25th December - London - Angel’s Flat

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 shitty 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.”

January - London - Mark (as Angel)

The weeks blurred into each other like smudged lipstick.

Every morning, Mark got up, put on his gym kit, and ran laps around the canals, lungs burning, legs raw. If you looked past the stares from construction workers and the old women walking their dogs, it almost felt normal. Sweat, pain, the grind. He clung to it—routine was the only thing left that felt like his.

Maud played drill sergeant and the Licorice Elephant’s rehearsal space became his second home. First the pole: walks, pirouettes, hips dips and simple spins; then the more humiliating but still basic “fireman” move, then floorwork and the splits. Maud barked corrections and encouragement. “Chin up, ass out, don’t look like you’re apologizing for existing.”

Mark bit back retorts and did what she said. Once he had done enough repetitions of the basics, Maud stressed moves which would bring the most eyeballs: more advanced splits, hello boys, windmills and the brass monkey; teaching him how to transition from move to move. Still, Mark knew he was an absolute beginner and couldn’t compare with the dancers he saw on Youtube; who he sort of envied despite himself. He would watch the moves on loop in his bedroom at night, rehearse them in his head and plan how he would execute them once he had a pole in front of him. He knew he had the physique for it. It was simply a question of perseverance.

The costumes were a different story. The first time Maud brought in Angel’s full collection, Mark gawked. Six drawers’ worth: bras which lifted, accentuated and enticed; garters with more metal than a punk show; stockings in every conceivable shade. He tried them on, one by one, feeling like a clown in a very expensive circus.

He couldn’t help but notice how the other girls compared—how Ruby’s tits seemed engineered to draw attention, how even the smallest breasts looked perky in the right push-up. Mark found himself inspecting his own, at night in bed, confused by how critical he’d become about their size and symmetry. A new, unwanted kind of body dysmorphia.

“You okay?” Maud asked one morning, catching him staring down his own shirt with a frown.

“Fine,” he said.

“You know, for someone who used to walk in here like they owned the place, you’re acting like a trainee. Are you sure you’re not using again?”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on his chest. “Just tired.”

Maud handed him a mug of peppermint tea, the sort of thing he’d have mocked just 4 weeks ago. Now it felt like a warm hand on his back. “You can talk to me, you know. I won’t rat.”

He almost did, but what could he say? “I woke up one day and wasn’t myself anymore?” That he missed the feeling of control, of taking up space and being the biggest threat in the room? That he hated how every glance felt like it could turn violent?

Instead, he drank the tea and let Maud talk about her own past: the ballet scholarship that got wrecked by a drunk driver; the string of crap jobs; the years in clubs, first as a performer, then as “house mom.” She was unfiltered in a way that made Mark wish he could open up.

“You’re not the only one starting over,” she said, eyes soft. “Some of us get used to it. Some of us fake it.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. And he didn’t know if he could be as strong as Maud.

So he hit the gym with a vengeance. The body—Angel’s body—responded beautifully, getting leaner, more defined. He learned what foods kept the energy up, which pre-workouts actually worked. He found he cared, not for the male gaze but for the way his muscles flexed in the mirror, the way he could almost pass for one of the fitness models he’d followed back in his old life.

The club shifts got easier, too. The routines became second nature. Mark found himself able to banter with clients, throw shade at Ruby, even play along with the DJs. He knew how to walk the fine line between accessible and untouchable, between selling fantasy and keeping a piece of himself for later.

What he didn’t expect was the camaraderie backstage. The girls were brutal, funny, loyal. They called out creeps, looked out for each other, and never hesitated to share makeup or a spare tampon. It was a sisterhood he’d never known existed.

One night, after a rough shift, Maud dragged him to the roof to smoke.

“Tell me what’s really wrong,” she said, offering a cigarette.

Mark took it, inhaled, coughed. “I don’t remember how to be this person.”

Maud’s eyes crinkled. “You don’t have to remember. Just be.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” he admitted.

She flicked ash over the edge. “You think I wanted this?” She gestured at her scarred leg, the city lights. “Life’s not a TED Talk. You get what you get, and then you fight for more. If you’re lucky, you get a friend to watch your back while you do it.”

He looked at her, really looked. Maud was tired, sure, but she was alive in a way that none of his old friends had been.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She slugged his shoulder. “Don’t get sappy on me. Tomorrow we’re doing chair work. Wear something you can sweat in.”

He smiled, a real one this time.

January - London - Mark (as Angel)

Five weeks after the swap, Mark worked the late shift and caught the last train home. The city was empty, save for a few drunk tourists. He liked the stillness of the streets, the way his heels echoed off the sidewalk.

But the peace didn’t last.

Three men followed him out of the tube. He could tell by the way their laughter got closer, by how they spread out to flank him. Back in his old body, he’d have turned and faced them. Now, every instinct screamed run.

He cut down a side street, pace quickening. The men called after him, crude and eager.

“Hey, love! Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“Don’t be rude, babe. Come back and talk!”

Mark ignored them, heart racing. The flats felt slick, unstable. The men picked up speed.

He ducked into a corner store, pretending to browse gum and crisps. The men hung outside, watching. Mark lingered, bought a water, and tried not to look scared. The clerk gave him a look, then ducked his head and went back to his own world.

Outside, the men waited.

Mark stepped out, shoulders tense. The men closed in, blocking the path.

“Leaving so soon?” one said, hand hovering near Mark’s waist. He stank of cider and sweat.

Mark put the bottle between them, ready to use it as a weapon. “Fuck off.”

The men laughed, but their eyes were hard.

One reached for him.

And then everything changed.

A motorcycle roared up the curb, scattering the trio like pigeons. The rider dismounted, helmet off in one motion, and strode straight for Mark.

Tom Blackwood.

He was broader than Mark remembered from his Twitter and Facebook profiles, jaw shadowed in dark stubble, eyes hard and bright. He looked at the men, then at Mark. “You alright, Angel?”

Mark nodded, knees weak.

Tom faced the men, calm as granite. “You got a problem, boys?”

One of them, the tallest, tried to talk tough. “Just having a chat, mate. No harm—”

Tom stepped in, fist already moving. The punch was quick and decisive, dropping the man to his knees. The other two backed off, hands up.

Tom didn’t even look back at Mark. “Get on the bike.”

Mark obeyed, helmet still warm from Tom’s head. He clung to Tom’s leather jacket as they sped off, the city a blur of cold air and sodium light.

They stopped in front of Mark’s flat. Tom turned, expression unreadable. “You okay?”

Mark nodded, but the adrenaline left him shaky.

Tom’s gaze softened. “Why’d you stop riding the bike to work?”

Mark looked at him with blank stare. He had a bike?

Tom smiled. “You always were stubborn.”

Mark managed a laugh, breathless. “Still am.”

Tom reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Mark’s face. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent. “You need to be more careful.”

Mark looked away. “I can take care of myself.”

“Not tonight you couldn’t.” Tom’s tone wasn’t judgment, just fact.

They stood like that for a moment, the silence electric.

Then Tom leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft, at first. Hesitant, like he was waiting for permission. Then Mark responded, and it grew hungry, desperate. Tom’s hands cupped Mark’s face, steadying him.

When they broke apart, Tom looked at him, eyes raw. “You should get inside.”

Mark nodded, still dazed.

He watched Tom ride off into the night, then walked the rest of the way home.

The flat was quiet. Maud was asleep, but Mark couldn’t. He showered, tried to scrub the night off, then rifled through Angel’s things.

He couldn’t find anything to do with a bike but in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, underneath a mountain of cards, photos, and paperbacks, he found a stack of old notebooks. He opened one and started to read.

The entries were raw, confessional. They told of abuse, poverty, the hard calculus of survival. But they also spoke of hope, of ambition, of nights spent dreaming about a life outside the clubs and the debts.

Tom featured heavily. First as protector, then as lover, then as the one who got away when Angel pushed too hard, too fast. The longing in her words was unmistakable.

Mark read until dawn. When the sun broke over the city, he felt something shift inside. For the first time, he understood not just the body he wore, but the life it came from.

February - London - Mark (as Angel)

By February, Angel—Mark—had almost learned to love the shudder of the club's front door and the blast of cold air that came with every new customer. London was gray, eternal, but inside the Licorice Elephant, every hour was another shot of neon and laughter and glitter. Angel had found a rhythm, a small kingdom of borrowed skin and borrowed joy.

She’d also found the “bike” under a cover near the flat. It was an old Honda CMX500 Rebel presumably gifted by Tom; she knew that Angel couldn’t have afforded it and would have paid the rent before buying something so extravagant. And Mark definitely knew how to ride a bike.

The keys were in the drawers near the front door and her helmet was with Maud. (“You asked me to keep it so don’t ask me,” said Maud exasperated.) She’d also found old photos of Tom and Angel on road trips on his Norton. Angel would now take the Honda to work, sometimes arriving at the Elephant in a tight crop top or a leather bralette to get the clients worked up before she changed to her work clothes. It worked surprisingly well.

And there was Ruby Tuesday.

Ruby was the undisputed queen of the Elephant: sharp as gin, legs for days, and the kind of smile that promised either murder or a very good time. Under Maud’s advisement, she took Angel under her wing, showed her which clients tipped best, which ones to avoid, and how to use double-sided tape for strategic cleavage. Angel grew to like Ruby’s banter, her war stories, her utter refusal to be cowed by men or management.

At first, the other dancers treated Angel like she was contagious. She moved different, talked different, hesitated where Angel used to strut. But Ruby had cachet, and when she started inviting Angel to drinks and after-hours Chinese, the others followed. By Easter, Angel had a seat at every lunch table, a locker crammed with inside jokes and spare lashes.

She’d abandoned any pretense of dignity; her uniform that night was a red mesh bra and G-string, black heels, and a velvet choker that read “ANGEL” in rhinestones. It felt like being gift-wrapped but she didn’t mind that much any more. It was work.

Angel put her bag in a locker and sat back waiting for Ruby to get dressed. “So, I was thinking about the whole ‘naked on stage’ thing. You know, it’s just like a really intense yoga class, right?”

Ruby laughed, putting on her own rhinestone choker. “Yeah, if yoga involved glitter and the occasional creepy guy in the front row. You should’ve seen my last performance—had to dodge a guy who thought he was auditioning for a horror movie.”

Simone popped her head out from behind a mirror, mascara wand in hand. “You mean he didn’t get the memo? This isn’t a haunted house, darling. It’s a strip club!”

Angel laughed, “Right? We’re not here to scare anyone. But let’s be real, though—when I’m up there, I’m basically a superhero. I mean, I’m wearing less than a swimsuit and still somehow managing to look fabulous.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Superhero? More like ‘Naked Avenger.’ Just remember, your superpower is making awkward men feel special while you’re just trying to pay rent.”

“Hey, at least I’m getting paid for this ‘awkwardness,’” Angel shot back, grinning. “I could be stuck in a cubicle, staring at spreadsheets.”

Simone chimed in, “And instead, you’re staring at… well, everything else! Just think of it as a very lucrative form of therapy. ‘For one hour of discomfort, I make what I’d earn in retail for a week!’”

“Exactly!” Angel said, striking a pose. “And I’m reclaiming my body while I do it. It’s empowerment wrapped in rhinestones, ladies!”

Maud was waiting near the lockers, clipboard in hand. “You’re main floor tonight, then bar rotation. Same as last week.” She gave Angel a quick once-over, her gaze lingering on the way she held herself in her work clothes. “Glad to see you’re almost back to normal.”

The girls were great. Vincent Cross was a different story. He watched Angel from the VIP booths, always with a whisky in hand and an unreadable smirk. Sometimes he’d send over drinks, or cash, or—once—a black envelope with nothing inside. Mark (Angel) recognized the move: control, intimidation, the slow boiling of a frog.

Once a week, he would ask for a dance from Angel, usually no more than three songs. Angel didn’t hesitate, he kept his distance and the money was good especially when he asked for her from the VIP area. He would make a grand gesture of giving her a twenty pound tip to see her tits; which he really didn’t need to since Angel was already doing it for her regulars.

Mark (Angel) had gotten over this after talking with some of the other girls and a bit of peer pressure. She was virtually the only girl who didn’t take off her top at one point; though the boss was generally nonchalant about whatever she did as long as she was able to pay her dues. Now, walking around in lingerie or even taking off her top had become more like a performance which she had become really good at. It wasn’t quite like reading company reports and checking out Bloomberg but it was close. More than anything, it was the fastest and most effective way to pay for groceries and the rent.

So Angel played along. But every time Vincent tried to push her toward “private services” or to make her see him outside the club, Angel used the oldest CEO trick in the book: delay, redirect, make it look like you were about to say yes just before you said no. It worked. For now.

The real surprise was Tom.

Tom Blackwood started coming around once a week, always with a different biker in tow. He never booked a dance, never even drank much. Instead, he’d wait at the bar, tipping the servers and shooting the shit with the Elephant’s bouncers. On the odd days when Angel wasn’t riding, he’d walk her home, sometimes silent, sometimes spinning stories about his gang or his grandmother’s cooking. She started to look forward to those walks, even if she pretended not to. So she left her bike home once a week just to make it happen.

One night, after a Friday double, Ruby dragged Angel and Simone out for “celebratory chips” at a greasy spoon near the club. They were halfway through a plate of curry fries when Ruby put down her fork and stared at Angel, hard.

“What’s with you and Tom?” she asked.

Angel shrugged. “He’s a friend.”

“Sure. And I’m the Duchess of Cornwall.” Ruby stabbed a fry. “You like him, don’t you.”

Angel felt the heat crawl up her neck. “He’s nice.”

“Nice? That’s what you call a bloke who once knifed a man in a parking lot?”

“He’s not like that with me,” Angel muttered.

Ruby grinned, slow. “I knew it. You’re gone for him.”

Angel opened her mouth to protest, then closed it.

She was gone for him. It was embarrassing, it was illogical, it was completely fucking real.

Ruby leaned in. “You know, I’ve never seen you so soft. It’s cute, in a weird way.”

Angel made a face, but Ruby just laughed.

“Don’t overthink it,” Ruby said. “Let yourself have something good for once.” Ruby leaned back, her legs crossed. “So, how’s the whole ‘reclaiming objectification’ thing going for you?”

Angel took a sip, grinning. “Well, I’ve learned to embrace it. I mean, if I’m gonna be objectified, I might as well charge for it, right?”

Simone smirked. “And you do it with style! ‘Confidence: Now Available in Rhinestones.’”

Ruby raised her glass. “To the Naked Avengers, fighting off awkwardness one dance at a time!”

“Cheers!” Angel clinked her glass against theirs. “But seriously, it’s all about the mindset. I’m not just taking my clothes off; I’m providing top-tier entertainment!”

“Right, and we’re all just highly trained athletes in glittery outfits,” Ruby added, winking. “Next thing you know, we’ll have sponsorships from yoga pants companies.”

Simone laughed, “Or maybe a reality show: ‘Survivor: The Strip Club Edition.’”

“Only if I get to be the host!” Angel declared, feigning a dramatic flair. “Welcome to the stage, where the nudity is optional, but the sass is mandatory!”

They all burst into laughter, the camaraderie wrapping around them like the warmth of their drinks.

February - London - Mark (as Angel)

It was a few weeks later when Vincent Cross made his move.

Angel was cleaning up after a set, picking glitter out of her hair in the dressing room, when Ruby poked her head in.

“Vincent is asking you in the VIP. Now.”

It was just his weekly. Angel checked her lipstick in the mirror, straightened the “ANGEL” choker, and walked into the lion’s den.

Vincent was alone, sipping bourbon and running his thumb over a scar on his jaw. He gestured to the empty seat.

“Sit,” he said.

Angel sat. She made a point to cross her legs and lean back, all attitude.

Vincent smiled. “You’ve gotten good at this.”

She shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”

He regarded her for a moment. “You could be making a lot more, you know. Private work. No pressure, but you’d make in a night what you make here in a week.”

Angel locked eyes with him. “I’ve told you before. Not interested.”

He chuckled. “You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

“I know exactly what you’re offering.” She let the steel back into her voice. “And I said no.”

For a second, the room was dead quiet.

Then Vincent leaned in, voice dropping. “You ever get tired of pretending?”

Angel felt a chill. “I don’t pretend.”

“Everyone pretends. Especially you.” He smiled, but it was all teeth.

She stood. “Do you want a song or are we done here?”

Vincent counted off a few ten pound notes for her time and watched her walk out, eyes cold. “You’ll come around,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

But Angel knew he was wrong.

After her shift, Tom was waiting outside the club, perched on his bike and smoking a cheap cigarette.

“You all right?” he asked.

Angel hesitated, then nodded.

Tom tossed the cigarette and patted the seat behind him. “Let’s get out of here.”

They rode through the city, past the dead offices and kebab shops, over the bridges where the wind cut like a knife. At his place—a cramped flat above a garage—they drank strong tea and watched reruns of old Top Gear, feet propped on the coffee table.

For the first time in months, Angel relaxed.

They talked about nothing: bikes, food, dumb movies. When the laughter died down, Tom turned serious.

“Why do you do it?” he asked. “The dancing.”

Angel considered. “It pays the bills. It’s honest.”

Tom nodded. “But you hate it.”

“Not always,” Angel admitted. “Some nights, it feels like I can control the whole room. Like I’m… seen.”

Tom smiled. “I see you.”

Angel looked away, embarrassed. “I know.”

They sat in silence, the air thick with things unsaid.

Then Tom reached out and brushed Angel’s cheek, rough thumb gentle on her skin. “You’re shaking,” he said.

She hadn’t noticed. “It’s cold,” she lied.

Tom didn’t push. He just scooted closer, arm around her shoulders, and let her rest her head against his chest.

They sat like that for a long time. When Angel finally pulled away, Tom watched her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

She nodded, barely able to speak.

The kiss was slow, careful, but grew hungrier with every second. Tom tasted of tea and cigarettes and something that was entirely him. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled her onto his lap, let her guide the pace.

When she straddled him, he didn't rush. He traced the curve of her waist, the small of her back, the inside of her thigh—and a gasp escaped her lips at the unfamiliar electricity of his touch against skin that was becoming increasingly hers over the past few months.

She'd orchestrated this dance countless times from the other side, but now—her body responded in ways that shocked her, blooming with sensations that radiated outward from places she'd never felt before. Her breasts, heavy and sensitive against his chest. The hollow ache between her legs. The maddening smallness of her frame against his.

They made it to the bedroom, half-undressed. Tom laid her down, and she surrendered. His mouth traced patterns that made her arch and whimper, sounds she'd never made before, never known she could make. He was gentle, but not hesitant. When his fingers slid inside her, the invasion was so intimate she had to turn her face away, overwhelmed by the vulnerability of being entered rather than entering.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

The question paralyzed her. She'd always been the one asking, always known exactly what to do. Now she floated in sensation, unable to direct, only receive. "I want you," she whispered. ”I want all of you.” The admission both terrifying and freeing.

