned, didn’t you? You found the one thing you could never buy: empathy. The parchment gave you that. It gave you a mother.” Hunter turned and looked at Mark, then turned back to face Angel. “And it gave you a daughter.”

The word daughter landed like a body on the table. It was clear that Evangeline knew everything about their lives.

Angel let go of the parchment, finally. “Why would you do this to your own niec…nephew? Your sister’s only child. It’s monstrous.”

“You know nothing about your mother,” Evangeline sneered. “But maybe the parchment will let you feel something of the pain she felt. In any case, she was soft, far too lenient.”

Evangeline watched the lights flicker outside the building, relishing the moment. “By the way, everything you’ve experienced so far, that’s not the punishment. I know you’ve come to like being a woman, Angel, it’s the parchment’s way. Or maybe it was always the way you were. I would hardly call being a woman attached to a billionaire punishment.”

Angel felt a growing anger in her and was ready to hit the older woman.

“A year,” Evangeline said. “The bodies will revert at midnight, Christmas Eve. You’ll go back to your old skin. Your old life.”

Angel’s jaw dropped. “And then what?”

Evangeline’s smile was the slow fade of a dying star. “The ancient texts don’t warn about what happens next. Some say the soul doesn’t always come back whole. After a year of being someone else—of loving, grieving, growing—it’s possible you’ll never truly return. The reversal can break you.”

Mark stared at his hands. They felt too heavy, too old. “So what do we do?”

Evangeline shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s inescapable. I’ve never seen it play out.” She held the faded parchment between her fingers. “These things are rare you know. I wouldn’t waste it on just anyone. What I’ve heard is that most people don’t last a year. They give up, or end it early.”
Angel’s eyes glittered. “You don’t care what happens to us, do you?”

“Good god,” Evangeline’s mouth twitched. “It’s not my job to care.”

Mark looked at Angel, and for the first time, saw the terror beneath her stubbornness.

“We’ll beat it,” he said, barely audible.

Angel squeezed his hand.

Evangeline walked to the door. “I’ll see you on Christmas,” she said. “If you survive that long.”
When she was gone, Mark picked up the parchment. He folded it back into the envelope.

He turned to Angel. “We’re running out of time.”

She nodded. “Then let’s not waste it.”

They walked out together, through the mausoleum of glass and marble, and into the city.

They walked in silence for a few blocks, then ducked into a side alley just to catch their breath. Angel still held the photo. She kept it tucked in the pocket of her coat, but every ten steps she’d pull it out, stare, and tuck it back. She was walking slower now, one hand on her belly, her face gone soft and blurred from tears.

Mark broke first. “I don’t want to lose this,” he said, voice so quiet it nearly didn’t exist.

Angel looked at him, startled. “What do you mean?”

He laughed, a single ugly sound. “I mean; being me, what I am right now. I used to think I was born to dominate every room. And now that I’ve got it... ” He gestured at himself, at the broad shoulders, the city that bent to his name... “I don’t want to go back.”

Angel considered that. “You hated my life,” she said. “You used to call it small. Despicable. Parasitic.”

Mark nodded. “It was. But I can change it. I am changing it. And now I see... ” He swallowed. “I see why you never stopped fighting. Why you never settled for what they gave you. I miss your body. Your hands. The way I used to move and the way the world used to look at me when it wasn’t all about power and threat. But this is better.”

Angel put a hand on his. “I used to think being a man was the only way to survive. That’s what my dad taught me. But being a woman... ” she looked and touched the swell of her belly, “... it’s the only way I learned to feel. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”

They walked, side by side, until they reached a bridge overlooking the river. The water was black and slick, reflecting the city’s bones. Mark leaned on the railing, Angel next to him.

“We’re supposed to revert at Christmas,” Angel said. “What do we do until then?”

Mark didn’t answer for a long time. He stared at the water, at the current. “You ever think about what you want, after? If you could choose?”

Angel nodded. “I want to keep her,” she said, touching her abdomen. “And I want to keep you.”
Mark smiled, almost sheepish. “Even if I go back? To being her?”

Angel shrugged. “I fell in love with the soul, not the package.”

Mark’s laugh was softer this time. “I’m scared,” he admitted. “Not of changing back. Of losing you.”

Angel was quiet for a while. “You won’t. Not if I have a say.”

He looked at her, saw the tears in her eyes. “Marry me,” he blurted.

“What?”

Mark dropped to one knee, right there on the bridge, not caring who saw. “Marry me, Angel Valentine. I don’t care if I’m a man, a woman, or a floating head in a jar. I want you for the rest of my life. However long that is.”

Angel covered her mouth, then started to laugh. “Are you serious?”
Mark looked up, dead serious. “Yes. Before the baby comes. Before anything else changes. I want to be yours.”

Angel reached down, pulled him up. “Is this for the kid, or for me?”

Mark gripped her hands, hard. “For us. For who we are now. And for who we might be, later.”

Angel tried to speak, but the words failed her. Instead, she pulled Mark in and kissed him—no, kissed her, the woman underneath the man, the soul she’d grown to need as much as breath
.
They stayed like that for a long time, locked together under the neon and the sky.

When they broke apart, Angel wiped her cheeks and said, “You know this might not last.”

Mark nodded. “Then we make it count.”

Angel looked at the photo one last time, then tucked it away.

They left the bridge, arms wrapped around each other, determined to live the hell out of whatever time was left.

July - London

Angel had never believed in the white-dress fantasy, even as a little boy, even in her wildest pole-dancer dreams, but here she was: six months pregnant, laced into a silk slip, her face a mask of nerves and hope.

The morning started in chaos. Maud arrived first, arms full of pastries and threats. “Eat,” she commanded, “or I’ll force-feed you on the altar.” Simone and Ruby came next, both hungover, both wearing shades indoors, both ready to talk Angel out of getting married to a billionaire. “It’s not too late to run,” Simone whispered, loud enough for the makeup artist to hear. “I hear nuns are making a comeback.”

Angel grinned, then almost burst into tears. She’d spent the last three days crying for no reason: at commercials, at weather forecasts, at a pigeon with one leg hopping down Park Avenue. Now it felt like every second was the last before a storm: sky tense, air electric, full of things unsaid.

The slip dress was simple, bias-cut, ivory. “It’ll look like lingerie,” Lena had said during the fitting, “but expensive.” Maud had picked the shoes: Doc Martens, because “you might need to fight someone before the night’s over.” The makeup was classic and the belly—there was no hiding it. It led the way, straining the fabric, drawing every stare.

The bridal suite was on the top floor of a midtown hotel, and Angel could see all of London through the window.

There was a knock. Lena’s head appeared around the door. “You okay?”

Angel nodded, then shook her head. “I feel like I’m going to throw up. I’m not joking.”
“Don’t,” Lena said. “At least not before the ceremony.”

She stepped inside, closed the door. “You look beautiful.”

“I look like a parade float.”

Lena smirked. “A beautiful parade float. And you’re glowing. That’s not just a cliché, by the way. I read a study about how pregnancy—”

Angel cut her off with a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered, then ruined the moment by crying into Lena’s shoulder.

Lena patted her back. “It’s okay. I get like this at weddings, too.”

They sat on the edge of the bed. Angel tried to remember the last time she’d felt this exposed, even naked onstage. Well, maybe that time that bitch Evangeline ambushed her at the Elephant. But this was different.

“I miss my old body sometimes,” Angel admitted touching her baby bump. “But this is good.”

Lena nodded her head. “You’re allowed to miss whatever you want. But you also have to celebrate what you are now.”

Angel looked at herself in the mirror. She touched the edge of her lip, the sweep of her collarbone. “I do. I think I do.”

There was another knock. “Showtime,” Simone called. “If you’re not out here in sixty seconds, we’re starting without you.”

Angel got up, wiped her eyes, and breathed in. “Ready,” she said. It was a lie, but she didn’t care.