Tom kissed her again, and she melted into submission, her body speaking a language her mind was only beginning to translate. When he finally entered her, the fullness was so profound she cried out—not in pain but in recognition of something primal and feminine awakening inside her. She arched, shocked at how her body seemed to pull him deeper, to hold him; how she wanted to be claimed completely.

Her first orgasm caught her by surprise—a sudden rush that radiated outward, nothing like the focused release she'd known as a man. The second built more slowly, deeper, until she was clutching at him, begging incoherently. But Tom didn’t stop thrusting into her. By the third, she was sobbing, laughing, her body not her own but more authentically hers than ever before.

Afterward, Tom held her close, his heartbeat steady against her back. She felt small, protected, cherished—emotions she'd never allowed herself before. As he stroked her hair and whispered sweet nonsense, she drifted into sleep, wondering if she'd ever find her way back to who she was after this night.

The next morning, Angel woke before dawn. Tom was already up, making coffee and humming tunelessly.

She watched him from the bed, sunlight catching in his hair. For the first time, she saw herself through someone else’s eyes: not broken, not a failure, but something worth loving.

She pulled on one of Tom’s T-shirts and joined him in the kitchen.

Tom handed her a mug. “You okay?”

Angel nodded.

She sipped the coffee, looked out the window at the city waking up, and felt something new: hope.

For the first time since the swap, she felt like herself. Like Angel.

She grinned. The word fit.

Outside, the day was just beginning. There would be challenges—Vincent, the club, the past that never quite went away. But she wasn’t alone anymore. And that made all the difference.

February - New York - Angel as Mark

Dinner was already plated when Lena Park arrived. Mark (formerly Angel) wore a black-on-black best, no tie, sleeves rolled, the perfect blend of intimidating and disarming. She wore a silver slip dress, daring by her standards, paired with a blazer that she refused to remove even after two glasses of wine. Mark clocked the nervous micro-glances at his forearms, the way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear when she meant business, the tic of her heel under the table.

“Better than Nobu,” Lena said, after sampling some Otoro. “I’m impressed.”

Mark smiled, slow and predatory. “You don’t sound that impressed.”

“I’m not easily impressed,” she parried, reaching for her glass. “But you’re persistent.”
Mark studied her.

From their earlier interactions and the minutes and memos he’d read, Lena was all edges and almost masculine in her pursuit of leverage. She outmaneuvered him in many board meetings and had only relented to a relationship with Mark last year when she was sure he’d play by her rules. Mark had got that much from her old text messages which hadn’t been deleted from Mark’s phone. The thing probably lasted no more than a month and seemed perfunctory, almost businesslike in its passion.

Tonight, Lena was different. Warier, but also less rehearsed. Maybe she’d finally decided he was a lost cause and could relax around him. Maye she just preferred the new Mark.

They ate in relative silence, the only sound the clink of ceramic and the distant hum of the city, forty stories below. He poured her more sake and watched her drain it, eyes never leaving his face. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t need to.

When the plates were cleared, Mark leaned back, arms spread, a deliberate flex. “I had a weird thought today.”

“Only one?” Lena said, deadpan.

Mark laughed. “I wondered how you’d look with your hair down.”

She blinked, surprised. “You’ve never asked that before.”

“Would you?”

She considered it, then undid the pin. Her hair fell to her shoulders in a glossy curtain, softening the severity of her features. It was the smallest act of vulnerability he’d ever seen from her.
She set the pin down like it was evidence and asked, “What else did you wonder?”

Mark’s smile sharpened. “If you’d let me take you to bed, or if you’d make me work for it.”

Lena’s nostrils flared, ever so slightly. “I have an early meeting.”

“My bed is large enough for two,” Mark said, standing.

She didn’t move, but her eyes followed him as he rounded the table and offered his hand. She took it, the grip ironclad. He pulled her up, close enough to smell the ghost of her perfume, then walked her to the bedroom, neither rushing nor hesitating.

In the low light, Lena’s mask began to slip. She pulled the blazer tighter as if to shield herself, then let it drop when she realized how silly it looked. Mark let her undress herself, watching every button, every inch of exposed skin. Lena could feel his eyes on her. He didn’t touch her yet; just watched, absorbing the way her muscles flexed under her camisole, the subtle tremor in her fingers.

“Are you going to stare all night?” she said, trying for bravado.

“Maybe.”

Mark stepped in, hands at her waist. She tensed, then exhaled, letting him draw her in. He kissed her—light at first, then hungrier, tasting the sake on her lips. She kissed back, harder than he expected, then bit his lower lip, a warning shot from the old Lena. He liked it.

He stripped her top with practiced ease, then paused at her bra. “Can I?”

She nodded, and he slid the straps off, slow, watching her shiver. He was careful not to rush. If there was one thing he’d learned from (Angel’s) years in the trenches, it was that patience was currency. He moved his mouth to her neck, then down to her collarbone, hands kneading her back and shoulders. She was rigid at first, a coil of ambition and stress, but every pass of his tongue loosened something. By the time he reached her breasts, she was gasping, her head tipped back, eyes closed.

“You’re not the same,” she murmured, barely audible.

He stopped, just for a second. “What do you mean?”

“Last time, it was always about you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “This is…different.”

Mark smiled against her skin. “This time, it’s all about you.”

She didn’t answer. He worked his way down, hands bracketing her hips, tongue tracing the line of her abs. He was proud of her, of the athleticism and discipline it took to build this body. The old Mark would’ve rushed to the finish line, but the new Mark, the one who’d lived inside Angel’s skin, knew how to savor. He mapped every inch, tongue and fingers working in tandem, reading her reactions with a tactician’s precision.

He undressed her fully, then stepped back to admire her. She tried to cover herself, but he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head, gently but with intent.

“Don’t hide,” he said.

She shuddered, but held his gaze. “Don’t give me a reason to.”

He smiled, then kissed her again, this time letting his hands roam wherever they pleased. He found the places she liked best—the small of her back, the spot just above her hip bone, the inside of her thigh. He lingered there, kissing, biting lightly, then used his fingers to tease her open. She was already slick, and he could smell her, could feel the way her body responded to every calculated touch.

He entered her slow, letting her adjust to his size, his rhythm. She clung to him, nails digging into his back, but he didn’t mind. He liked the pain. He set a pace that was steady, relentless, building her up but never letting her tip over the edge. When she starting begging, he nearly lost control, but held back, wanting to see how far he could take her.

He whispered in her ear, dirty and sweet, and watched her unravel.

When she finally came, it was violent; a full-body quake that left her gasping and clinging to him like a lifeline. He let her ride it out, then flipped her over and did it again, this time slower, deeper. She cursed him, then herself, then him again.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, both slick with sweat and shivering slightly from the aftershocks.

Lena was the first to speak. “What happened to you?”

Mark turned, propping himself up on one elbow. “You want the truth?”

“Always.”

He thought about it, then shrugged. “I woke up one day and decided I was done pretending to be a machine.”

She studied him, searching for the punchline. “You mean it.”

He nodded. “I do.”

She laughed, soft and rueful. “I never thought you’d grow up.”

“Neither did I.”

A long silence, comfortable this time.

Finally, Lena rolled over, draping an arm across his chest. “I still have that meeting in the morning.”

“Go,” he said. “Be a shark.”

She smiled, then closed her eyes, already drifting.

He watched her sleep, felt a strange new warmth in his chest, and realized that maybe he was more than the sum of his new body’s worst instincts. The city glowed outside the window, indifferent to the denizens which inhabited it. But inside, Mark Steele felt alive for the first time in years.

He woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Lena cursing at her phone. She’d already dressed; hair up, blazer on, makeup flawless. But her eyes were softer now, the perpetual squint of suspicion replaced by something like contentment.

She didn’t say goodbye. She just kissed him on the mouth, then left, leaving her hairpin on the nightstand as a reminder.

Mark stared at it for a long time, then got up, showered, and dressed for the day. He had a company to run, a world to conquer, and, if he played his cards right, a woman to win over.

February - London - Angel (formerly Mark)

A week later, Angel lay on the scuffed laminate floor of her room, sweat-soaked and half-naked, one leg braced on the radiator and the other twitching from some half-remembered gym routine. She checked her phone again—nothing from Mark. She’d called his NYC office twice in the last hour and was given the runaround. Flights: still in the four-figure range, unless she wanted to sleep in the lavatory or, more likely, ship herself over in a cargo hold.

Rent was due in six days. Her cut from the last three Elephant shifts had been decent, but she still had to buy groceries, protein powder, and the extra-strong wax strips that Ruby had sworn by.

She stared at the calendar taped crookedly to the wall. She’d started marking off days in red marker, a habit left over from (Mark’s) childhood. It took her two minutes to realize that her last period was… fuck, when? She counted the Xs backwards, squinting at the numbers. At least two weeks late.

She laughed at the idea—her, pregnant. No way. She hadn’t had a single period since the swap. Maybe her body was still recalibrating. Maybe it was just the stress, or the protein shakes, or the fact that she’d gone from CEO to “exotic dancer” in two months. Or maybe it was that bit of shimmering parchment.

She went to the mirror, lifted her shirt, and checked for signs—of what, she wasn’t sure. Belly was flat as ever, abs a little more pronounced now that she’d figured out her carb intake. Breasts looked the same: a touch fuller since the swap, but nothing scandalous. The tattoos were still there, all sharp edges and color, and the birthmark on her thigh was the same shade of not-quite-brown. No nausea, no cravings, no mood swings beyond the standard existential terror.

Angel put on her sports bra and joggers, pulled her hair into a tight ponytail, and zipped up the battered hoodie. She had a pole session with Maud in twenty minutes, and the only thing worse than missing practice was listening to Maud’s “I told you so” all week.

She checked the phone again. Still nothing.

Angel grabbed her keys, and headed out. If there was anything wrong with her, she’d deal with it the same way she did everything else: denial, violence, and work.

February - London - Angel

It was a Thursday, which at the Licorice Elephant meant no fewer than two hen parties, one minor rugby team, and a slew of bankers in suits who thought being generous with tips gave them license to act like the club was a zoo and the girls were the flamingos.

Angel arrived sweaty from her bike, locked it to the rail, and ducked in the staff door. The changing room was already a chemical warfare zone: hairspray, heat from the straighteners, faint notes of talcum and sweat and Ruby’s signature CK One.

“Oi, Angel.” Ruby Tuesday was at the lockers, towel around her shoulders and the world’s most garish tiger-print bra in hand. “You’re early. I like it. There’s a reptile in blue suit at table two, name’s probably something like ‘Clive.’ Watch out—he’s got wandering hands and thinks ‘no’ is a negotiation.”

Angel dropped her bag and cracked her knuckles. “Want me to knee him if he tries it?”

“Nah, let him spend first. But if he corners you, just say ‘champagne room’s closed for deep clean.’ I’ll handle the rest.” Ruby snapped her bra on with a pop. “You owe me for the makeup hack, by the way.”

“Fine,” Angel said. “I’ll teach you a pole trick later.”

Simone Laurent sashayed in, dressed in a mesh dress that left nothing to the imagination. “Everyone’s grumpy today. What’s the beef?”

“Kids undercutting prices,” Ruby grunted. “There’s a couple of twenty-year-olds out front doing two-for-one lap dances. Ruins the market.”

Angel didn’t say it, but she had noticed the shift. The Elephant was still top-tier, but there was always someone younger, hungrier, or just more willing to bend the rules. The older dancers stuck together, but the new crop had no loyalty, not to the house, not to each other, sometimes not even to themselves.

She found her station at the mirror, where a new girl was struggling with a tangled garter. “Let me,” Angel said, and untwisted the bands with two quick tugs. She smoothed the fabric over the girl’s thigh, then stepped back. “Perfect.”

The girl blushed. “Thanks. Sorry. First week and my hands are all nerves.”

“Don’t sweat it. Just keep your eye on the bouncers and if a guy gets weird, look for Ruby or me.” Angel paused. “And don’t listen to anyone who tells you to do extras.”

Ruby winked at her in the mirror. “Look at you, big sister.”

Angel narrowed her eyes at Ruby. “Don’t push it. And I was your big sister once.”

She stretched, rolling her shoulders and back, but everything ached. The two-hour pole session with Maud had left her stiff and, under one arm, raw with a rash from gripping. She slathered on some Vaseline, grimacing.

Ruby leaned in. “You alright?”

“Yeah. My armpit’s on fire, though. Might have a yeast thing from the pole?”

Ruby pursed her lips. “Don’t fuck around with that. If it’s not better by tomorrow, ask Maud. Or see a pharmacist.”

Angel hesitated, then asked, “You ever get like… weirdly tired? Even after you sleep?”

Ruby’s face shifted, softer. “Yeah, hon. All the time. Especially if you’re off your cycle.” She made a face. “Just wait ‘til you’re forty. You’ll want to murder the world.”

Angel forced a laugh, filed that for later.

Simone plopped down next to her, opening her own makeup kit. “Anyone have a spare contour stick? Mine’s dead.”

Angel tossed hers over. Simone grinned. “Lifesaver.” As she blended, she said, “So I’m getting my tits done next month. Finally. And maybe a little BBL if I can swing the loan.”

Angel shrugged. “Your body, your rules.”

Simone winked at her. “You wouldn’t know it, Miss Fitness Model. Some of us weren’t born with perfect genetics.”

Angel looked at herself in the mirror, at the hard lines of her arms, the cut of her jaw, the stubborn flatness of her chest. It used to feel like an asset. Lately, she wondered if she’d missed the memo about what “feminine” was supposed to look like.

Ruby caught her looking and smirked. “Don’t let it get to you. Plenty of punters love the action-figure thing. Besides, Simone’s got the personality of a wet blanket after three drinks.”

Simone stuck out her tongue, then snapped her bodysuit into place and strutted off.

“Seriously,” Ruby said, low. “Don’t fuck with your body. You’re not getting a second one.”

Angel nodded, unsure why that stung. She finished her face, threw on her set and headed out.

The night was a blur. Three sets, four champagne rooms, two hour-long privates, one guy who paid for the full hour just to sit and talk about his divorce while Angel stroked his head. Clive in the blue suit tried to grab her ass; she redirected his hand so smoothly he never realized he’d been handled. Then she asked for a bigger tip just for the trouble. On break, she helped the new girl fix her lashes and lent her a tissue when she started to cry after a particularly gross client.

Backstage, Ruby poured herself into a beanbag and tossed off her wig. “Jesus. This week’s a killer.”

Angel sat beside her, letting herself finally sag. “You want to split a cab home after close?”

Ruby grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They watched Simone preen in the mirror, then Maud’s reflection as she checked the nightly sheet. The club had made good money; everyone would walk away happy, except the ones who’d hustled for nothing.

Ruby glanced at Angel. “You ever think about quitting?”

Angel considered. “Some nights. But then what? I’m not going back to the real world.”
Ruby smiled, tired but real. “You could run the place, you know. After Maud. You’re the only one who scares the boss.”

“Yeah, right,” Angel said,.

Ruby finished her water and stood. “Don’t take shit from anyone, okay? And if that bitch Susie tries to poach another one of your regulars, tell Maud. She’ll fix it.”

Angel’s mind flickered to Susie; blonde, conniving, always hovering near the best tippers. “I can handle it.”

“Not if she starts spreading stories, you can’t,” Ruby said. “Protect your brand.”

Angel didn’t know whether to laugh or shudder.

After more than two months of performing at the Licorice Elephant, Angel often found herself slipping into a mental haze during her sets. As she danced, her body moved through the routines with practiced grace, but her mind wandered. Thoughts of grocery lists jostled for space with unresolved issues from her past and plans for the evening, anything to distract from the weight of being there. The music pulsed around her, but it felt like a distant echo; each sway and spin became automatic, a survival mechanism designed to shield her from the vulnerability that came with baring herself to an audience.

After a few weeks, what had once felt shocking or transgressive for Angel had morphed into the mundane. The initial fear and then thrill of shedding her clothes under the club lights faded, replaced by a numbness that dulled her senses. The nudity, once a raw exposure of vulnerability, became just another part of the job, an obligatory act stripped of its emotional weight. In those moments, she felt like a ghost inhabiting a familiar shell, present yet detached, navigating the delicate line between performance and reality.

She still had uncomfortable flashbacks of her previous life as Mark, still felt keenly at times the loss of status and power she once had. The relentless grind to make ends meet was familiar but utterly different from his time as a man. But Maud, Ruby, Simone, most of the girls at the Elephant made it a bit easier. She never had relationships with that degree of intimacy in his previous life, certainly not with his late father or even his college mates.

When the night was over, she split the take: House got their cut, DJ and security got their tips, Ruby got her finder’s fee for the one VIP. All told, Angel pocketed fifteen hundred in three shifts.

She hid the cash in a tampon box in her bag, changed back to street clothes, and waited outside for Ruby, who took forever.

In the dark, Angel checked her phone again. Still nothing from Mark.

She shook her head, lit a cigarette, and watched the streetlights flicker on. The world kept spinning, and so would she.

March - London - The Licorice Elephant - Angel

It was the first Friday in March and the Elephant was packed to fire hazard, city boys and tourists stuffed into every red velvet nook, the line outside snaking down the block. Angel was midway through her second set when she saw Evangeline Hunter walk in.

Hunter was in a navy pantsuit and had her hair in a chignon. She sat at the main bar and didn’t order, just surveyed the crowd with the polite boredom of a surgeon before a minor procedure.

Angel finished the set with a flourish, did her lap around the floor, and pretended not to look back. She checked the rotation sheet and tried to disappear backstage, but Maud intercepted her at the stairwell.

“Special request,” Maud said, pushing a brass token into Angel’s palm. “VIP suite. Party of one.”

Angel didn’t have to ask who. She walked the gauntlet, past the regulars and the leering tourists, into the deep plush of Suite Three. Hunter sat at the back of the banquette, arms draped along the velvet, legs crossed. She looked like she owned the building.

“Angelique,” Hunter said, voice as mild as tea. “Thank you for making time.”

Angel sat across from her, back straight. “It’s my pleasure. Would like a drink or maybe a dance?”

“I’ve already ordered a bottle of French Bloom,” Hunter replied. “And the Billionaire’s mocktail there is for you.” Hunter pushed the glass over to Angel and encouraged her to take a sip.

“It’s lovely,” Angel said, leaning back on the plush seat and edging towards Hunter as she would a normal guest.

“Tonight, it’s your art,” Hunter said. She placed a thick envelope on the table. “I’d like to reserve your entire evening.”