The ceremony was in a decommissioned cathedral, all crumbling stone and neon halos. The aisles were lined with candles and roses. A string quartet played something that sounded like old movie scores. The pews were full: Wall Street sharks, club girls, old friends and new. Tom was there, sitting in the back, giving her a thumbs up.

The walk down the aisle took an hour, or a second. At the altar, Mark stood, hands folded, looking like he was trying not to burst out of his own skin. He wore a black suit and no tie. His hair was perfect, and his eyes were full of wild, embarrassed joy.

He took her hand. “You’re radiant,” he said.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, smiling up at him.

At the altar, Angel’s hands trembled. Mark squeezed them, steady.

The judge read the script. “Do you—”

“Yes,” Angel said, too loud, cutting him off.

The guests laughed.

Mark grinned, wide. “I do.”

They kissed, and for one impossible second, the world went quiet.

The reception was a riot. Lena got drunk and danced on a table. Ruby started a limbo contest and Simone won, barely. Maud gave a speech that made Angel sob; about finding family where you can. Mark’s speech was short, and at the end, he said: “I never knew what it meant to be a man, until I met you.” Angel spluttered and almost spit out here wine before she could stop it.

They cut the cake. They drank. They held hands under the table, even when they thought nobody was watching.

At one point, Tom found her in a side room, nursing her swollen feet and a ginger ale. “You did good,” he said, smile lopsided. “You’re happy?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Really happy.”

He patted her shoulder, awkward. “Take care of yourself. And the kid. I mean it.”
“I will,” Angel promised.

He left, and she watched him go, a strange mix of old ache and new hope in her heart.

Later that night, Mark and Angel stood on the roof of the building, looking down at the city. The wind tangled their hair together.

“Do you think we’ll still be us, after?” Angel asked.

Mark thought, then nodded. “Yes. Because you can’t unlove someone, no matter what shell they end up in.”

Angel leaned against him. “Then let’s not waste another second.”

The honeymoon was a long weekend in Monte Carlo. Mark did it because he wanted it to end like one of Angel’s ridiculous novels, but also because he liked the view of the Mediterranean from their suite.

Angel wore flowing dresses and let her hair down. They spent mornings on the balcony, drinking coffee and eating fruit. Sometimes they didn’t speak for hours. It was enough to just be.

For lunch they ate pasta on a private balcony overlooking the sea. Mark watched her from across the table, eyes full of hunger, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to fuck her or devour her whole. She wore a backless dress, her pregnant belly a statement piece, her breasts swollen and alive.

They barely left the room.

Nights were different. Mark liked to watch her undress. He traced every new stretch mark with his tongue. “You’re immaculate,” he whispered, like it was a secret. Angel laughed, embarrassed, but she let him worship her all the same.

The first night, Mark knelt on the balcony, hands braced on her thighs, and ate her out with a reverence that felt like penance for every sin he’d ever committed. The second night, he fingered her slow and deep while she watched the boats come in, her legs spread wide and her head thrown back.

Mark had gotten good at worship: hands, mouth, tongue, every part of her body catalogued and mapped, every inch of her stretched skin loved like it was sacred. Angel discovered a new edge to her pleasure; sharper, more immediate, less concerned with performance than just the act of being touched, adored.

“I never thought I’d like this so much,” she admitted afterward, sweat cooling on her skin.

Mark grinned, wiped his mouth, and said, “I knew you would.”

She slapped his shoulder, then let herself laugh. It was pure joy.

“I can’t believe you’re still attracted to me,” she’d tease, but the truth was she’d never felt more desired. More wanted.

They swam in the ocean. They made love with the windows open, the sea breeze cutting through the heat. They lay in bed and talked about the future, about the baby, about what would happen when the year ended.

“I don’t want to change back,” Angel confessed, one night when the lights of the city shimmered on the ceiling.

Mark drew her closer. “Me neither. Not unless you want to.”

She shook her head. “I want this. Us. Like this. Always.”

July to September - New York

When they returned to New York, the last trimester hit like a truck. Angel grew bigger and the baby kicked constantly, sometimes so hard it woke her in the night. Her back ached. Her feet looked like small loaves of bread. She peed every hour.