Angel picked up the envelope, thumbed through it. It was five thousand, easy. “What’s the catch?”
Hunter shrugged. “No catch. I enjoy watching excellence.”

Angel felt a chill but kept calm. “Thank you, you’re very generous.”

“Excellent, now that I have your undivided attention... ” Hunter said. She folded her hands. “Tell me. Does it bore you? Dancing for these men?”

Angel considered lying. “Some nights.”

“And the others?” Hunter’s voice was honeyed, almost maternal.

“Some nights, it’s electric,” Angel said. “You see the moment they decide to want you. It’s a kind of power.”

Hunter nodded, satisfied. “Does it ever feel like loss?”

Angel blinked. “What do you mean?”

Hunter’s eyes were a study in indifference. “Do you ever feel yourself slipping, the more you perform? Do you worry there’s nothing left but the act?”

Angel bristled. “I don’t perform for free.”

Hunter smiled. “That’s exactly what I hoped to hear. May I ask for a demonstration? Not a dance just yet—just show me the tattoo on your thigh.”

Angel exhaled, tension breaking. This was easy. She was still wearing a relatively fresh set of lingerie—a sequined bra and panty set—so there was nothing to it. She stood, put one heeled foot on the cocktail table, and exposed the geometric design on the soft part of her left inner thigh. She held it, steady, as Hunter leaned forward, inspecting the lines with academic interest.

“It’s beautiful,” Hunter said. “Do you ever regret it?”

“No,” Angel said.

“Show me the other one,” Hunter said. “The one above your hip.”

Angel didn’t hesitate. She turned, placed the same heeled foot on the sofa and displayed the black heart tattoo on her hip.

“I love your confidence,” Hunter said, almost gently. “But I wonder, do you prefer being watched, or doing the watching?”

Angel smiled instinctively. “Is this a job interview?”

“In a way,” Hunter said. “You ever think about what you’d be if you weren’t here?”

Angel shrugged. “That’s almost a cruel question. But every girl here has an exit plan.”

Hunter watched intently. The air in the room was thick, and Angel realized she’d been holding her breath. Hunter patted the seat beside her. “Come. Sit. You’re not in trouble. You’re delightfully honest and a very charming girl.”

Angel sat, perched on the edge, then lay back beside Hunter to allay any suspicions. Hunter leaned in, close enough that Angel could smell her perfume.

“You have a wonderful body. I don’t think men really realize just how much effort it takes to maintain something like this.”

Angel smiled. “Thank you. Is this your first visit to the Elephant? What brings you here tonight?"

Hunter leaned back slightly, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. "Well, let’s just say I’ve been dealing with a rather persistent issue at work—some man trying to muscle his way into my company. It’s all being handled, of course, but I wonder if you have any clever suggestions for someone in my position?"

Angel cocked her head, feigning innocence. "Oh, navigating corporate politics can be quite the minefield. I mean, sometimes it takes a certain... finesse to keep the wolves at bay, wouldn’t you agree?"

Hunter's eyes glinted with intrigue. "Precisely. It’s all about knowing how to play the game. But tell me, do you have any experience in dealing with such... aggressive competitors?"

"Well," Angel said, her tone dripping with feigned sincerity, "I’ve always believed that a little charm can go a long way. Perhaps a strategic distraction might turn their attention elsewhere? Or maybe even a well-timed show of strength?"

Hunter chuckled softly, her gaze unwavering. "Interesting thought. You seem to have a knack for understanding power dynamics. I wonder how you learned to navigate such treacherous waters."

"Let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of lessons," Angel replied. "But enough about work. What about you? Do you like what you see here?"

Hunter leaned in closer, her voice low and conspiratorial. "Oh, I do enjoy a good view.” Then almost sheepishly, Hunter said, “I’m sorry for being so vulgar but I wanted to see you up close.” She paused, as if calculating something. “Would you be willing to remove your top?”

Angel hesitated for a microsecond, then did. She reached back and unclipped her bra with practiced ease, then shrugged off the straps slowly and seductively allowing the bra to fall into her lap; and arched her back displaying her breasts to the older woman. It was clinical, almost medical.

Hunter nodded at the piercings. “Those must have hurt.”

“A little,” Angel said, not sure why she was answering since it was the other Angel who had tolerated the piercings and the tattoos.

“May I?” Hunter’s hand hovered, not quite touching.

Angel nodded. Hunter brushed the ring lightly, then let her finger rest just above the areola for a few seconds; then withdrew. “Your breasts are immaculate. I wish I had breasts like yours.”

They sat in silence for a moment as the older woman admired Angel’s physique. Then Hunter reached into her coat pocket and set a single fifty-pound note on the table. “Now, would you show me your splits?”

Angel’s jaw clenched. She stood, walked to the center of the room, and dropped gracefully into a perfect center split, hands braced on the floor, leaning back to fully expose herself. Her G-string cut high on her hips; everything else was on display. She looked up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster; this would have been just another night except that Hunter’s presence reminded her of that other life.

Hunter placed another fifty on the table. “Beautiful.” There was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “How about a lap dance?”

Angel pulse quickened at the challenge. “Would something R & B do?” she asked. Hunter nodded and Angel walked with a gentle sway to the intercom and asked a staff member to convey the request to the DJ who piped the music through to the room within seconds. Then she stepped forward, hips swaying with the sultry rhythm as she closed the distance, feeling the heat radiate from Hunter’s gaze. With each movement, she twerked and undulated slowly, her body a fluid cascade of curves and confidence.

As she drew closer, Angel cupped her breasts, lifting them slightly to tease Hunter, showcasing her flawless skin and enticing piercings. The air thickened with desire as she sank to the floor, executing a perfect split right at Hunter's feet. Her legs formed a tantalizing V, and she let her hand drift down, resting on her crotch, a bold invitation. In that moment, with her labia subtly exposed and the unmistakable outline of her camel toe on display, Angel felt a rush of exhilaration wash over her. She was lost in the performance, the world around her fading away as she slipped into the rhythm of her program, each move designed to enthrall. Her gaze did not leave that of Hunter’s at any point during the routine.

Hunter crossed her arms. “You know, I always admired your discipline. Even when you were... ” She paused, as if selecting the word. “ ...a man.”

Angel’s world inverted. For a second, the floor felt like it was tilting.

Hunter watched her, lips pursed. “Does it hurt? Knowing you lost everything for nothing?”

Angel didn’t answer. She reached for her bra, but Hunter’s hand flashed out, pinning her wrist.

“Don’t,” Hunter said, voice flat. “We’re not done.”

Angel pulled away, but the room was suddenly smaller.

Hunter smiled. “You’re not the first to cross me, Angelique. But you’re the first to do it with such style. I almost respect it.”

“Why are you doing this?” Angel whispered.

Hunter’s eyes glinted. “Because I can.”

She leaned back, expression almost pitying. “You’re not the first to try to take what isn’t theirs. You won’t be the last. But I want you to know what it means to be at the bottom. To be powerless.”

Angel felt something inside her snap and her resolve hardened. “You think this is punishment? I’ve lived worse.”

Hunter laughed, low and soft. “Not like this.”

She stood, smoothed her suit, and left the envelope and the fifties on the table. “I have a nice surprise in store for you, by the way. The papers will love this story.”

She walked out, leaving Angel in the too-bright room, bare-chested, and shaking. Angel sat for a long time, staring at the money, then pulled her top back on and gathered the cash, hands trembling. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t. She’d been played.

It took less than twelve hours for the story to hit the Sun. Angel woke to a chorus of missed calls and a link from Ruby: “u are FAMOUS xx.”

The headline: BILLIONAIRE’S DIRTY SECRET! Mark Steele’s Stripper Lover EXPOSED. Below, two blurry shots. One a photoshopped image of Angel in a gold rhinestone bra at the Elephant, another of her at the corner offie, smoking and looking, frankly, like shit. The article managed to hit all the high notes: “fallen heiress,” “sexual deviancy,” “high-end flesh trade.”

Angel almost laughed at the idea of being high-end or even an heiress, fallen or otherwise. And they had clearly photoshopped her breasts to make them look larger than they actually were.

Maud came in holding the print edition, face paler than usual. “You want coffee, or just the whiskey?”

Angel took both, drained the whiskey first. “At least they didn’t say I was on drugs.”

Maud pointed to a sidebar. “See page six.”

She did. There it was: “Angelique Valentine, known as ‘Angel’ to fans and clients, previously struggled with substance abuse but has ‘turned her life around’ as one of the Elephant’s top performers.” Next to it: a quote from an “anonymous former employer” about how Angel “could’ve been anything she wanted; shame about the choices.”

Angel threw the paper. “Bollocks! I don’t even have a CV.”

Maud tried to hug her, then thought better of it and made more coffee.

It got worse as the day went on. The club owner called: “Stay away for a week, let it blow over.” Her regulars texted, some supportive, some creeps, all of them idiots. The landlady left a message about “moral decency” and implied the rent would go up. Angel shut the phone off and lay on the sofa. She thought of Mark, how he’d have handled this: probably sued the paper, then bought it, then fired everyone who worked there. Except he wasn’t Mark, not anymore.

March - New York - Mark

On the other side of the Atlantic, Mark Steele’s life was a bit less than perfect.

Victoria Middleton had a small war room set up in the east conference suite: crisis comms, legal, and one PR flack who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Lena Park was there too, eyes ringed in red from lack of sleep but razor-sharp as ever.

Victoria started. “We need to respond before the markets open. Denial will look like guilt. Playing the victim will backfire.”

Mark interrupted. “What about ignoring it?”

Victoria glanced at Lena, who shook her head. “If we do, they’ll find worse. We need to get ahead.”

The PR flack stammered, “There’s some sympathy for her online. She’s working, she’s not hiding anything, it’s almost… refreshing?”

Mark smiled wolfishly. “Let’s lean into it. She’s an honest worker, I’m a reformed bastard, everyone loves a redemption arc.”

Victoria slid over a folder. “We’ll have to bring her to the US, make it look legitimate. Preferably with a supportive family member. There’s a sister or roommate?”

Mark’s mind spun. Maud. She’d need to bring Maud. Somehow, she had forgotten all about Maud. He felt something like nausea for a moment.

“Get them visas, set up a condo, and put Maud—that’s her room mate—on my health plan. No cost spared,” Mark said. “And make sure Angel doesn’t get sandbagged by the press.”

Lena’s voice was cold. “You care about her now?”

Mark met her gaze. “I care about not being taken down by Evangeline Hunter and her pet tabloids. This is all a move. You know that.”

Lena looked away.

Victoria cut in. “Next issue: to defuse the affair angle, we’ll need you and Angel to appear publicly affectionate. You can manage that, can’t you?”

Mark nodded, but inside he wanted to puke.

March - London to New York - Angel

The flight from Heathrow to JFK was largely uneventful.

At the airport, a woman in a black suit handed her a packet with tickets, a prepaid phone, and a new set of “statement outfits” that looked like they belonged to an influencer or cheap model.

Maud sat across the aisle, leg propped up, watching movies and pretending not to be nervous. Angel wanted to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Hunter’s face.

She tried to imagine how this would end. Maybe the media would forget her in a week. Maybe Mark would have a meltdown and they’d swap back and she’d wake up with a hangover and a billion-dollar company. Maybe Maud would finally get her surgery and they’d move to Spain. But more likely, she’d fuck it all up and end up exactly where she started: a body, a job, and a name she couldn’t quite believe.

The “condo” was nicer than any hotel she’d ever seen, three bedrooms and a balcony view of Central Park. The fridge was already stocked, the bathroom stacked with high-end skincare and more tampons than a Tesco. A whiteboard in the kitchen had a schedule, color-coded: "Photoshoot,” “Philanthropy event,” “Red Carpet,” “Joint interview with Steele.” In the corner, a vase of lilies and a note: “Rest up. Orientation at 10. – V.M.” Angel guessed that was Victoria Middleton.

Maud was in heaven. “Bloody hell, you could eat off these floors.”

Angel laughed, actually laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”

She poured two glasses of the best orange juice she’d tasted in months and clinked them with Maud’s. “To being famous for all the wrong reasons.”

Maud smiled, but there was worry under it. “You’re going to kill it, you know.”

Angel shrugged. “Let’s just hope I don’t kill anyone.”

The next day, Angel was summoned to Steele Tower.

Victoria Middleton greeted her with a firm handshake and placed a thick binder labeled “Public Image and Relationship Management – Confidential” on the conference room table.

Victoria started, efficient as a guillotine. “You and Mark will be photographed together often. Hand-holding, cheek kisses, nothing overt. In private, you can do what you like, but if there’s a camera, you’re on.”

Angel opened the binder. Pages of rules: how to greet, how to dress, how to deflect “bedroom questions” with humor but never details. There was a section on Maud: “Family Angle,” “Health Crisis as Redemption Narrative,” “Potential for Public Speaking on Women’s Health.”

Angel whistled. “This is next-level. Are we getting married next week?”

Victoria didn’t blink. “The answers to that question would be in the Appendix under M for Marriage and W for Wedding. Please check the index as well. And, in answer to your question, if the story demands it, yes. Until then, you’re engaged. Here’s the ring.” She set a velvet box on the table.

Angel opened it. The diamond was almost vulgar. “You’re shitting me.”

Victoria smiled. “Wear it left hand, always.”

Angel closed the box and pocketed it. “You know, in the movies, this is where the fake couple falls in love and runs off together.”

Victoria’s face didn’t move. “This isn’t the movies.”

Angel stood. “Right. Guess I’ll see the boss, then.”

“Tomorrow. I hope you haven’t got too comfortable at the new place because you’re moving in with Mr. Steele ASAP,” Victoria told Angel firmly, raising her hand to stop Angel from interrupting. “If you’re worried about Ms. Winters, we’ve already set up an Orthopedic consult for her tomorrow. She’ll get the works, MRI, ACL surgery, rehab, whatever. Also a live in nurse once she gets surgery since you won’t be around. You’ll ”

“As efficient as always, Victoria,” Angel replied.

Victoria’s brow furrowed but she allowed herself a rare smile, one that hinted at her meticulous nature. “We’re very thorough here. Please pay special attention to the first five sections of the file.

“One last thing, I’d like to confirm some of your measurements Height: 5'7" Weight: 120 lbs Bust size” 34 inches US bra size 34B. Waist: 24 inches US size XS–S. Hips: 36 inches US size XS–S. Shoe Size: 8 Top Size: S or XS.”

Angel was stumped and simply shrugged her shoulders. She hadn’t bought that many clothes in the last 3 months and didn’t know anything about US sizes for women.

“Don’t worry, the tailors will be meeting you once you settle in and we can get accurate measurements then. In the meantime, we’ll stick with what we’ve got to fill up your wardrobe with the necessities. We can’t have you wandering around New York by yourself just yet buying clothes.”

With that, Angel tucked the binder under her arm, the heavy ring weighing down her pocket, and left the room.

Moments later, Mark entered, his demeanor sharp and focused. “What’s your impression of her?” he asked, nodding toward the door Angel had just exited.

Victoria leaned back in her chair, contemplating. “She’s resilient, but there’s an edge of vulnerability. I think she’ll adapt, but she needs to be careful. The media won’t let up easily.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And the file? What’s in it?”

Victoria handed him the USB stick. “Detailed findings on Hunter and Silk, including acquisition practices. There’s a section on something called the Parchment—an ancient codex, pieces of which the Hunter family is interested in and collecting at vast cost. Some say it’s tied to a family curse, others says that it can cause a kind of mental illness or serious personality changes. Seems like a lot of mumbo jumbo but I’ve included it together with the more empirical stuff. It seems Silk been involved in some questionable acquisitions, particularly with rare artifacts.”

Mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Questionable how?”

“Rumors suggest they’ve exploited vulnerable sellers and manipulated markets to obtain these antiquities. We need to keep a close eye on their operations.”

Mark nodded, digesting the information. “Let’s ensure we’re prepared for whatever comes next.”

March - New York - Mark Steele’s Penthouse

Moving in together was a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

The condo had three bedrooms, but the PR playbook was clear: “fiancés” slept in the same bed, cooked breakfast together, even “shared a bathroom” for the benefit of lurking paparazzi and the stray drone outside their window.

Angel took the master, but Mark installed himself on the adjacent chaise and announced he would “stand guard in case you murder me in my sleep.” They bickered about everything: who got the rain shower first; what counted as “real coffee;” what to play in the morning—Mark wanted Dua Lipa or BTS, and Angel preferred Bach and Radiohead.

The first night, Angel found Mark sitting cross-legged on the rug, rolling her—his—old Patek watch over and over in his hands.

“You miss your stuff?” Mark asked.

Angel looked up, face unreadable. “You could always buy me a new Patek. I don’t miss the stuff. I miss knowing what I’m supposed to be.”

Mark smirked. “That’s rich. You used to run a company. Now you run a blender and Netflix remote.” Mark tossed the watch onto the end table. “Careful, or I’ll revoke your orange juice privileges.”

“Fine, but you’re still taking the futon tonight. What a wanker.” Angel closed the door and listened for his retort, but none came.

Living together was like starring in a surreal reality show.

They knew each other’s histories, but the physicality was always a loop of surprise and adjustment. Mark still forgot to close the bathroom door. Angel used his razors without asking which was infuriating (Mark told his PA to get her some lady’s razors and get her membership at a waxing facility). Mark cooked eggs at midnight (Maud had expressed surprise when Angel stopped doing this). Angel cycled to Central Park at dawn, returning with bagels and bruise-colored shins,which made Mark complain that she was damaging his body, even though he was secretly pleased that Angel had continued with her exercise regime.

Sometimes, at 3 a.m., they’d find themselves in the kitchen, clad only in their underwear, picking at leftover Chinese food while debating which company might weather a bear market.

One night, Angel caught Mark staring at his reflection in the gleaming stainless steel fridge, his fingers tracing the outline of her former jaw. “Do you ever want to swap back?” she asked, her voice low.

Mark shrugged, a hint of contemplation in his eyes. “Sometimes. But then I look in the mirror and think, this is better.”

“Yeah,” Angel replied, her tone softening, “but it’s mine.”

Mark’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of determination igniting within him. “And it’s mine to wreck. Or maybe to fix.”

Angel leaned against the counter, crossing her arms as she studied him. “Why are you so determined to make me angry? We were having a friendly conversation just a while ago. It’s not as if I’ll be slipping back into the CEO position any time soon with this.” Angel pointed to her body with her hands.

“I made my peace with the situation some weeks ago. Even more so now that I know that you had nothing to do with it,” Angel said, sitting on a kitchen stool. “I didn’t like the work or the shitty money all that much but I like Maud and the girls. But I’m still angry with you for not answering my calls for three months. And what kind of selfish prick abandons Maud the moment she comes into money. The least you could have done was to send her some for surgery. It’s literally been months since you had the chance. You’re definitely as much of an asshole as I once was.”

Then as if realizing she’d been ranting, she added, “On the bright side, you really are getting the hang of this business. I didn’t expect you to grasp the intricacies so quickly. So don’t fuck it up! I still want a billionaire lifestyle without all the work.”

Mark leaned against the counter, his brow furrowing as he processed Angel's words. “You’re right,” he finally admitted, his voice low and edged with sincerity. “I’ve been selfish. I’ve been so caught up in my own mess that I forgot about the people who matter. It’s not an excuse, but I didn’t know how to handle any of this; this life, your life, our lives.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I never intended to abandon Maud or anyone else. I just... I thought I needed to distance myself from the chaos. But that was cowardly. You’re right to be angry. You’re right to call me out.” His gaze flickered away, lost in thought for a moment before returning to her. “I see now how much you care for the girls, for Maud. I should have sent help. I should have been better.”

Angel didn’t show any emotion on her face but it was a bit disconcerting for her to see Mark acting this way.

A slight smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a hint of admiration mingling with remorse. “And you’re right about the business too. I’ve had to adapt quickly, and it’s been eye-opening, learning how you navigated it. I didn’t expect to learn so much from you, or to feel this... connection to it all. It’s strange, isn’t it? How this life has become ours, even if it’s not what we wanted?”

He paused, searching her eyes for understanding. “I don’t want to screw it up, Angel. I want to make things right, for both of us. I’m not going to wreck your body or your company, I’m going to make it better, if I can. I owe you that much. So, let’s figure this out together. I may not have all the answers, but I’m willing to try.”

Angel thought that there was a chance that things would settle down after that, but it wasn’t quite so simple.

She had even let Mark sleep with her in the master bedroom after the first week, ostensibly at the behest of Victoria and her team, but mainly because she thought it was the right thing to do. But always with a large bolster between them. In the back of her mind, though, Angel knew that the position, the body, everything would still get in the way for Mark.

The next morning, Angel was in the tub, headphones in, eyes closed. Mark barged in but stopped when he saw her.

She was submerged to the collarbone, legs folded out slightly with her knees barely visible over the soap suds, her hair in a messy knot. Mark could see the tattoos, the strong curve of her shoulders.

Angel didn’t move, just glared. “Ever heard of knocking?” she said, yanking out a bud.

Mark didn’t flinch. “I’m late for a call. I need something for my headache.” He reached for the medicine cabinet,

She watched him, daring him to look her way.

Mark’s breath caught. “Do you always stare people down while you’re naked?”

She grinned. “Do you always need to be the alpha?”

He scoffed, then lingered—longer than he should have. Her eyes flickered. He could tell she was waiting for him to leer, to make a joke, to be the pig she’d known from her own past.

He didn’t. He said, “You have a nice back.”

She looked away, something hot and embarrassed in her face. “Yeah, well, you picked it.”

He left, closing the door with a soft click.

The first event was a leukemia charity gala at the Met. Angel wore a scarlet gown slit up to the hip, a clever fuck-you to the dress code. The makeup artist spent an hour erasing her tattoos before Angel wiped off the foundation and told him, “I’m not going in drag.”

Mark looked better than ever in a midnight suit, hair slicked back in a way that made him look both expensive and slightly dangerous. They did the step-and-repeat, posed for a dozen flashbulbs, then hit the ballroom. People stared, of course, but it wasn’t like the Elephant. Here, the gazes were mixed with calculation, the up-and-down scan of people appraising a rival’s jewelry or spouse or IQ.

Angel played her role like a pro. She shook hands, kissed babies, and even danced a half-rumba with a 70-year-old Manhattan doyenne. She called Mark “darling” with a posh English accent in public and “dickhead” in the car ride home. The contrast gave him whiplash.

The press was even weirder. A Vogue writer cornered Angel at the cheese table and asked, “What was your biggest challenge transitioning from performance to high society?”

Angel smiled. “Society’s much the same everywhere. There are more rules here, but fewer consequences.”

The reporter chuckled, mistaking Angel’s candor for humor. “What’s your secret to owning the room?”

Angel took a leisurely sip of her drink, her gaze drifting across the gala's glittering crowd. “Never let anyone decide what you’re worth. Not even yourself.”

The reporter leaned in, intrigued. “And what drew you to this leukemia charity? What’s the mission behind it that resonates with you?”

Angel considered for a moment, her eyes sparkling. “It’s about hope and healing. It’s crucial to support those fighting battles they didn’t choose. Everyone deserves a chance to thrive.”

“Interesting,” the reporter continued, “and if you had to pick, what’s your favorite painting here at the Met?”

A sly smile crept onto Angel's lips. “I have many favorites, but Sargent’s “Portrait of Madame X” is my pick for tonight. It’s fascinating how it captures the tension between sexuality and societal expectations. The black gown was so scandalous that even actresses would have hesitated to wear it for a portrait. It’s not just the dress itself though, but the way she wore it—completely bold and unapologetic. It really stirred the pot back then.”

The reporter nodded, captivated by her passion. Mark overheard all of it and knew she was better at this than he’d ever been.

The next event was a morning TV interview, live. Angel wore navy with gold trim, hair brushed out and face bare except for a little eyeliner. She was stunning, but the tattoos were fully exposed, and the segment’s producer was clearly panicking backstage.

The host, a waxy man in a perma-smile, tried to bait her. “Do you think your… ahem… previous line of work prepared you for the spotlight of being Mark Steele’s fiancée?”

“We’re not engaged yet,” Angel grinned, showing the conspicuous absence of a ring on her left hand; a blatant rebellion against Victoria Middleton’s script. “As for your question, I think being stared at for a living is great prep for live TV. And there are fewer gropers on set.”

The host blinked. “And, er, how about your opinions on Steele’s current merger fight?”

Angel’s answer was a clinical, bullet-pointed breakdown of the proxy war, complete with strategy and stakeholder analysis. She ended casually.

"Think of a hostile takeover like a surprise plot twist in a business drama; where one company tries to take over another, even if the current leaders aren’t on board. It’s not personal; it’s usually about strategy, growth, or unlocking value. While it can lead to positive changes like innovation or better performance, it can also bring uncertainty for employees and customers. Lately, there’s been growing concern among some investors and employees about whether Silk is keeping pace with changes in the industry. While there’s a lot of strength in the brand and the team, there’s also a sense that new ideas and fresh leadership might help unlock its full potential."

The host moved on, visibly rattled.

Mark almost burst with envy, and a little with desire.

After a week, the press pivoted. Angel was no longer a stripper. She was “the most interesting woman in finance,” a “living tattooed disruptor.” The tabloids ran old photos from the club, but even the dirt became currency. The gossip sites photoshopped her next to old money socialites, invented rumors of catfights and midnight brawls.

Angel started to like it.

They hit two more galas and a black-tie at the Guggenheim. Each time, Angel wore something more daring: a mesh panel gown with nothing under, a slinky jumpsuit that left her back bare except for the ink. By the fourth event, even the Manhattan matrons were copying her lipstick.
Mark watched all of it, oscillating between fury and awe.

The PR team kept sending them on photo ops. Angel started choosing her own outfits—tighter, looser, punkier, whatever. Mark, always watching, started to see the logic. There was no consensus about what Angel “should” be, so she decided to be all of it, all at once. She was a chameleon.

Mark was obsessed, but also afraid; afraid that Angel would eclipse him, afraid that she’d get bored and do something wild, afraid that he liked her too much to ever let her go. It was almost a relief when Victoria called them both into the office for a “strategy meeting.”

“You’re killing it,” Victoria said, deadpan. “But the public wants a wedding date. We need to stage the proposal, pronto.”

Angel looked incredulous. “You want to do a fake-proposal on live TV? Is this Love Island? Do you think Americans are morons?”

Victoria tapped her pen. “We’re doing it on the balcony, at sunset, with the press and a drone. I should have thought of this right from the start but I wasn’t sure you were ready.” She looked straight at Angel with an unreadable expression. “By the way, what gave me the idea was the fact that you’re still not wearing the ring I gave you. Just as well as it happens.”

Angel glared menacingly at Victoria but agreed to it all.

Mark watched her leave, hips swaying, and realized he’d never been so attracted to anyone in his entire life. It was completely ridiculous, but he really wanted her.

Late March - New York - Mark Steele’s Penthouse

Mark tried to be helpful. Really.

He knew what posh girls used on their faces though he never really had the money to buy any of it when he was working at the Licorice Elephant. So he bought Angel three types of cleanser, and a Sephora haul large enough to bankrupt a minor country. The first morning, he left a care package on her side of the sink: organic moisturizer, a detangling brush, a perfect lipstick matched to her skin.

Angel found it and said nothing.

He watched from the kitchen as she did her makeup—fast, precise, the way Ruby had taught her. It was good, almost as good as he had been when he was the one in her shoes; but slower and more dedicated to getting it exactly right.

“You should do a tutorial,” he said.

“Why?” Angel replied, not looking up from the mirror.

“Could help girls who—” Mark stopped. “Never mind.”

Angel snapped the compact shut, her eyes narrowing as she shot Mark a pointed glare. “I’m not your project.” She had spent too long being molded by others—first by the expectations of the corporate world, then by the whims of men who thought they could dictate her worth.

Mark raised his hands in a placating gesture, his sheepishness evident. “I know,” he replied, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty in his tone.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do,” she began, her voice softening. “But after three months at the Elephant, I’ve learned something important about myself. I’ve discovered what I want—not just in my career, but in life and relationships. I won’t let anyone else define that for me again.”

Mark nodded slowly. He could see the fire in her eyes, a reflection of the woman she had become.

“Let’s go shopping,” he suggested suddenly, wanting to shift the mood. “You can pick out what you really want.”

“Alright, but only if you promise to keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Deal,” he replied, relief washing over him.

The shopping trip started fun, then turned ugly.

They went to SoHo, drifted through the boutiques. Angel didn’t hesitate; she picked what she wanted: slouchy knits, power suits, sneakers, things with sharp edges or strong colors. Mark kept choosing low-cut dresses, low-waist jeans, micro-minis, all the lingerie he’d seen on Angel’s Instagram.

“Put this on,” he said, handing her a leather bralette and pants set.

Angel wrinkled her nose. “You wear it.”

“Come on. You wore less at the Elephant.”

She dropped the clothes in the cart. “That was a job.”

Mark smirked. “This is too. We’re supposed to look like a couple.”

She stared at him. “A couple, not a porn ad.”

He bristled. “It’s just for the look.”

“Your look, not mine.” She stalked to the next rack.

They fought all the way to the register. The sales assistant pretended not to notice, but when Mark tried to insist Angel model a bodysuit for him, she gave a sharp “Sir, maybe let her try in her own time?”

Mark saw the look: pure disgust. And in that second, he saw himself, saw what he’d become—a parody of every asshole who’d ever tried to dictate a woman’s worth. He paid, grabbed the bags, and left.

Angel followed, silently.

On the sidewalk, he halted. “Sorry. I was out of line.”

Angel shrugged, her expression a mix of anger and disappointment. “Used to it,” she replied curtly.

As they settled into the plush back seat of their chauffeured car, they sat looking straight ahead, not daring to meet each other’s glances. Angel's focus remained on Mark; she didn’t want to remain pissed at him and she didn’t want to be constantly “difficult.”

“You know, it’s like this—” she said. “When I went shopping with Ruby or Maud back in London, it felt different. We were two girls having fun, sharing opinions, and navigating the world together. But with you? It’s like I’m back in that corporate boardroom, where everything’s about control and power plays.”

Mark shifted in his seat, the shame curling in his stomach like a tight knot. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” she interrupted, her voice rising slightly. “But it felt like you were trying to mold me into something you wanted, not letting me be me. We both know what it means to be a woman now, and that should change how we interact. It shouldn’t feel like a competition or a transaction. It’s supposed to be about support and understanding.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

Angel continued, her tone softening slightly. “Look, you’re less of an asshole than I was in my previous life. I can see that. But you’ve changed, just like I have. You need to sort out the things that made me such a piece of shit before. It’s not enough to just be better; you need to understand why I was that way in the first place. Also, I quit smoking a few weeks back and it’s still making me irritable.”

“Maybe we both need to learn how to be better,” he finally admitted.

Angel nodded. “Exactly. Let’s figure this out together, but it starts with you recognizing your own flaws. I can’t keep pretending we’re just playing house when there’s so much more.”

Late March - New York - Mark Steele’s Penthouse

The sky was a symphony of warm, pastel hues—soft pinks, purples, and golden tones—creating a dreamy atmosphere. A perfect antidote to the fake engagement that was about to be filmed.

Angel was standing on the balcony waiting for Mark, wearing an elegant, floor-length gown adorned with intricate beadwork and sequins that shimmered in the ambient light.

She heard the lights and cameras whir to life, following Mark as he approached her, ready to capture every meticulously staged detail of their performance.

“Ready?” he whispered, leaning down close to her ear; his voice low and intimate, sending a flutter through her stomach. Her heart raced, caught between the thrill of the performance and the reality of their complicated relationship.

When he dropped to one knee, the cameras sprang into action, the crew poised for the perfect shot.

“Angel Valentine,” he began, his voice steady yet laced with an undercurrent of excitement that made her pulse quicken. “Will you marry me?”

The words hung in the air like a spell, and Angel feigned shock, her eyes widening in faux surprise. She felt the heat of the moment envelop her, a mixture of adrenaline and something deeper that she couldn’t quite name. Her gaze was directed downward, and her hands gently clasped in front of her,

With a flourish, Mark slipped the diamond and sapphire engagement ring onto her finger, and she let out a gleeful squeal that surprised even her. They kissed passionately, lips colliding in a way that ignited a spark deeper than the ruse they were playing. Mark's hands found their way to her waist, pulling her close, and she melted against him, feeling the warmth radiate from his body.

A drone buzzed overhead, capturing the scene from above as Mark dipped her low, their kiss framed by the golden hues of sunset, the world around them fading into a blur.

“Cut!” the director’s voice crackled through the earpieces, but neither seemed to hear, lost in the intoxicating moment. They continued to kiss, deepening the connection that had begun as mere performance. Mark’s grip tightened, fingers splayed possessively across her back, and Angel reveled in the sensation, her breath hitching as she leaned into him, feeling the world drop away.

They exchanged flirty whispers, teasing each other with playful banter that only heightened the electric tension between them.

“You know, I think I could get used to this,” he murmured against her ear, his warm breath sending shivers cascading down her spine. Then the reality crept back in, and they reluctantly pulled apart, adjusting their clothes and smoothing down their clothes and hair. As the crew packed up and filed out, the atmosphere shifted, leaving behind a charged silence.

Angel changed quickly and flopped onto the couch, shedding the layers of their performance like a snake molting its skin. Dressed in a loose T-shirt that hung just right and shorts that showed off her legs, she flicked on Netflix, but the flickering screen barely registered in her mind. Instead, her thoughts were tangled in the aftermath of their staged romance, replaying the way Mark’s lips had felt against hers, the heat of his body so close.

Across the room, Mark remained at the table, poring over a stack of company reports, though his focus was clearly fragmented. The crisp papers crinkled under his fingers as he tried to immerse himself in numbers and projections, but his mind kept drifting back to the kiss they had shared. He could still feel her body, the way she melted against him, and it tugged at something deep within him—a yearning he hadn’t expected.

Every now and then, their eyes would meet, quick glances filled with unspoken words, each one crackling with tension.

Mark caught himself stealing a look at Angel, her hair cascading over her shoulders, the soft glow of the television illuminating her features in a way that made her look almost ethereal. He felt a rush of desire, a primal urge to bridge the distance between them, but fear held him back. What if this was just a fleeting moment, a remnant of their charade? He wanted to reach out, to pull her close, yet he hesitated, rooted in place by the uncertainty of what crossing that line would mean for them both.

Angel bit her lip, torn between the urge to close the gap and the fear of what that might mean.

She sensed the way his gaze lingered on her. “Should we…?” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, but the words trailed off, swallowed by the charged silence that enveloped them.

“Yeah,” Mark replied, his voice thick with need. But still, they lingered in that electric stillness, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

That night, Mark lay in bed, wide awake. He heard Angel moving on the other side of the dividing bolster. “You still up?” he asked quietly.

“What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated before speaking. “It’s strange. Being you is exciting, empowering, but sometimes when I look at you, I kind of miss it. The freedom, the clothes, the way people look at you. I miss just being able to—do what I want.”

“Like what?” she asked.

He pondered for a moment. “Like looking at you without feeling...”

Angel didn’t answer, but a few seconds later Mark could hear her getting up from her side of the bed to go to the bathroom. About five minutes later, she returned to the room and turned up the dimmer slightly.

She was in one of the lingerie sets he’d picked.

The bodysuit clung to her curves like a second skin, the fabric whispering against her skin as she moved. Lace spiraled across her bust and hips, and the structured cups cradled her breasts alluringly. The high-cut sides elongated her legs, making them appear endless, while the low back dipped daringly, inviting exploration.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“You want to look?” she said, voice tight.

He nodded, stunned.

She stepped closer, every inch of her a challenge. “It’s just skin, Mark. Yours, mine, whatever. And if nothing changes and I have to grow old in this body, it will all go away. The last few months have been, let’s say, educational. You already know this but being a man—especially a man like you—complicates things. For both of us.”

He sat up, nervous. “You’re not a trophy.”

She laughed bitterly. “Tell that to the media.”

He reached out, and for a second, he saw the pain there the exhaustion, the armor barely holding. She took his hand, let him trace her tummy and the taut muscles under her soft skin through mesh of her bodysuit.

“You want me to wear what you like?” she said, softer now.

He shook his head. “I want you to wear what you want.”

“You want me to be yours, but I’ve always been mine first.” Angel looked at him intently. “Mark, look at me,” she said gently. ”It’s not like I find it horrifying that you like my body. If anything, it makes me happy. But you don’t know me, or what I’ve become.”

He wanted to say sorry, but instead, he kissed her palm, gently.

At the press shoot the next day, Angel wore the leather pants and bralette that Mark had wanted her to model for him. She smirked at the cameras and played the part. Mark couldn’t take his eyes off her.

In the cab home, she said, “You’re still an asshole, but at least you’re my asshole.”

He laughed, feeling the tension finally ease.

That night, she tucked herself into bed and threw the large bolster between them on to the ground. She turned away from him, and Mark instinctively shifted closer, wrapping his arm around her waist as he spooned her. His hand slid over to rest on her belly, fingers splayed gently against the soft fabric of her shirt. Angel let him keep it there, savoring the warmth radiating from his palm, a soothing contrast to the coolness of the night.