The labor started at four in the morning. Angel’s water broke on the kitchen floor; she swore, then started laughing hysterically. Mark rushed her to the hospital, and Lena and Maud showed up an hour later, both armed with snacks and romance novels.

The pain was like nothing Angel had ever known. Worse than any fist fight she had in college or the fracture she got playing football. Things got loud, fast. Mark tried to be brave, but the sight of Angel in pain broke something in him. He held her hand. He stroked her hair. When the contractions hit, she nearly broke his fingers, but he didn’t let go.

Maud coached from the sidelines. “Push like you mean it, sweetheart. Scream if you have to.” Angel screamed. She cursed the world. She cursed Mark, Maud, and the doctor. But when the baby came, blood and slime and perfect, Angel went dead quiet.

The nurse cleaned the baby, and placed her on Angel’s chest. Mark cried. So did Maud, but she pretended it was just allergies.

Angel stared at the child. “She’s so small,” she whispered.

Mark leaned in, awe and terror on his face. “She’s ours,” he said, voice cracking.

“Lisa,” she said, when the nurse asked for a name. “Lisa Eleanor Valentine-Steele.” Eleanor, after the mother Angel never knew

The nurse smiled. “Beautiful.”

Mark cut the cord, then held the baby while Angel sobbed with exhaustion.

Later, in the recovery room, Lena visited. She looked at the baby, then at Angel. “You did good,” she said, a tear streaking her cheek.

Angel nodded, too tired to speak.

The first days were hell. Lisa screamed, constantly, like she knew the world was out to get her. Angel learned to breastfeed. At first, she was terrified the baby wouldn’t latch onto her “muscle-bound, stripper tits,” as she put it, but Lisa was a natural. The act of feeding was strange, intimate, and absolutely wonderful.

Angel learned to pump milk with a machine that looked like an alarm clock. She hated the sound, the suction, the way it made her feel like a cow, but she loved the freedom it gave her, the ability to hand Lisa off to Mark or Maud and go for a run or a nap.

Mark took the night shifts, feeding Lisa with bottled breast milk while Angel tried to sleep. He rocked the baby, sang her lullabies off-key, changed diapers with a precision that would make a surgeon jealous.

Maud cooked, she cleaned, she ran interference with the world so Mark and Angel could be alone with their new life. Lena visited twice a week, always bringing gifts; tiny rompers, plush animals, books she insisted Lisa “read” immediately.

There were days Angel hated herself. Hated the way her body changed, the way she smelled, the way the world seemed to shrink down to the radius of a baby’s cry. Mark was always there. He didn’t judge, didn’t push. Sometimes he just held her, Lisa sleeping between them, and let her weep into his shirt.

“I was never this good as a man,” Angel admitted one night, Lisa asleep at her breast.

Mark looked at her, and for a second, Angel saw herself reflected back—the person she used to be, the one she’d tried to kill off with bravado and cruelty.

“You’re better now,” Mark said, kissing her forehead. “And you’re a damn good mom.”

Lisa grew. She lost her newborn fuzz, grew dark hair and blue eyes. She was loud, stubborn, and impossibly cute. She liked to grab Angel’s necklaces and chew on them. She liked to fall asleep on Mark’s chest.

They built a rhythm. Mark ran the business, Angel ran the house. It was grossly old fashioned but Angel didn’t mind. It was her choice. She had three months of being a mother to Lisa and she wasn’t going to waste any of it.

But it was hardest when Angel had time to herself, to think about what the future held. Angel would lie awake and think about the swap, about the parchment and the curse, about what would happen when she changed back. She’d lose so much of the intimacy she now had with Lisa, the feeling of Lisa pulling on her nipple, her warmth against her skin as she suckled, that feeling of exhaustion but rightness. Could she even bear going back to her old body, to be Mark again? Would Lisa even know her?

Sometimes, Mark would find Angel on the balcony, staring at the city, baby monitor in hand.

“Can’t sleep?” he’d ask.

She’d shake her head. “I’m scared I’ll wake up, and this will all be gone.”