She nestled into him, her heart racing at the intimacy of the moment, grappling with the strangeness of their connection; the gentle rise and fall of her breath mingled with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Just before she fell off, Angel whispered, “I still hate you.”

Mark, half-asleep, mumbled, “Good. Hate’s honest.”

She squeezed his hand, and they drifted off, together, neither admitting just how much they needed it. As she faded, Angel thought, I’ve never wanted to kiss myself so badly in my life.

April - New York to Indonesia - Angel and Mark

Mark hated flying. Angel, on the other hand, loved everything about it: the antiseptic lounges, the endless drinks, the strange suspension of normal time. From the moment they hit the lounge at Teterboro, she grasped the upper hand—insisting on bourbon (just a tinge) at breakfast and smuggling a box of pastries into the private jet.

“Relax,” she said, cramming a pain au chocolat into her mouth. “Nobody’s looking for you up here. You can act like a degenerate for once.”

Mark glared, but took the other pastry. “You’re the degenerate. I’m the CEO.”

“Not tonight. You’re just the guy stuck beside me,” Angel said, stretching out and propping her boots on the footrest. She had the catlike calm of a person who’d survived worse than turbulence. He admired it. Secretly. And he didn’t tell that beside her was exactly where he wanted to be.

Yogyakarta was a wall of heat and humidity that reminded Mark of all the things he hated about the outside world.

The hotel was a palace—cool marble, polite staff, a breakfast buffet that put New York’s to shame. Angel spent her first afternoon in the pool, then got a massage, then a facial, then another massage. Mark met with lawyers and portfolio managers for six hours straight. By the time he made it back to the suite, Angel was on the terrace, drinking coffee and watching the sun crash behind the volcanoes.

“You look like an influencer,” Mark said, flopping onto the chair next to her.

Angel grinned. “If I was, I’d be doing this naked.”

“You’re impossible,” he said, but already his mind was drawing images of Angel naked tanning in the Indonesian sun. Mark was obviously familiar with his old body but seeing it from the perspective of man was quite another matter.

He could see that Angel had effortlessly embraced her new life as a woman of leisure. She flitted from one indulgence to the next, savoring each moment with a zest that left him both envious and intrigued. The spontaneous adventures, luxurious pampering—the simple joy of doing absolutely nothing that she had denied herself when she was a man—were now hers to relish, and she was making up for lost time with a fierce determination.

Angel sipped her coffee. “So what’s on tomorrow?”

Mark rattled off the agenda: “Nine a.m., meeting with the Minister of Energy. Noon, closed session with the VC syndicate. Four, call with World Bank.

“You want to run some of the stuff by me? I’m good at stuff, you know?” she asked.

“Sure,” Mark said, leaning back in his chair. “High upfront costs and long payback periods for the solar project are a tough sell for traditional VCs.”

Angel nodded, her fingers tapping lightly on the table. “Exactly. They’re looking for quick exits—five to seven years max. We need to pivot our approach if we want to attract them.”

“What do you suggest?” he asked, intrigued.

“We can explore asset-light models, like PAYG leasing platforms. It reduces the capital burden and makes it more appealing to investors.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “And what about blended finance?”

“Good point. Most successful solar home system companies rely on that mix—VC equity for innovation and growth, alongside concessional debt from DFIs like the World Bank. It’s all about balancing risk.”

“Right, but that complicates things with multiple stakeholders,” he replied, rubbing his temples.

“True, but we can co-invest with impact funds or green development banks. Let them absorb more risk while we focus on scalability, especially with software layers rather than just hardware,” she suggested.

He leaned forward, intrigued. “What about exit strategies? Those seem limited.”

“Very few clear paths,” she admitted. “IPOs are rare in rural energy, and acquisitions are tricky. Our best bet is secondary sales to impact funds or infrastructure investors.”

Mark frowned. “That poses liquidity risks. We can’t afford to be stuck.”

“Agreed. We should target companies with data-rich platforms—energy plus fintech. They attract tech buyers and offer flexibility with convertible instruments or revenue-sharing models.”

Mark couldn’t hide his admiration. “You’ve really thought this through.”

Angel smiled. “It’s what I do best. Let’s make this work.”

“But after I finish, if there’s time, we’re going to Borobudur for the sunset?” There was a note of hopeful expectancy in Mark’s voice.

Angel raised an eyebrow. “A date? I thought this was a business trip.”

He shot her a look. “We’re engaged, remember?”

She arched her eyebrows, but a flush rose in her cheeks.

In the morning, Mark suited up and hit the meetings—he was there for an Energy Transition Summit.

Angel went for a long run, then took a cab to Borobudur alone, and lost herself in the carvings and the haze of incense. She took a hundred photos and sent only one to Mark, preferring to keep the experience to herself.

When Mark got back at eight, he found her sprawled on the bed, reading Céline and eating the minibar’s entire chocolate supply.

“Nice day?” he said, pulling off his tie.

She shrugged. “Could’ve been better.”

“You went without me,” Mark accused.

Angel didn’t look up. “You were busy saving the planet.”

He groaned, but felt something soft open in his chest. “Next time, you’ll take me?”

She considered it. “Maybe.”

They spent the rest of the week hopping from city to city: Jakarta to rewrite some of their old palm oil deals to make them more sustainable; Surabaya to seal some logistics and warehousing deals; a brief stop in Bali for a roundtable with Australian VCs.

Everywhere they went, Angel found something to love—visiting the Masjid Al-Akbar in Surabaya; an old Dutch pastry shop in Jakarta; a tiny jazz club with a crooked neon sign; a great Babi Guling shop in Bali.

At night, they’d work through Mark’s decks together. Angel was still shockingly sharp. She flagged weaknesses in the sustainability memos, rewrote half his talking points for the NGO crowd, even coached him on how to handle a hostile panelist at the UNDP forum.

“Look, I love that you’re turning Steele into a more ethical company, but—” she said, gesturing with a pencil at one slide. “If you want this to land with impact investors, you need to talk about blended capital up front. They don’t care about six-year returns. They care about visibility, about reputational lift.”

Mark scribbled notes, then looked up. “You’re scary.”

She smiled. “That’s why you like me. You do like me, don’t you?”

They worked late and argued about leverage and social capital until 2am. Mark had never enjoyed business more.

When the trip was nearly over, Angel suggested a detour.

“There’s this boat that does overnight tours around Flores and Komodo. You can see the dragons, go diving, drink rum on the deck. I already booked it and you’re coming,” she said, smugly. “Yeah, that hangdog expression when I told you I went to Borobudur by myself—not having that hanging over me when we get back home.”

He pretended to be annoyed but went along.

They flew into Rinca and took a private charter to Flores. The yacht was small but perfect—a luxury phinisi with a large master bedroom and 9 crew. It had an exquisite master cabin with a private terrace above deck and an additional cozy cabin below for two guests. Ideal for unforgettable honeymoons and milestone anniversaries, even if you weren’t on one.

The guide had just finished a harrowing story about how one dragon nearly ate a vertically challenged tourist last year, when they spotted their first one.

Angel got as close as the guide allowed, then closer, daring Mark to follow.

“Come on, they won’t eat you,” she said.

“They eat everything,” Mark countered.

“That’s what makes it fun.”

Mark did, grinning for the first time in days. The dragons, for all the hype, mostly just sprawled on their bellies and flicked their tongues at the air. Mark got a selfie of Angel making a face at the beast, and for once, nobody watching could’ve said who was the wild animal and who was the tamer.

Later, on the deck, they watched the sunset. Angel wore a loose white shirt and nothing else, legs stretched out, hair loose. Mark had never seen her so relaxed. She poured them both a glass of mediocre rum. “To us, the world’s weirdest couple.”

He toasted. “To us.”

For a long time, they sat in silence, watching the water burn gold and red and then fade to black.

Angel put her hand on his thigh. Not sexually, just there; it felt good under her palm. He didn’t move.

“Do you ever think,” she said, “that this could’ve all gone differently? You, me, everyone?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

She squeezed his leg. “I like the way it went.”

He covered her hand with his own.

They didn’t kiss, not yet. They didn’t need to. Not with the ocean and the sky and the world holding its breath for them.

They spent the next afternoon snorkeling off the beach. The water was blue and glassy; Angel dove down, lithe and unafraid, while Mark floundered above, cursing into his mask.

Back on the yacht, sunburned and sleepy, they sipped cocktails and let the ocean air take over.

Angel said, “You’re terrible at swimming.”

Mark said, “You’re a show-off.”

She shrugged. “I like being good at things.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sunset, the boat rocking gently.

Angel was lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. This was good, even great, but it wasn’t always like that. How had she accepted this fate so easily? It felt like just yesterday that she was moping around, filled with anxiety and dread, planning her escape for two days before finally stepping into the world of the Licorice Elephant. Was it simply the weight of the situation that had pressed her down, or was it fear of being cast out onto the unforgiving streets?

Could she have thrived in another low-paying job, scraping by in a life far removed from the luxuries she once knew? The thought sent shivers through her. She had always been fiercely independent, yet now she questioned if she could truly survive on her own—just her, alone, struggling to make ends meet—or even with Maud's support or the camaraderie of the other dancers

Was it the magic that had shifted her perspective, or had she always harbored this hidden part of herself, waiting for the right moment to emerge? Had everything before been a mere façade, a mask she wore until it fell away?

She thought back to the moments when Mark had started restructuring the company; a process she had once fought against fully understanding the disapprobation which lingered wherever she went. Why hadn’t she protested? It was her creation, her empire built from the ground up, yet now it seemed she had relinquished it without a second thought; even aiding in mitigating its evils, almost enfeebling it. Yet, it all seemed so insignificant to her.

Each question gnawed at her. The more she reflected, the more she realized how deeply intertwined her past and present had become, and how her journey was only just beginning.

Angel looked at Mark sideways. “You want to talk about it?”

Mark pretended not to understand. “About what?”

“About why we’re here. About the last three months. About Lena, who is clearly avoiding me at company functions.”

He exhaled. “I don’t know if I want to talk about Lena.”

“Why? It’s obvious that you two are together again.”

He looked at her “Because I’m not sure whether I’m good for her. Especially with you...”

Angel propped her chin on her knees and they watched the horizon together.

“I met someone at the club. Kind of… ” Angel said. “His name’s Tom. He’s… decent.”

“He’s a very old friend from foster care. He’s a good person, at least when he was around me. Kind. Did you sleep with him?”

She smiled. “Would it matter? I’m pretty sure you slept with him before.”

He shook his head. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

Angel looked out at the water. “It’s hard to explain. When you’re in the wrong body, everything gets scrambled. Needs, wants, all of it. But with Tom, I felt—safe. Like it was okay to just be.”

Mark was quiet for a long time. Then: “You’re happy?”

“I’m alive, not just living,” she said. “That’s better.”

He nodded. “You make it look easy.”

She laughed. “It’s not. You know that better than I do. I think.”

He set his glass down. “When we get back, I want you to come to the next board meeting.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because you’re better at this than I am. The strategy, the people. I want you there.”

She hesitated. “What about Jane? The rest of the board?”

He smiled. “You never let that stop you before.”

Angel caressed Mark’s hair. “You know, I think we’re both better now. Maybe not good, but better.”

He covered her hand with his own, and they let the dusk settle around them.

April - New York - Mark and Angel

Mark was already in bed, scrolling through emails and pretending he wasn’t waiting for her. He’d spent twenty minutes selecting the perfect pair of boxers—something classic, snug enough to accentuate the contours of his sculpted thighs without feeling constricting.

He wanted something that whispered confidence rather than shouted for attention. As he stood before the mirror, Mark flexed slightly, allowing his muscles to ripple beneath the surface, imagining how Angel would react to this display of raw masculinity. He felt a thrill at the thought of her gaze lingering on him, the way her eyes might widen in appreciation, and he couldn't help but smile at the anticipation of their encounter.

He left the lights low, a single lamp spilling gold across the duvet.

Angel’s voice came from the bathroom. “You still awake?”

He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep. Jet lag’s a bitch.”

She stepped in, wearing a frumpy white bath robe. “That so?”

He nodded. “Long day.”

She turned, untied the belt, and let the robe slip off.

The lingerie was obsidian black, a web of satin straps that crisscrossed her torso like calligraphy. The high collar encircled her throat with delicate chains that caught the light when she swallowed, while the quarter-cup bodice lifted and separated her breasts, presenting them like offerings on an altar of skin.

Below, a geometric maze of elastic bands framed her hipbones, leading the eye downward to where a barely-there thong disappeared between her thighs. Suspenders stretched taut against her legs, creating shadows in the hollows of her muscles.

The entire ensemble transformed her body into something both vulnerable and dangerous—a creature of pure sensation designed to be worshipped rather than touched.

Mark’s mouth went dry. His cock went hard, instantly, no warning.

Angel watched the bulge with a slow, wicked smile. “Well. I guess you’re not that tired.”

Mark sat up, too stunned to talk. “You—”

She stalked toward him swaying, every step precise. “You picked it, remember?”

He nodded, the room spinning.

Angel stopped at the foot of the bed. “You want me to take it off?”

He couldn’t speak, just shook his head.

She laughed, low. “That’s a first.”

She climbed onto the bed, straddling his legs, the heat from her body making his skin prickle. She put her hand on his chest, feeling his heart hammer.

Mark tried to play it cool. “You look...”

Angel ran a finger down his abs, then circled his cock through the boxers. “I know.”

She pulled the waistband down, freeing him. He was bigger than he remembered—than she remembered? Maybe it was the change in perspective.

Angel gripped him, slow, lazy strokes, her other hand braced on his shoulder. She looked down at him, unblinking, and realized she was just as turned on as he was.

He groaned. “Fuck.”

Angel grinned. “That’s the plan.”

She stroked harder, using her thumb to tease the head, and Mark felt himself losing control. He tried to hold back, but she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t.”

He came hard, shuddering, as waves of pleasure ricocheted up his spine, each pulse igniting a fire deep within him. Angel held him through the intensity, her fingers gentle yet firm, grounding him in the moment. She wiped her hand clean with a piece of tissue. But the lingering heat of their connection hung thick in the air.

Leaning in, she pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, an unexpected tenderness that sent shivers down his body.

As Mark caught his breath, he felt the aftershocks of his release reverberate through him. The experience had been overwhelming, almost disorienting. He wasn’t the one in control anymore; Angel had taken the reins, and it was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He had always been the dominant one, guiding Lena with confidence, but now he was like putty in Angel's hands—vulnerable and exposed.

Angel sensed the shift in power. She had never admitted to Mark but the months as Angel had brought with it a newfound appreciation for the male form. Every time, Mark had nonchalantly disrobed in front of her; their time on Flores with him in his speedos; tonight with his pathetic attempt to seduce her with his body—all of it had made her salivate with need. She could feel the warmth radiating from Mark's skin, the sculpted muscles beneath, and it excited her in ways she hadn't anticipated. The way his body responded to her touch, the way he surrendered to her whims, made her heart race.

Angel knew that Mark had at least one more in him, but he would need a bit of encouragement.

Pushing herself up, she began to kiss her way down his body, trailing soft, heated kisses across his abdomen, lingering at his nipples, and nipping gently at his neck. His muscles tensed under her lips, and she felt an electrifying warmth pooling in her core, her nipples hardening in response. Mark squirmed beneath her, his inexperience as a man evident in the way he reacted to her every move. She could see the struggle in his eyes, a mix of desire and frustration, and it only fueled her confidence.

Then, mounting him in a fluid motion, she took charge, riding him and pleasuring herself at the same time, her vaginal muscles clenching around him, relishing in the sensation of him filling her completely. She felt powerful, in control, and utterly alive.

Mark’s breath quickened, and she could feel his tension building again. He was losing himself, unable to hold back, and as she took him deeper, he finally succumbed.

Once he was fully spent, she curled up next to him, tucking her head under his chin.

“You still want to swap back?” she murmured.

He wrapped his arm around her. “Only if we do this first.”

Angel laughed, warm and sleepy. “Next time, maybe you’ll last longer.”

He smiled into her hair. “Next time, don’t make me wait so long.”

Mark soon surrendered to the warmth of the moment; and was soon deep in slumber. Angel propped herself up on her elbow, gazing down at him with a mixture of affection and something new.

She traced the outline of his jaw with her fingertips, marveling at the way his strong features softened in sleep. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Angel leaned closer, brushing a gentle kiss against his forehead. In that silence, she allowed herself to dream of possibilities, feeling the weight of her past slip away, replaced by the tender hope of what could be.

April - New York - Steele Industries

Three days later, Angel put on a blazer and heels and took the elevator to the executive floor. Victoria had left a terse “see you at 9am” in her inbox, but when she stepped into the glass-and-steel lobby, it was Lena who greeted her and brought her to a guest area.

Lena smile was tight and cautious. “Ms. Valentine, you look stunning today,” she said, her gaze flitting nervously over Angel’s inked skin peeking from beneath her blazer and the daring cut of her skirt.

Angel arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk forming on her lips. “Just call me Angel. And you look great too. I bet your closet is packed with these sharp numbers.”

Lena nodded, her shoulders easing slightly. “If you’d like, we could set up an office for you here. Mark mentioned I should extend the offer... indirectly.”

Angel chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I appreciate it, really, but I think I’ll pass for now. I’m still getting the hang of this whole corporate thing.”

Lena’s expression shifted to one of understanding, and she gestured for Angel to follow her. They walked past sleek glass partitions adorned with abstract art, the hum of office life buzzing around them. Mark hadn’t done much redecorating so Angel was familiar with all of it.

As they reached a cozy guest area, Lena motioned toward a low table where colorful brochures were spread out, showcasing Steele Industries’ latest initiatives and projects.

“Here’s some reading material,” Lena said. “You might find it interesting.”

Angel picked up a brochure, glancing at the glossy images and bold headlines, a smirk playing on her lips. “Looks like you’ve got quite the empire here.”

Angel leaned forward, her fingers tracing the edge of a glossy brochure outlining Steele’s ambitious Green Energy initiatives. “So, Lena, have you seen the projections for our solar panel rollout? Mark’s really pushing for a greener Steele Industries. I think it’s about time we made an impact beyond just profits.”

Lena nodded. “I’ve been tracking the numbers. It’s impressive—especially considering how much we’ve neglected sustainability in the past.” Her voice was steady, but Angel sensed the tension simmering beneath the surface.

“How long have you been CFO now?” Angel asked, leaning in slightly. “Mark’s mentioned your work more than once. He thinks you’re incredibly competent.”

A flicker of pride crossed Lena’s face, quickly replaced by a guarded look. “Just over three years. It’s a demanding role, but I enjoy the challenge.” She glanced away, as if the mention of Mark had cast a shadow over their conversation.

Angel noticed the shift and decided to take a chance. “You know, I get it. You and Mark had… something before. It’s okay; I’m not threatened by it.” She motioned toward an empty interview room nearby. “Why don’t we chat in there? I promise I won’t bite.”

Lena hesitated, then followed Angel into the small interview room, the door clicking shut behind them.

“You know about that?” she asked, her voice low and the color draining from her face.

“Of course. It’s hard to miss the way he talks about you,” Angel replied. “Honestly, someone like Mark might need more than one woman in his life, though I prefer he didn’t.” She grinned, hoping to lighten the mood.

Lena let out a small laugh, the tension easing just a bit. “That’s a unique perspective.”

“Speaking of perspectives, I heard you’re into romance novels,” Angel said, shifting the conversation. “I’ve seen some of your favorites in Mark’s library. They’re surprisingly… steamy. But I don’t know if I would actually read and dog ear a first edition copy.”

Lena’s cheeks flushed slightly. “That sounds like something Mark would say. They’re a guilty pleasure. I mean, who doesn’t love a good escape into a world of billionaires and grand gestures?”

“Exactly!” Angel said. “There’s something so satisfying about watching a powerful man crumble when faced with genuine connection. It’s like a fantasy where love conquers all.”

“It’s not just about the wealth, it’s the emotional vulnerability that gets me,” Lena admitted, her eyes lighting up. “Seeing those characters grow, learning to open up… it’s refreshing.”

“It’s refreshing to see someone who seems untouchable realize that they can be weak and accessible,” Angel said, leaning forward. “It makes you believe that genuine connection can change everything.”

Lena chuckled. “And who wouldn’t want to trade their daily grind for exotic locations and lavish lifestyles? It’s a nice break from the everyday stresses.” Lena smiled, her guard lowering further. “And let’s be honest, there’s a certain appeal to the idea of security. In a world full of uncertainty, the thought of a partner who can provide safety and comfort is… well, it’s kind of comforting.”

“Totally! It taps into that deep-rooted desire for stability,” Angel replied. “It’s like the ultimate fantasy where you don’t just find love, but also a sense of protection.”

Lena’s eyes brightened as she added, “And it’s empowering too! The female lead often challenges the billionaire, setting boundaries and influencing his transformation. She’s not just a damsel in distress; she’s a force in her own right.”

Angel grinned, feeling the camaraderie grow. “It’s really all about balance. Those stories show that love doesn’t mean losing yourself; it means growing together.”

“Wow, I’ve never really thought about it like that,” Lena admitted, her smile widening. “You’ve got a knack for this thing. Maybe we should co-write a romance novel or something!”

Angel laughed. “Now that’s an idea! Who knows? We could create a whole new genre!”

Angel leaned closer, sensing a bond forming. “You know, I’d love to share recommendations. We could start a little book club—just the two of us. You’re important to both Steele and Mark, and I want to be friends.”

Lena studied Angel’s face. “I’d like that. It’s nice to have someone to talk to who gets it. I mainly lurk on Romance forums and write some fanfic in my spare time.”

“Great! Let’s make it happen. But first, let’s focus on making Steele Industries a better place, shall we?”

Angel winked, feeling a spark of camaraderie as they stepped back into the bustling atmosphere of the executive floor.

They headed toward the meeting room, their heels echoing softly against the polished floor. Angel glanced at Lena. She wore a confident expression, her posture exuding authority that matched her role as CFO.

As they moved closer, Angel's presence wrapped around Lena like a gentle breeze. The scent of her perfume mingled with a hint of sweat—a raw, authentic musk that stirred memories within Lena.

Angel, too, couldn’t help but notice Lena’s allure. The tailored suit hugged her curves perfectly, and the confidence in her stride deepened Angel’s desire to connect. She longed to showcase the transformation within her, yet revealing the truth of her body swap felt impossible.

For a fleeting moment, Angel felt the urge to lean in and kiss Lena. But just then, the doors swung open, drawing them back into the whirlwind of business and the presence of old men in even older suits.

April - New York - Steele Industries

The boardroom was a stage set for conflict, a battleground of wills and ideologies. Mark stood at the helm, flanked by Victoria’s sharp-eyed scrutiny and Jane Temple's steely resolve. Lena occupied the seat to his right, her posture poised yet alert, while Angel lounged at the far end, absorbing the tension.

Jane launched her assault with precision. “You want us to divert 30% of growth capital into Green Energy? At these dismal rates?” Her voice dripped with skepticism, each word a calculated strike.

Mark remained unyielding, arms folded, his expression carved from granite. “We don’t have a choice. We’re not getting a second planet, Jane. The stakes are too high.”

A sly smile flickered across Jane’s lips. “Cute. But the world runs on returns, not sentimentality. You’re asking us to gamble our profits on a fairy tale.”

Mark’s voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and unwavering. “What good are returns if nobody’s left to spend them? A thriving economy requires a livable world.”

A murmur rippled through the room, even the old-money stakeholders shifting in their seats, unease etched on their faces.

Victoria seized the moment, her tone assertive as she outlined the proposed strategy. “We’ll pivot our investments towards sustainable technologies. It’s not just about compliance; it’s about leadership in an evolving market.”

Lena supported her claims with a flurry of data, her numbers crisp and compelling, weaving a narrative that painted a future where profit and responsibility could coexist. Angel observed the dynamic between Mark and Lena, a synergy that resembled a pair of sharks gliding through murky waters, now infused with an unexpected layer of empathy.

As the meeting progressed, Angel found herself captivated by Lena’s every move—the way she articulated her points, the subtle bite of her lip before she spoke, and the fleeting glances she cast at Mark.

When the vote was called, Mark’s motion passed by the narrowest of margins, a single voice tipping the scales. Jane’s glare could have sliced through glass, but the new order was established, and the tide had turned.

As the attendees began to filter out, Mark approached Angel, his demeanor softened. “Thanks for coming,” he said sincerely.

She shrugged. “It was worth the show.”

He held her gaze, a flicker of nakedness breaking through his corporate armor. “You made me sound… human. In your edits.”

Her eyes fell to the floor, a shy smile creeping onto her lips. “Because you are.”

In a fleeting moment, Mark brushed his fingers against her cheek, a gesture so delicate it almost slipped away unnoticed.

Lena strolled toward them, a radiant smile lighting up her face as she basked in the victory of the vote. Angel watched Lena’s expression closely, searching for any hint of lingering jealousy, but all she saw was triumph.

“Great job in there,” Lena said. “We really turned things around.”

Angel took a step closer, her pulse quickening. “Thanks. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, and for a brief moment, Angel considered revealing everything—the swap, the transformation, the awakening of emotions she never expected. But something held her back, leaving her standing on the precipice of connection, unsure of which way to leap.

April - New York

The private clinic was done up to look like a spa but it had the same sterile odor Angel remembered from every hospital urgent care visit in her old life.

She sat on the crinkling paper of the exam table, feet swinging off the edge like a sulky twelve-year-old.

The doctor clicked the door shut behind her and sat with the practiced intimacy of someone who could get through a pelvic exam and a five-minute therapy session in a single go.

“Did I piss on the wrong stick?” Angel said. “Or is it lupus?”

The doctor’s mouth twitched. “It’s not lupus. You’re pregnant.”

There was a beat. Then another, longer.

Angel squinted. “Sorry, I don’t speak TikTok. Like... actually pregnant? Or the ‘could be’ kind?”

The doctor slid the ultrasound across. There, in a dim gray blob, pulsed a tiny, insectile heartbeat.

“Congratulations,” she said, with the same affect as a cashier bagging onions.

Angel stared at the screen, then at her own stomach, still flat, still defined. It was like looking at a magician’s trick—a rabbit yanked from a hat, only the rabbit was a parasite and the hat was her uterus.

The room started to tilt. She gripped the edge of the table, the paper ripping under her nails.

The doctor kept talking, something about weeks and trimesters, a probable conception in December last year, hormones and next steps. Angel heard it from underwater. She watched the grainy, gummy bear on the monitor, watched it flutter.

The door creaked open again.

Mark, ducked in, hair perfect, tie askew, a cup of hospital coffee in hand. “They called me,” he said, voice a little too loud. “Something about an emergency?”

Angel wanted to claw his eyes out.

The doctor stood, professional as ever. “You must be Mr. Steele. I was just confirming the pregnancy—”

Mark nearly dropped the coffee. “What?”

Angel didn’t wait. “You fucked up,” she spat. “You fucked up, and now I’m... ” She couldn’t say it.

Mark looked at her, then at the monitor, then back at her, horror and wonder in his expression. “Are you…?”

“Apparently!” Angel shouted.

The doctor excused herself, stage left.

Mark set the coffee down with shaking hands. “You’re pregnant?”

Angel nodded, tears springing up but instantly vaporizing from pure rage. “How? I haven’t... You were in there, you... ”

“I always used protection,” Mark said, voice dropping, “I swear to god, I never... ”

Angel jabbed a finger at him. “Bullshit. Was it that biker? Or did you just get drunk one night and forget?”

Mark’s face reddened. “No. I didn’t.”

Angel’s hands trembled. “Then who? Who, Mark? Who the hell did you let fuck my body?”

Mark opened his mouth, closed it. He paced the room, arms crossed tight. “Maybe… it was you,” he finally said, eyes locked on the floor. “That night, before we swapped.”

It took a moment. Then it hit.

“Are you saying... ” Angel’s voice broke. “That I did this to myself? But I was wearing a condom and you’re on the pill.”

Mark nodded, helpless.

Angel started to laugh, but it came out as a dry, animal sound. “Fuck. Fuck. That’s some Greek tragedy shit.”

The silence grew fat and awkward. Finally, Angel said, “I want a DNA test.”

Mark flinched. “You think I don’t know?” His face was stone. “It’s yours, Angel. It’s always been yours.”

That brought Angel up short. The room felt smaller than before. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, protective, not sure if she wanted to break it or shield it from the world.

Mark came closer, tentative. “What do you want to do?”

Angel shook her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

There was another beat, this one loaded.

Mark’s tone softened. “Whatever you decide, I’m here. For you, for the kid, all of it. Even if you hate me.”

Angel didn’t answer. She was watching the heart on the monitor, how it fluttered on without a care. She wondered if it would grow up to hate her, too.

Later, when Angel cornered Mark in the hallway and said, “I need to go back to London for a week,” his immediate response was not No, but Why.

“Personal stuff,” Angel said, her voice all practiced indifference. “I want to see Ruby, Simone, the rest of the girls. Maybe check on the flat, close it out.”

Mark eyed her. “And Tom?”

Angel’s face didn’t move. “Maybe.”

Mark’s jaw clenched, the muscle flickering under his skin. “Fine. But take security. Victoria will lose her mind if you get papped with a biker gang.”
Angel smirked. “Relax. I’m not an idiot.”

April - New York to London - Angel and Mark

The moment Angel’s flight was in the air, Mark made arrangements to follow her in his private jet. He landed at Farnborough five hours behind, armed with a duffel bag and the kind of paranoia usually reserved for ex-spooks.

Mark had his chauffeur park discretely outside the old flat. Watched as Angel came out an hour later, helmet in hand. She mounted her Honda and tore down the street, weaving between traffic like she was born in the lane.

Mark followed at a polite distance. He watched Angel cut through the city, Soho then out toward Shoreditch, always in motion, never staying put.

Angel parked outside a trendy restaurant with too much glass and not enough privacy. Mark hung back, watched as Tom Blackwood arrived—on foot, for once, jacket slung over his shoulder, boots dusted from the road.

They hugged. Not a perfunctory, cheek-to-cheek London hug, but a proper, arms-around, squeeze-until-something-cracks hug. Angel’s hands lingered at Tom’s waist; Tom’s hand cupped the back of her head like he was grounding them both. Mark felt a weird little twist in his stomach. He hated it.

After a minute, Angel led Tom inside. Mark waited fifteen, then walked in himself. The place was all exposed brick and unfinished cement, no tablecloths, everyone staring at their phones. He found them at a window table, Tom already halfway through a pint, Angel picking at a salad she clearly didn’t want.

Tom spotted Mark first. His eyes narrowed. “So you’re the suit.” Angel didn’t even seem surprised that he was there.

Mark offered a hand. “Mark Steele.”

Tom’s grip was crushing. “Tom.”

Angel gestured between them, her own smile brittle. “Tom, Mark. Mark, Tom. Now you’re both introduced.”

The three of them sat, silent. Tom’s presence filled the space. Mark suddenly felt smaller than usual.

Angel broke it. “I have something to say.”

Tom cocked his head, waiting.

Angel licked her lips. “I’m pregnant.”

Tom’s glass froze an inch from his mouth. “You’re... ” He set it down, hard. “You’re sure?”

Angel nodded. “Saw the scan. Little blob and all.”

Tom went pale, then flushed red. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Is it... ?”

Angel met his eyes. “It’s not yours.”

Mark realized his own fists were balled in his lap.

Tom gave a short nod. “Good. I mean... not good, but you know.”

Angel put a hand on Tom’s. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Tom swallowed. “You deserve a real family.”

Mark couldn’t help it: he looked at Tom’s hands, the roughness, the way they could break bones yet hold him (her) gently. He—no, she—remembered the feeling of being lifted by them, of being protected. Was his new life good enough to forego all that?

He shook it off. “Thank you for meeting us,” Mark said, polite as a funeral.

Tom looked at him, right through him. “Take care of her,” he said. “She’s not as tough as she pretends.”

Angel squeezed Tom’s hand. “I’m tougher than both of you.”

April - London - Angel

Angel rode her Honda out to the edge of London, where the city turned to flats and then fields, to see the place where Angel had been made—not born but shaped.

The façade of St. Margaret’s Home for Girls was the color of old blood, the paint peeling in strips revealing the bones underneath. The sign out front was warped by sun and rain: “Empowering Girls For a Brighter Tomorrow.”

She buzzed the bell. After a minute, a face appeared behind the wire glass: an older woman, probably late fifties, makeup smeared at the edges, eyes sharp and appraising. “Can I help you?” she asked, not opening the door.

“Angelique Valentine,” Angel said, using the name with practiced ease. “I was a resident here. I’d like to see my old files.”

The woman looked her up and down. “We’re not a museum, love. Records are private.”

“I’m not here to complain or sue,” Angel said. “I just want to know who I was. Before.” She let her accent slide toward upper-middle, the one that had opened doors in New York. “My company is considering a grant. I need to see how you’re doing before we sign off.”

The woman’s face shifted. “You work for one of those tech types?”

“I am the tech type,” Angel said. “May I?”

The door buzzed. Angel stepped into the stench of bleach, overcooked cabbage, and teen girl funk. The foyer was a mess of motivational posters and security cams. A battered register listed every visitor for the last month—none.

The woman led her into a room with Formica tables and mismatched chairs. “Wait here,” she said, then vanished up a staircase.

Angel looked around. The walls were covered in children’s art—crayon families, unicorns, some surprisingly accurate skulls. In one corner, a shelf sagged under the weight of old DVDs.

A different woman brought Angel a cup of tea. “Milk and sugar?”

“No, thank you,” Angel said. She sipped the tea and waited.

Five minutes later, the original woman returned. She carried a plastic binder labeled “Valentine, A.” There was something like envy in her eyes. “You look good,” she said, a little too pointedly. “Most don’t, after this place.”

Angel took the binder. “Thank you, Mrs…”

“Peel. I’ve been here twenty-two years.”

“Impressive.”

She scoffed. “Not really. They keep us because nobody else will do it for the money.”

Angel leafed through the file. Intake forms. Medical reports. A photo of herself at eleven, defiant in a red school jumper, an abrasion on her chin. She found a section marked “Behavioral Incidents” and scanned for anything she’d forgotten.

Peel hovered. “You want the truth, or just the paper?”

Angel looked up, met the woman’s gaze. “Always the truth.”

Peel leaned back, arms crossed. “We did our best. But we were understaffed. Government cut funding. Sometimes the girls got rough with each other. We had a few bad staffers, but they were gone quick.”

Angel kept reading. She found a line about a missing girl: “AWOL, returned by police, bruises noted; " and wondered if it was really her.

Peel sniffed. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Luck and leverage,” Angel said, closing the binder. “But thank you.”

“Were you happy?” Peel asked, sudden and sharp.

Angel considered what the “real” Angela would say. “It was survival, not happiness.”

Peel nodded. “That’s about right.” She took the binder, replaced it with a single A4 sheet: an alumni form, asking for donations.

“I’ll think about it.”

Angel rode back to London. The cold wind felt good on her face, like it could cut away the old skin.

She made it to her old flat by three, keys still working. The rent had been on auto-pay since she and Maud had left London; Mark—she—never believed in burning bridges.

Inside, the place was exactly as she’d left it: the chipped IKEA table, the overflowing bookshelf, the wall calendar still stuck on the week she’d moved to America. Angel dropped her bag and just stood, letting the silence settle around her.

She pulled open the wardrobe. Inside, a half-dozen costumes still hung, sheathed in dry cleaner bags. She touched the spandex, the rhinestone bras, the battered pairs of stage heels. They smelled faintly of sweat and perfume, a Proustian rush of backstage nerves and cheap after work alcohol.

She found her old makeup kit and opened it. The powders were stale, the brushes stiff, but just holding them made her chest ache with nostalgia. She’d hated the job some nights, but she’d loved the feeling of being seen. Of walking into a room and knowing every eye was on her, not out of love or mere lust but out of pure awe.

Maybe it was because she had worked so hard at getting good at it. Maybe she was an exhibitionist at heart. Maybe it ran deeper than she’d ever wanted to admit.

She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. Angel’s old journals were there—she’d always kept the discipline of writing, even when life was a blur of shifts and hangovers. She flipped to the most recent one, the one started a month before the swap.

Blank pages. A whole diary, empty. She wondered if she had ever noticed. She doubted it. She thumbed back to the earlier entries. There were notes on every regular at the Elephant: who tipped, who groped, who cried in the private rooms. Lists of pole tricks she wanted to master. Drawings of tattoos she might get, if she ever had the money.

She closed the journal and lay back on the ratty mattress. It was all still there, the city, the memory, the hunger. She wanted to dance again. Not for the money or the men, but for herself. She made a mental note: ask Mark if she could install a pole in the penthouse. Maybe in the gym. He wouldn’t say no.

Her phone buzzed. A New York number; Maud.

Angel answered. “You miss me already?”

Maud’s voice was tinny but warm. “Don’t flatter yourself. I need you to bring me back some proper tea bags. The shit here is like pond water.”

Angel laughed. “Done. How’s the knee?”

“Sore. But the nurse is nice. She wears those little white socks you like.”

“I’ll bring you biscuits, too.”