He’d join her, arm around her shoulders. “It’s real. I’m real. Lisa’s real.”

Angel would lean into him, feeling his warmth, the solidness of his body and believe it—at least for a little while.

December - London - Mark and Angel’s Penthouse

Christmas Eve in London, a city wrapped in tinsel and existential dread.

Mark’s penthouse looked like the catalog version of a family holiday: tree so big it scraped the ceiling, mountains of gifts, Lisa drooling on a tartan blanket and shrieking every time someone so much as jingled a bell. It should have been perfect.

But Angel could barely breathe, her eyes puffy from tears that would come without warning.

It had been exactly one year. In a few hours, she would wake up in a body that didn’t know this baby, didn’t know these breasts or the swell of her hips, didn’t recognize herself in the mirror or in Mark’s eyes. She paced the kitchen, grinding coffee beans just to have something for her hands to do.

Mark was on the floor with Lisa, making her laugh by stacking wooden blocks and letting her knock them down.

After a light Christmas dinner, which Angel hardly touched, she stood at the window, watching the snow start to fall, her hands trembling. Mark came up behind her, arms wrapping around her middle. “You okay?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want this.”

He pressed his lips to the back of her neck. “I don’t want to change back, either. But we don’t have a say in this.”

Angel turned, searching his face. “What if I wake up tomorrow and I’m just… gone? Won’t I be gone if I’m not Angel any more?”

Mark cupped her face. “You won’t be gone. I’ll be with you, whatever body you’re in.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. But I’m stubborn.”

They sat on the couch in silence, counting down the minutes, Lisa asleep in her basket on the coffee table. As the clock neared midnight, Angel started to cry—not big, dramatic sobs, just silent tears, streaming down her cheeks like they’d been waiting for the right time to fall. Mark held her when she started gasping uncontrollably as the final seconds approached.
At the stroke of midnight, nothing happened.

The world didn’t tilt, bodies didn’t revert, the air didn’t shimmer with magic. Just the tick of the clock and the sound of Lisa snuffling in her sleep.

Angel stared at her hands, flexed them, checked her reflection in the window. She was still here. She stopped crying but they still waited. After five minutes, Angel reached over and cradled Lisa in her arms. Her tears had dried up but she was still waiting for something to happen.
Mark held her close and waited with her till the half hour mark and until it was full hour after midnight.

Mark kissed her. “We’re still us,” he whispered.

She nodded, almost laughing through her tears. “We are.”

September - London (Nine months later)

London looked even better with money. Mark and Angel landed at Farnborough on a Friday, Lisa in a onesie that said Future PM and a mood to match.

They were there for Lisa’s birthday celebration with the rest of the gang, but Angel had insisted that they arrive a few days later to see the sights and “see the renovations at the new shelter.”

On their second night, Maud picked up Lisa at the penthouse. “You two enjoy your grownup night,” she said, tossing Lisa in the air while the toddler screamed with laughter.

Mark drove Angel to Tottenham Court Road. The sign for the Licorice Elephant was smaller than she remembered, and the air smelled of fresh paint and polished brass, the renovated space both familiar and strange. They wandered through the club, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness where music usually thundered.

"What do you remember most about this place?" Angel asked, her fingers trailing along the velvet banquette where dancers once perched between sets.

Mark's eyes grew distant. "The dressing room after hours. Everyone counting tips, sharing cigarettes, ice packs for sore ankles. Maud doing everyone's makeup touch-ups." He smiled faintly. "I miss that—women taking care of each other in small ways. But..." he squeezed Angel's hand, "there are compensations."

In the new VIP section, a table waited with covered silver platters. Angel's heels clicked against the hardwood as she guided him to a seat. "Wait here," she whispered, lips brushing his ear. "I need to grab drinks and some paperwork from the office for you to review. I’ll get the music on as well, for old time’s sake."