A pause. “You okay, Angel?”

Angel hesitated. “I went back to the home today. St. Margaret’s.”

Maud’s tone sharpened. “Why torture yourself?”

“I needed to see it. Needed to know I wasn’t just making it up.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Angel really did want to know where she (Mark) came from.

Maud made a noise, half-growl, half-sigh. “You weren’t. That place fucked up a lot of girls.”

“I thought maybe there’d be something… I don’t know. Closure.”

“Closure’s a lie,” Maud said. “You just carry it differently.”

Angel closed her eyes. “Tell me about my childhood. The real one. The one before I started lying.”

“You’ve forgotten even that? What that client did to you at Christmas…” Maud was silent for a moment, then said, “Your mum dropped you at the council office when you were three. She said she’d be back, but nobody believed her. You were fostered three times, then adopted by a couple in Reading. They were strict. Not cruel, just mean. They didn’t like how you dressed, how you talked. You might have been beaten, I’m not sure.”

Angel’s stomach went cold. “Did I ever meet my real mum?”

Maud exhaled. “Once. When you were twelve. She tried to get you back, but social services blocked it. Said she was unstable.”

Angel tried to remember, but the old memories didn’t come with the body. “What about after?”

“She wrote you letters,” Maud said. “You never answered.”

Angel pressed her palm to her chest, like she could steady her heart. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, luv,” Maud said. “You’re the one living with it.”

“I’m glad you’re in New York. You deserve it.”

Maud laughed. “I deserve Spain. Or at least a holiday. But this’ll do.”

Angel smiled. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The next morning, Angel rode her Honda back into town, carving between lorries and buses with the speed that always made her feel alive.

She’d made the mistake of looking up the old adoption records—there were whole websites now, full of kids trying to piece together where they came from. It was like a mass grave for hope.

She parked outside Mark’s London penthouse, helmet tucked under her arm. The doorman recognized her, or at least the face. “Ms. Valentine,” he said, with an appreciative glance. “Welcome home.”

Angel winked. “Save me the top lift. I hate waiting.”

The penthouse was glass, marble, and money. Mark—her—had always liked things clean and expensive. Angel hadn’t been back here since that fateful night on Christmas Eve. She shed her jacket and dropped onto the nearest sofa, staring out at the city.

Mark was already there. He wore a pale t-shirt and sweats. He looked softer than she remembered and had a mug of something in his hand. He didn’t look surprised to see her.

“You followed me,” she said.

“Wasn’t hard. Virginia has your new phone on location tracking, permanently—for your personal safety of course..”

Angel rolled her eyes. “Stalker.”

Mark shrugged. “I care.”

For a second, neither spoke.

Mark said, “I wanted to say sorry. For the fight at the health screen. For not being there when you needed me.”

Angel waved a hand. “It’s fine. I’m not mad.”

“I am,” Mark said. “You deserved better.”

Angel stared at him, unsure if this was a trick. “It’s not a competition. We’re both pretty fucked.”

Mark smiled, slow and sad. “Yeah.”

Angel said, “You hungry?”

Mark grinned. “I can always eat.”

They ordered sushi and ate it straight from the cartons, sitting on the floor, watching the city pulse and flicker below.

After, Mark said, “You went to St. Margaret’s.”

Angel nodded. “From what I’ve seen and read, it hasn’t changed much.”
“I never want to see that place again,” Mark said.

Angel nodded. “I understand. But I needed to see where you—well, now I—came from. Especially with the baby coming. Just for the record, I’ve decided. I’m keeping it no matter what.”

Mark’s face brightened up when he heard this.

Angel continued. “I’m thinking about fixing it—the home, St. Margaret’s. Or at least funding something that actually works.”

Mark’s eyebrows went up. “That’s not like you.”

“Maybe it is now,” Angel laughed. Then she asked more quietly, “What happened after you ran away from home?”

“I lived on the streets and did what I needed to survive until Maud found me,” Mark replied. Angel didn’t want to press further, she could guess what that meant.

“What was your mum like?” Mark asked, surprising himself

Angel stared out the window. “She left when I was five. I’m not sure. Dad said she was a junkie, but I don’t believe it. I don’t remember her, not really. Just her perfume. Dad was… strict.” Her jaw tightened. “He wanted me perfect. Harvard, the company, everything.”

Mark saw the outline of Angel’s former life as the CEO of the company he now led—work, ambition, loneliness. “Do you hate him?” he asked.

Angel considered. “Sometimes. Sometimes I think I became him, just to win.”

Mark leaned back. “I think I ran away to be the opposite of mine. Whoever she was.”

“You don’t have to be anyone’s version but your own.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Mark said.

She grinned. “Self-awareness is my new thing.”

He kicked at her foot. “Wanker.”

Angel kicked back, but he caught her ankle, held it and started giving her a foot massage, just the way he knew her body would like it. “You want to try again? Us, I mean.”

Angel didn’t answer for a long time. The city was alive below with endless possibilities, every one of them brighter than the life she’d left behind.

“I don’t think we ever stopped trying,” she said, finally.

Mark squeezed her foot. Angel felt her chest go tight, then warm, then hopeful. She’d never needed saving, but she liked the way it felt to be chosen.

April - London - Mark Steele’s Penthouse

Angel woke first. She lay there, counting the thump of Mark’s heart under her ear, enjoying the rare stillness. She thought about the night before, how easy it was to fall back into old rhythms, how hard it was to remember which parts were her and which belonged to the Mark that came before. But mostly, she thought about St. Margaret’s. About all the girls still there, waiting to survive.

She untangled herself, pulled on sweats, and went to the kitchen. The apartment was still dark, but she found the espresso machine by instinct, poked at it until it hissed to life. She sat at the island, checking her phone, scanning emails, putting together a to-do list.

It was a compulsion. She could feel the old CEO brain wiring up, ready to solve, optimize, fix. She kind of hated it, but it was hers, so she ran with it.

Mark wandered in twenty minutes later, eyes puffy, hair every which way. He grabbed a glass of water and drained it in one go. “You always up this early?”

“Jet lag,” Angel said. “And existential dread.”

Mark grunted. “Anything in the news?”

“Mostly market rumors. Your PR team did a good job with the engagement story, but there’s a fresh one about a hostile takeover bid from Silk.”

He made a face. “Hunter’s not going to back off. She’ll escalate.”

Angel shrugged. “So escalate back.”

They sat in silence for a bit, Angel sipping her espresso, Mark rubbing the bridge of his nose.

After a minute, Angel said, “I want to do something.”

He perked up. “Like what?”

“I want to fund the Elephant. The ‘shelter,’ not the club. Deb is already finding it hard to make ends meet with her rates and discounts to the newer girls. If we buy in, it’ll help all of the girls; girls like me—like us. That one’s personal. But I also want to fund real shelters. I want to give them what we never had.”

“That’s… big. Expensive.”

“You’re loaded, I should know,” Angel said. “And it’s not really about the money. It’s about changing the story.”

Mark frowned, weighing it. “Charity isn’t infinite, Angel. If you throw money at every cause, you dilute the impact.”

“I’m not talking about a blank check,” she said. “And this one is close to both of our hearts. I want to vet them. Talk to the people running the homes. See what they need, what works, what doesn’t.”

Mark arched an eyebrow. “Like due diligence for trauma?”

“Exactly,” Angel said, warming to her own pitch. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it right. No press releases. No naming buildings after ourselves. Just fix what’s broken.”

Mark ran his thumb along his jaw, thinking. “I’ll have Victoria draft a list. Top ten shelters in Greater London. You can start there.”

Angel smiled. “Thanks, boss.”

She blew him a kiss, then opened her laptop.

April - London - Angel

The next afternoon, Angel hit the ground running. She visited three women’s homes, each more desperate than the last. The first was run by a saintly Glaswegian who doubled as cook and security. The second had walls so thin you could hear every cough, every sob. The third was in an old council house, staffed by ex-addicts and volunteers. They served tea and biscuits, but the main course was survival.

Angel took notes on her phone: “Too few staff. Too many kids. Bathrooms out of order. Security a joke. Need proper locks. Legal aid for immigration cases. Food bank frequently empty.”

She asked blunt questions. “What’s the biggest threat to your residents?” “What would you do with twice the budget?” “How many of your women end up back on the street?” The answers were ugly, but nobody sugarcoated it for her. They knew everything about her—and more— from the tabloids.

She made it a point to talk to the residents, too. Some were shy, some hostile, a few openly flirtatious (“You’re much hotter in person,” said one, staring at Angel’s tattoos). She didn’t mind. She let them lead, and when someone wanted to tell their story, she listened.

At the end of the week, Angel asked for an invitation to a local (borough-level) meeting. The room buzzed with the low hum of conversation as Angel stepped inside.

A long table was set up in the center, surrounded by a mix of council officers, refuge managers, and outreach leads, each with their own stories etched into their faces. A couple of police representatives leaned against the wall, arms crossed, listening intently. Angel scanned the attendees, noting the smaller, peer-led networks tucked into the corners—groups representing BME-led refuge providers, their members animatedly discussing strategies for better support.

She had orchestrated this meeting through Mark's connections at Steele (U.K.), a calculated move to bridge the gap between the larger organizations and the grassroots efforts that often went unnoticed. The Esmée Fairbairn Foundation and Comic Relief were known for their generous funding, but Angel wanted to ensure that she would hear the voices of those on the front lines.

The mood was all business—no time for niceties. The chairwoman, a severe Welshwoman named Bronwen, called the meeting to order. “First on the agenda: Valentine Grant. Apparently, we’ve got a new patron in town.”

The eyes swung to Angel.

She stood, hands in pockets, and said, “I’m not a patron yet. I’m here to learn what you need.”

A hard-faced administrator sneered, “We need six months rent and a new boiler. You writing cheques tonight, darling?”

Angel smiled, not blinking. “Maybe. But I want to know who’s going to use it best.”

Bronwen nodded. “You heard her. Go on, tell her your sob stories.”

What followed was an hour of brutal, rapid-fire testimony. Underpaid staff. No funding for therapy. Half the girls were self-harming, and the other half were being stalked by ex-boyfriends. Legal aid was impossible to get, especially if you were an immigrant or “looked like trouble.”

Angel took it all down. She noticed who interrupted, who listened, who stayed late to clean up the mess of papers and tea cups. She built her own ranking, not by need but by grit. When it was over, she found Bronwen at the coat rack.

“You’re not what I expected,” Bronwen said, eyeing her up and down.

“What’d you expect?”

“Someone who wanted her name on a plaque.”

Angel shook her head. “Not interested. You know my history. I could have been anyone of those girls in the shelters I’ve visited.”

Bronwen hesitated. “You’ll change your mind. They all do.”

Angel shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You’re alright, Ms. Valentine. If you want to see what real need looks like, come by the house tomorrow. Bring coffee. I’ll show you the worst of it.”

Back at the penthouse, Mark was on a Zoom with Victoria and a pair of corporate lawyers. He barely looked up when Angel came in, but she could tell he was keeping an eye on her. She went to the kitchen, poured a stiff drink, and flopped onto the counter stool.

Mark ended the call, then leaned over. “How’d it go?”

“They think I’m either a savior or a fraud,” Angel said.

She sipped her drink, then looked at him. “I want to do more than just write a cheque. I want to build something. Make it harder for these places to vanish in the night.”

He nodded. “That’s doable. You’ll need a team, though. And a board.”

She rolled her eyes. “Already micromanaging?”

He shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

She caught his hand, squeezed it. “Thank you. For believing in this.”

Mark looked at her, eyes a little softer than usual. “I believe in you.”

She leaned across the counter and kissed him. She tasted salt and gin and the faintest trace of possibility.

The next morning, Angel met Bronwen outside a battered terrace house in East London. The door buzzed, and inside, the air was thick with baby formula and bleach. Bronwen led her upstairs, past the common room where three kids watched Paw Patrol on mute while their mothers chain-smoked in the kitchen.

Bronwen gave her the tour: the cupboard with a single can of beans, the laundry room with one working machine, the “therapy suite” that was just a folding chair and a broken lamp.

At the top of the house, Bronwen opened a door. “Here’s what you paid for,” she said, voice flat.

Inside, a girl sat on a mattress, knees drawn to chest, eyes fixed on a battered mobile. She looked up when Angel entered.

Angel crouched next to the bed. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Angel.”

The girl gave a one-shoulder shrug.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Angel said. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

The girl was silent for a minute. Then, “I’m fine.”

Angel nodded. “Good. If you need anything, you can tell me. Or Bronwen. Or anyone, really.”

The girl glanced at her, suspicious. “You a social worker?”

Angel grinned. “No. I just used to be you.”

The girl cracked a small smile.

Angel got up, nodded to Bronwen, and left.

In the stairwell, Bronwen said, “You’re better at this than you think.”

Angel shook her head. “See you next week?”

“Bring more coffee,” Bronwen said, and closed the door.

She called Mark from a park bench. “I want to do this,” she said.

Mark was silent for a second, then said, “Do it.”

“Really?”

“I’ll have Victoria set up the trust. You can run it your way. Just promise me you won’t bankrupt us.”

Angel laughed. “No promises. But I’ll try.”

She hung up, then looked at the world—grey, dirty, unpredictable—and felt something close to joy.

For the first time since the swap, she knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to save someone. Maybe even herself.

Angel spent the next week in the trenches. She traded designer gowns for hoodies and joggers, blending in at the shelters, watching, listening, never judging. It was the best and worst thing she’d ever done.

The first shelter she hit was a twenty-four-hour women’s safe house on the edge of the Lea Valley called, Emberlight. The manager, a no-bullshit Jamaican woman named Joy, ran the place like a submarine—everything tight, nothing wasted. Angel shadowed her through a single twelve hour shift on her first day.

Most of the residents were still asleep when Angel arrived at midnight, but within an hour a woman arrived escorted by police and flanked by her two children—a boy and a girl, both under six—clutching their mother’s tattered coat. The mother’s face was a canvas of bruises, a black eye blooming against her pale skin, her hands trembling as she tried to steady herself. Joy, the no-nonsense manager, sprang into action, guiding them through the intake process with practiced efficiency.

“Warm drinks first,” she instructed, ushering them to the kitchen where steaming mugs awaited. As the kids sipped their cocoa, Angel watched, heart heavy. She stepped forward, offering clean clothes from the donation bin.

Joy didn’t miss a beat, completing a Domestic Abuse Safety Assessment (DASH) in the background while Angel engaged the children, showing them toys to distract from the chaos.

“These are for you,” she said, handing over a couple of stuffed animals. The little girl’s eyes lit up, her fingers curling around the plush teddy.

“Her name is Elena,” Joy explained softly, glancing at the mother, who sat with her head bowed, fighting tears. “She fled after her partner threatened her with a knife. She thought she could find safety here.”

Later, Joy received a call from another woman, Keisha, in a temporary B&B, terrified because her abuser had tracked her down.

Joy turned to Angel. “Keisha’s in a bad spot. Her abuser found her at the B&B, and we can’t waste any time. I’m working with the council to get her and the kids out of there fast.” She paused, her voice steady but urgent. “If he shows up again, it could get dangerous. We need to make sure they’re safe.”

As dawn broke, the children stirred awake, and staff members sprang into action, preparing breakfast and packing bags for school. Angel helped out, cutting fruit and pouring cereal, trying to create a sense of normalcy amidst the turmoil. A school liaison officer arrived shortly after, ready to assist with enrollment, ensuring the kids could slip into school without drawing attention to their situation. A support worker settled beside Elena, gently explaining the house rules and the importance of confidentiality. They discussed next steps—legal aid, housing applications, benefits—and offered trauma counseling.

The health visitor arrived next, checking on a newborn baby cradled in her mother’s arms. At just twenty-one, Chloe was grappling with postnatal depression and anxiety, her eyes flickering with fear and exhaustion.

In that moment, surrounded by the rawness of their experiences, Angel realized that she wasn’t just witnessing their struggles; she was part of their fight for survival.

Her old self—the Mark inside—would have been bored, or maybe angry at the inefficiency. But she got it now. You could only hold the edges together and hope the wound closed on its own. She took notes. “Too few cribs, not enough locks on the windows. Some of the girls in the rooming house are still seeing men on the side. They pay, but it’s risky. Nobody wants to talk about it. No money for security. Joy doesn’t completely trust the police.”

The next home was in North London, near Finsbury Park. A refuge for women who’d already cycled through the others and needed longer-term support: PTSD, OCD, neuroatypical, the full alphabet soup. They did art therapy here, and Angel was surprised how much it helped. The staff was good, but you could feel the thinness, how easy it would be for the whole system to snap.

She met a woman named Zahra, thirty-five, who’d had her jaw wired shut after her ex’s last visit. Zahra couldn’t speak, but she wrote pages and pages in a spiral-bound notebook, which she let Angel read. The first sentence: “Don’t waste your money on the men, give it to the women who keep the lights on.” The second: “If I could run the place, it would have cameras on the roof.”

Angel laughed, left a note in Zahra’s book: “Cameras are in the budget. And so are you.”

Everywhere she went, she saw Angel’s own story refracted: the small cruelties, the ways women learned to keep themselves alive. She’d lived on the outside, but this was the engine room. She felt the old Mark inside her but now there was a new layer: empathy, or at least the beginnings of it.

At night, Angel lay in Mark’s penthouse suite, bingeing trash TV and writing reports to herself. The disparity in her circumstances now and those of the women could not have been more glaring. But she had been there or just on the edge of it for three months; the other Angel, the one whose body she had taken had seen it all. Some nights, she wanted to text Mark, to talk or to cry or just to share the insane things she’d seen. But she waited. She wanted to do this on her own.

On Friday, around midnight, she called Ruby. The phone rang once, then Ruby answered with a burst of laughter and an “Oh, fuck off! Who is this?”

“It’s me, Angel,” she said.

“Bullshit. You’re in New York with your billionaire. Simone, get over here. It’s Angel, says she’s in London.”

A flurry of shouts and giggles, then Simone: “Prove it. What’s my mum’s name?”

Angel grinned. “Claire Laurent. She hates men, loves gin, and once got you out of a shoplifting charge by threatening to call the French Embassy.”

Ruby hooted in the background. “It’s her. Where the fuck are you?”

Angel checked her watch. “I can be at the club in thirty.”

They screamed, hung up, and Angel threw on her jacket and boots. She hopped the tube, made it to Tottenham Court Road in under fifteen, and slid into the Elephant through the side door.

The place hadn’t changed. Same old bouncers, same blue neon, same blend of hairspray, vodka, and sweat. She found Ruby in the dressing room, spiked red hair and all, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Simone was there too, even more glamorous than Angel remembered. They hugged, squeezed, then pulled her down onto the bench, eyeing her up and down like she was a rare steak.