Angel didn’t go to the office. Instead she walked briskly to the dressing room which was almost exactly as she’d left it except with better fittings. The old lockers were replaced with a large industrial metal monstrosity but the contractors had saved a small spot for her, still painted with an angel’s halo as previously. Inside was a box she’d asked Ruby to pack for her—something Mark had bought for her over a year ago during their ill-fated shopping trip, and which she never got around to wearing for him. She did her makeup fast, just a red slash of lip and a flick of eyeliner. Then she put her heels and coat back on and rushed to the DJs booth to turn on the music.

When she returned, she wore the same Alaïa coat she'd arrived in—caramel suede with shearling trim that clung to her curves like a second skin. She set down two crystal tumblers of amber liquid and a manila folder before him.

While Mark bent his head to examine the documents, Angel's fingers found the coat's belt. It fell open with a whisper. Underneath, delicate black French leavers lace and silk embraced her curves, clinging to her skin. She wore a boned balconette bra amd a matching thong. Her body was different now—softer, with more curves and confidence that came from owning it.
Mark looked up and let out a short gasp, a smile forming on his lips.

Angel stepped back, letting the coat slide from her shoulders to pool on the floor. Then she let her hips sway in hypnotic circles to the music, her fingers tracing the edge of the lace where it met her skin, teasing both herself and Mark with the promise of what lay beneath.

When she turned, Mark saw that the thong did not cover an inch of her ass. Only a thin strip of lace and silk held her panties in place, revealing the exquisite curves of her ass. Angel’s hair fell across her back as she glanced over her shoulder, eyes holding his as her hands unclasped her bra. Then she turned and held her left breast—its areolae now slightly darker and wider with her maternity—flush with his lips. Mark leaned forward to take her nipple in his mouth, but she stepped back and pushed him back with a single finger. "House rules," she reminded him, voice husky. "No touching the dancers."

She approached again, close enough that her nipples brushed against his lips again as she arched her back. His breath caught as she straddled him, careful not to make contact, hovering just above his lap. Her fingers traced the outline of his erection through his pants while her other hand slid between her own legs.

Then she sat back on the small couch in front of him and with a dancer's flexibility, she executed a perfect split. Mark could see that the fabric of Angel’s thong held a thin strip of moisture, her labia clearly engorged pressing against the thin cloth. With practiced dexterity, Angel lifted her buttocks off the couch and gently slipped of her thong. This was the first time Angel had ever been fully nude in the Elephant. She had always stopped short of that final act, as if she was saving her stripper virginity for someone really special.

Mark's hands gripped the edge of the cushion, knuckles white with restraint. When Angel started playing with herself, he could only rub his crotch helplessly in response. Angle’s finger worked her cunt with abandon, letting every truthful moan and sigh reach Mark’s ears. She spread her labia so that Mark could see and hear everything—her quivering engorged clitoris and the sopping sound of her fingers pleasuring her wet vagina. By now, Mark’s large erection was bursting against the seams of his tight jeans and he worked to loosen his pants to relieve the hell he was going through.

Angel clicked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval at Mark’s lack of self-control. Then she leaned close, sucking on the fingers which had just been inside her cunt, and breathed warmly against his ear.

"So," she whispered, "are you going to sit there all night?"

The question hung in the air for only a moment before Mark's control snapped. His mouth found hers as they fell together onto the velvet, hands desperate, bodies finally meeting without barriers or rules.

They left the club at dawn as the city was waking up.

Angel looked at Mark: the man she once was yet never wanted to be again and at the life they’d built.

She felt powerful, whole, unbreakable. She knew the curse could come back, or the magic could turn, or maybe none of it was real. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. She had everything she wanted, and more. And nothing could take it away.

Lisa’s first birthday was an ungodly mess. Angel had insisted on doing it in London, “for the symbolism,” she’d said, but mostly because the penthouse had a garden and Mark had secretly wanted to impress the British tabloids. There were more guests than Mark could count: former coworkers, minor celebrities, the entire cast of the Elephant’s weekend revue. The apartment was decked out in rainbow streamers, Peppa Pig banners, and a balloon arch so big it threatened to suffocate the kitchen.

Mark handled the logistics, Angel the guest list.

Maud showed up first, with a basket of scones and a card that said, “Congrats on keeping her alive for a year.” She looked more relaxed than Mark had ever seen her, hair down and wearing a vintage dress that clung to her new curves. After years of struggle, she had money, health, and an artist girlfriend who lived in Barcelona.

Lena arrived next, arms full of presents and gossip. “I’m writing a novel about you,” she whispered to Mark, “but I promise to change the names.” Angel was more concerned about how anyone would be able to differentiate Lena’s novel from the zillion other Billionaire Romance stories out there.

Ruby and Simone came together, both looking like they’d just walked off a shoot for some avant-garde fashion magazine. They immediately commandeered the kitchen, pouring champagne and shouting to be heard over the other girls from the Elephant.

Clara Tomlinson sat quietly in the corner, holding Lisa in her lap. She wore a simple black cardigan, hair in a neat bun, hands trembling a little as she bounced the baby. Mark watched them from across the room and felt a pang; a blend of gratitude and guilt for every time he’d cursed his own mother, never knowing what she’d lost.

Angel was everywhere at once: checking the cake, refereeing toddler fights, laughing so hard her voice rose above the chaos. She’d thrown herself into motherhood with the same intensity she once reserved for destroying men in boardrooms or onstage. She was good at it; better than she ever thought she’d be.

Midway through the party, Evangeline Hunter swept in like a storm front. She wore a dove-gray suit, tailored to perfection, and carried a gift bag with the logo of an impossibly expensive French boutique.

Mark stiffened. Angel moved to intercept her, but Evangeline just raised a hand. “I come in peace,” she said, then handed the bag to Lisa, who promptly chewed on the ribbon.

The guests quieted, everyone sensing the drama.

Evangeline waited, poised, then addressed Mark and Angel directly when they retired to Angel’s London library, now stacked with even more first edition romance novels. “I owe you both an apology,” she said. “I may have—how do you Americans say?—bullshitted a little about the parchment.”

Angel glared. “Try a lot. And according to my passport, I’m British, so never mind the bollocks and get with it.”

Evangeline gave a thin, genuine smile. “Yes, a fair bit of bollocks, I have to agree. I wanted to scare you, to see what you’d do, to see you squirm. Because, as far as I can tell, the parchment is a bit of a soft touch. The truth is, nobody in my family line knows where the parchment came from, or how it really works. It’s not just us. There are records, scattered through history, but no one can say what it wants. It just… finds people. Most people think those touched have gone insane. People in the know, like you and I, understand that they’re no longer the same people.”

“So we might be stuck like this forever?” Mark asked hopefully.

Evangeline shrugged. “Or not. I suspect the only rule is that there are no rules. And, for what it’s worth, you turned out as expected, an exemplary case of the parchment doing good things to bad people or maybe a bad person,” she said, nodding towards me. “You made it through a year, didn’t kill each other, didn’t break the world.”

“Yet,” Angel muttered.

Evangeline laughed, surprisingly warm. “Yet. But perhaps now, you can write your own story.”
She left before either of us could throttle her, disappearing into the garden with a glass of champagne and a small, private smile.

The party raged until dusk. At some point, Maud and Lena took over music duties, switching from Disney songs to power ballads, belting out “Total Eclipse of the Heart” with a gusto that nearly brought the neighbors down on them. Angel found herself wondering how Lena seemed so much younger than she actually was.

After the last guest left, Mark found Angel in the rooftop garden, barefoot, dress stained with cake, Lisa asleep in her arms. The air was soft and wet, the city glittering beyond the hedge.
He sat beside her. “Did you have fun?”

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “I did. I really did.”

He put his arm around her. Lisa stirred, but didn’t wake.

Angel stared at the sky. “Sometimes I still feel like I’m in the wrong story,” she whispered. “Like I’m waiting for someone to pull the rug out.”

Mark squeezed her hand. “You’re not alone in that.”

She smiled, sad and sweet. “I know.”

Lisa sighed in her sleep, a small, contented sound.

They watched the city for a while, the lights flickering on, the world moving forward from their happily ever after lives.