“You’ve gone posh,” Simone said, poking at Angel’s designer boots. “Is this what New York does to you?”

“It’s a loan,” Angel said, “from a very generous trust fund.”

Ruby snorted. “You look like you’ve got secrets.”

Angel winked. “You have no idea.”

For a few minutes, Angel just watched the familiar chaos: Simone flicking her lashes, Ruby teasing a new girl about her outfit, the background noise of women doing what women do best—survive, and make fun of it.

“You gonna get dressed?” Simone asked.

Angel raised an eyebrow. “I’m retired.”

“Not for a reunion set,” Ruby said, already pulling a mesh bodysuit off the rack.

Angel laughed, then unbuttoned her blouse, just to the edge, and let them see the high-end lingerie beneath. “Agent Provocateur,” she said, deadpan. “I’ll let you try it on if you promise not to break it.”

The girls howled. Simone did a little bow. “She’s still got it.”

They didn’t hit the main floor. Instead, after last call, they all decamped to the Fox & Hound, just a hop and skip away, where Angel bought the first and second rounds. They sat in a corner booth, trading war stories.

“So what’s it like, being rich?” Ruby asked.

“Boring, mostly,” Angel said. “But I get to spend Mark’s money. And that is not boring. He’s agreed to fund some women’s shelters and invest in the Elephant. I’m in charge.”

Ruby did a double-take. “You? In charge? Bloody hell.”

Simone leaned in. “You always said you’d own the club one day.”

Angel turned solemn. “It’s not about power anymore. It’s about not letting the next girl end up like me. No, worse then me.”

A silence, for a second, then Ruby said, “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked glasses, and for a moment, the world was bearable.

The gifts came out after pint three.

Angel pulled a pair of velvet bags from her backpack. “For you,” she said, sliding one to Ruby, one to Simone.

They eyed her, suspicious, but opened them. Ruby’s was a custom-made garter set, black with tiger stripes, lined in silk. Simone’s was a baby-blue corset, stitched with real pearls. The money was Mark’s but the gift was from her.

“Fuck off,” Ruby whispered, fingers trembling. “This is like a thousand quid.”

“Two,” Angel corrected. “I checked.”

Simone squealed, pulling the corset to her chest. “Oh my god, I’m never taking this off. I’m going to sleep in it.”

Angel grinned. “It’s washable.”

They oohed and aahed, then started debating who got to wear theirs first. The other girls, half drunk and half envious, crowded around, taking photos and planning a full runway debut for the next girls’ night.

“Why are you spoiling us?” Ruby said, trying to sound casual, but her eyes were glassy.

Angel shrugged. “It’s not my money. And you’re my people.”

Simone hugged her, tight. “We missed you, you know. The new girls are shit. No loyalty.”

Angel felt something sharp in her throat. “I missed you too.”

They stayed until the pub closed, then lingered on the pavement, shivering, still laughing. Angel looked at the two of them, arms wrapped around each other, and for the first time, she felt like she belonged.

“I’m setting up an emergency fund,” she said. “For you, for the girls. No questions asked, no judgment. Just—call, and you get what you need. If that’s okay?”

Ruby snorted. “You’re not a fairy godmother, Angel.”

She grinned. “No, but I can fake it.”

Simone elbowed her. “We’ll take it. But only if you promise to wear the corset to the next girls’ night.”

“Done,” Angel said.

They started walking, tipsy, toward the station. Angel watched the city, ugly and beautiful, and wondered if she’d ever get used to feeling this alive. She doubted it.

By the second week, Angel was on a first-name basis with every shelter manager in a three-mile radius. She’d memorized the rhythms: the quiet of early morning, the bedlam of dinner rush, the brittle calm that set in after dark. She’d also learned to spot the ones who needed more help than she could give.

One morning at Emberlight Shelter, a call came through from the street team: “We’ve got a repeat. She won’t give her name. Says it’s not safe.”

Angel was on tea and coffee duty, so she watched from the kitchen as Joy escorted a frail woman up the steps. The woman wore three coats, hair matted, eyes jittery. She looked like every cautionary tale, but there was something in her face that made Angel stop.

Joy said, “She’s been here before, many times. Don’t push her.”

Angel nodded, poured an extra cup, and carried it to the common room.
The woman was perched at the edge of the old floral couch, trembling so badly she spilled half her tea. When Angel sat beside her, she flinched, then stared, hard.

“Name’s Angel,” she said, keeping her voice low. “You want a biscuit?”

The woman shook her head, but didn’t look away. Her hands kept moving—tapping, twisting, then tugging a ragged scarf tighter around her neck.

Angel waited, counting her own breaths, until the woman said, “Do you work here?”

“Sometimes,” Angel said. “Mostly I just listen.”

The woman gave a broken smile. “Nobody listens.”

Angel shrugged. “I’m not great at it, but I try.”

Another pause. Then: “You look like someone I lost.”

Angel felt a ripple of something—a memory she didn’t own. “Who?”

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled a crumpled photo from her pocket and stroked it, thumb tracing the image until the paper threatened to tear.

Angel watched, silent, until the woman’s eyes started to drift. Then she stood, refilled the tea, and left her alone.

Later, Angel found Joy outside, smoking in the tiny yard.

“That one’s a regular?” Angel asked.

Joy flicked her ash. “Clara. Been on the circuit since before my time. She’s had more names than you’ve had hair colors.”

“Kids?”

“Lost custody years back. She always asks about her daughter. I don’t know if the girl made it.”

Angel nodded. “She knew my face.”

Joy smirked. “You got one of those faces.”

“Not really,” Angel said, and went back inside.

Clara stayed the night. She didn’t eat, but she sat at the kitchen table until it was time for bed. Angel noticed the way her hands froze at certain moments: when the TV switched channels, when someone slammed a door, when a baby started to cry in the next room.

She watched Clara watch the world.

In the morning, Angel caught her in the hallway, staring at a faded photo taped to the wall: a class of primary school kids in Halloween costumes, all gappy smiles and paper masks.

Clara’s jaw worked, like she was chewing invisible gum. “I had a daughter once. She looked like that.”

“What happened?” Angel said softly.

Clara looked away. “They said I couldn’t care for her. I tried. But they said no.”

Angel let the silence hang. Then, “If she wanted to find you, what would she do?”

Clara shrugged. “She wouldn’t. She’s better off. She’s probably rich, or dead.”

Angel saw herself in the answer, and it pissed her off.

“She’s not dead,” Angel said, with more force than she intended.

Clara flinched, then smiled. “You think so?”

Angel wanted to hug her, or shake her, or both. “I know it.”

Clara’s eyes went glassy. She touched Angel’s wrist, then let go.

Over the next few days, Angel made it a point to check in on Clara. She brought her tea, a new scarf, once even a pair of socks. She didn’t push, but she paid attention.

It was in the third visit that Clara slipped.

They were in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle. Clara watched Angel closely, then said, “Do you have a birthmark?”

Angel blinked. “Excuse me?”

Clara pointed, vague. “On your thigh. Like a little brown heart.”

Angel froze. She did—high on her left leg, only visible when she wore shorts, or less. But it was covered by the fractal tattoo that Mark—the “real” Angel—had placed there.

“How did you—?” Angel started.

Clara shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

Angel’s skin crawled. She changed the subject, but her mind wouldn’t let it go.

She started digging that night.

Over the next few days, she pulled up her adoption records. With the help of the U.K. branch of Steele Industries, she traced Clara’s surname—Tomlinson—through the public files, then the NHS database, then old news articles. Nothing lined up and there were gaps: social care files “misplaced,” a hospital record with a redacted birth date, a string of addresses in the system but no clear line.

She called Joy. “Do you know anything else about Clara? Did she ever mention where she’s from?”

Joy thought, then said, “Brixton. Maybe. Or Lewisham. She bounces around.”

“Family?”

“None we know of. Just the daughter she talks about.”

Angel scrolled through her emails. She found a line in her own intake file: “Birth mother—Clara T.—last seen Brixton, 1999.”

Her chest went tight.

She called Mark, but hung up before it rang.

Instead, she went to the shelter. It was after hours, but she convinced the night worker to let her in. She found Clara in the common room, awake, watching static on the TV, and sat down with her. Clara looked at her for a second, then returned to watching the static. It was about five minutes before Angel spoke to her.

“Can I see the photo?” Angel asked quietly.

Clara hesitated, then handed it over.

The image was old, water-stained. A woman holding a newborn, wrapped in blue. Clara had written on the back, in looping script: “For my daughter, if I ever see you again. I never left you. I love you.”

Angel handed it back, hands shaking.

“Do you remember her name?” Angel asked.

Clara smiled. “I do. But it hurts to say.”

Angel waited.

Finally, Clara whispered, “Angelique.”

Angel’s world tipped sideways.

She sat, stunned, as Clara cried beside her.

She didn’t know how long they sat there, silent but together.

Eventually, Angel said, “You never left me.”

Clara looked up, surprised. “What?”

Angel swallowed, voice thick. “You did everything you could.”

Clara reached for her hand. “I wish I could have done more.”

Angel squeezed her fingers. “You did enough.”

For the first time, Clara smiled. Not a broken smile, but a real one—full, and alive.

They stayed like that for a long time, holding on, not letting go.

The next morning, Angel hit the ground running. She started at the café then texted Victoria in New York, cc’ing Mark on the thread: “Need a private investigator, best in London, ASAP. Please expedite.”

By the time she finished her coffee, there were four candidate firms in her inbox. She called the one at the top. “Steele Industries. Mark Steele’s office. I want to know everything about a woman called Clara Tomlinson—Brixton, probably homeless, mid-forties to fifties. I need her history, next of kin, last known address, and every social service record that exists. Discreetly.”

The PI, a Scottish woman, said, “Give us three days. We’ll have your answers.”

Angel barely lasted two.

She checked her phone a hundred times a day, bouncing from meeting to shelter to hardware store (CCTV for Zahra, as promised). She met with architects about the Elephant’s new rooftop garden, held a press conference about women’s health, and did a phone interview with The Guardian in which she called Boris Johnson “the reason most Londoners drink before noon.”

At night, she lay in bed, scanning adoption records, building a timeline in her head, connecting dots that nobody else wanted to see.

On the third day, the PI called. “Ms. Valentine. You need to come to the office. It’s easier in person.”

Angel got there in twenty minutes, wind-blown and hyped on Red Bull. The PI met her in the foyer, led her to a small room lined with file boxes and screens. “Clara Tomlinson, born Brixton, 1976. Father dead at twelve, mother unstable. By sixteen, Clara was on her own—couch surfing, A-levels at night school, part-time jobs.”

Angel said, “What about the kid?”

The PI slid a photo across the table: Clara, young and smiling, holding a newborn. “Nineteen years old, she got pregnant by another student—long gone. She wanted to keep the baby, but was in council housing for vulnerable youth. When she started to show, they said she had to leave; policy is ‘no dependents.’ So she moved to a high-rise in Lewisham, alone.”

Angel’s chest tightened. “What happened after?”

“Social services flagged her for ‘failure to thrive.’ A neighbor complained about a crying baby and a mother who never left the flat. Clara was malnourished, likely postnatal depression. She reached out to her GP, but got bounced to the bottom of the queue—no urgent resources. Missed a health visitor appointment, so they escalated.”

Angel nodded, seeing it all play out. “Emergency foster placement?”

The PI tapped her pen. “Official story: baby would stay a ‘few nights’ while Clara got back on her feet. But after six weeks, a review panel found she’d made progress but not enough. They wrote, ‘Mother demonstrates motivation, but long-term welfare best served by stable placement with experienced carers.’ That’s the exact phrase.”

Angel flinched. “They took me.”

The PI pushed over a printout. “You were adopted by a couple in Reading, the McIntyres. Not abusive, but cold. They never told you about the adoption. Only revealed when you were sixteen, after an argument. No follow-up. No legal support for Clara.”

Angel clenched her jaw. “Did Clara fight?”

“She tried. Wrote letters to the council, attended every review. Brought character references from a local café, even got a therapist to sign off. But without a solicitor her appeals died on arrival. The last note in the file: ‘Mother agitated and unwell. Recommend no further contact for child’s safety.’ After that, Clara disappears from the system.”

Angel gripped the edge of the table. “Why?”

The PI shrugged. “Burnout. Homelessness. She cycled through temp jobs and hostels, then dropped off the grid. Every once in a while, she’d call around shelters, ask for you by name. But nobody put it together. Nobody cared.”

“How did you find the connection?”

“DNA match. You gave us your sample and Clara’s current shelter had a toothbrush with her blood on it—she has bad gums, loses a lot of blood. We compared, triple checked. One-in-ten-billion match. She’s your mother, no question.”

Angel’s vision went fuzzy. “That’s it, then.”

The PI softened. “I’m sorry.”

Angel stood, paced the room. “Did she ever get well? Did she ever have a real job?”

The PI flicked through her notes. “She worked at a supermarket in Croydon for two years. Lost the job when they caught her sleeping in the stockroom. But she never stopped looking for you.”

Angel blinked, fighting the sting behind her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and left before the PI could see her cry.

April - London (Angel) and New York (Mark)

When Angel called, Mark picked up on the first ring. It was four a.m. in New York, and he looked half-dead, but his eyes snapped into focus the instant he saw her.

She didn’t waste time. “I found her.”

He sat up so fast the camera juddered. “Your—our—?”

“Your birth mother. Clara Tomlinson. She’s alive.”

Mark let out a slow breath. “What? Where?”

“Emberlight Shelter, in London. She’s been in and out for decades. She’s… not well, but she’s alive. She never stopped looking for you.”

Mark’s jaw twitched, the only sign he was feeling anything at all. “Did she ask for you?”

“She always does.” Angel smiled, then felt it fade. “She thinks she’s a ghost. She thinks I am, too. But I think she knows that I’m her daughter.”
They sat in silence.

“What do you want me to do?” Angel asked. “Do you want to see her?”

There was a long pause.

“She won’t recognize me, not like this. She’ll think I’m playing some sick joke.”

Angel’s gaze softened, her expression a mirror of his turmoil. “But you can still see her. If there’s anything else, there’s me. I can be a daughter to your mother… I want to… .”

Mark didn’t answer right away. “I spent years believing my mother was dead or worse. I never let myself care.”

The room fell silent. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He imagined Clara, frail and worn, waiting in that shelter, hoping against hope that her daughter would come back to her.

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice low but resolute. “I’ll go to London.”

Angel’s face broke into a smile. “You won’t regret it. Just remember, it’s not about fixing her life. It’s about being there for her.”

April - London - Emberlight Shelter

Half a day later, Mark found himself in front of the shelter with Angel at his side, the drizzling rain like a curtain between him and the unknown.

“What do you want me to do?” Angel asked.

“What can we do? Find out what she needs, make sure she gets the care she requires. I’ll come with you. And watch.”

Clara was on the same couch, watching the static and test patterns again. This time, when Angel sat down, Clara took the tea without a word. They sat like that, side by side, for a long time, the room eerily quiet for that time of the day. Angel wanted to talk, but words seemed insufficient.

When she got to the bottom of her cup, she looked at Angel with a weird, hopeful fear. “Did you ever hate me?”

Angel’s throat burned. “No. Never. I thought you were dead.”

Clara smiled. “Me too, sometimes.” She looked to her side at Mark, who was standing at a distance but within earshot. “Is he your…”

“Yes, he’s my partner.”

“Does he treat you well? Are you happy?” Clara asked.

“Yes, I’m happy,” Angel answered.

Clara squeezed her hand, bony and trembling. “That’s all I wanted.”
She shuffled away, leaving Angel alone with the static.

Mark's gaze lingered on his mother as she shuffled away from the flickering screen, disappearing down the dim corridor. A lump formed in his throat, and he fought to hold back the tears. With a shaky breath, he wiped his eyes, then sank into the worn couch beside Angel.

Angel saw Mark’s dilemma from the outside now. The urge to control, to fix, to bulldoze every problem out of existence. But that was never what people needed, not really. What they needed was to be seen. To be chosen.

So they both waited. Watched. Let Clara come and go, sometimes sober, sometimes not, always looking over her shoulder. On the third day, they both saw Clara again.

The woman walked past Haven House, looked up at the sign, then at Angel, and for a moment, their gazes locked. Angel wanted to run to her, to shout her name, but she didn’t move. She just waved, watched, waited, and hoped.

Mark arranged to meet the manager that day. With a trembling hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, holding it out to the shelter management. “This is for Clara Tomlinson. A fund for therapy, housing, medical care. No strings attached. Just... let her know she’s not alone.”

The manager took the envelope, surprise etched on her face. “Are you sure about this?”

Mark nodded. “She deserves to know someone cares.” Then he left to join Angel outside.

“I’ve asked Joy to text me if she needs any help,” Angel told him.
They wouldn’t force a reunion, wouldn’t demand closure. They would simply remain, steady and near, like a light left on in a dark hallway.

A week passed, then two. Angel did her rounds of the shelter, returning to Emberlight on a regular basis. Mark returned to New York, to work, and Clara stayed off the streets, sometimes watching the static, sometimes sitting by the window, staring at the sky.

One afternoon, Clara walked over to Angel, handed back the teacup she had just finished drinking, and said, “You have your father’s smile.” And in that moment, Angel knew: healing wasn’t a destination, but the quiet choice to keep showing up. For each other. For the ones they loved. For the ones they’d lost, and the ones they were learning to find again.

Chapter 2 I Am A Slave Girl

There are legends that a group of travelers from ancient Qin arrived in this land a thousand years ago bringing with them their culture and their language.

It is a small community which practices syncretized versions of the Ru school of thought, and the teachings of Zhuang Zhi and Mozi. Some of them worship a dark god who came from a land of even more ancient wisdom. They dare not speak his name for fear of offending the Seven Gods of An. How they managed to harmonize such divergent and often antagonistic philosophies is anyone's guess.

I have walked in the halls of the Qin in the Flaming Mountains, and have seen how they have preserved the architecture of my own birthplace in a form which had not been seen for over a thousand years.

The Qin exist in several small settlements across the continent but the most famous of these lies in those mountains towards the Northwest; a place the Qin of this world have named Emei though it is nothing like the original Emei of Ki. That parched inhospitable landscape has proved to be ideal for the storage of innumerable scrolls and bound paper books, the latter invention of which was first brought to this world by these Qin travelers.

The libraries of the Qin are divided by subject and author with each section separated by walls of hard stone. Only the light of fireflies is allowed in these caverns. There the Qin spend their days writing, transcribing, printing, and cataloging.

In this world, I was considered one of the hermetic Qin, a rare sight outside the capital cities of the continent.

When I awoke once more, I was chained to the wall of a small room. Someone had kicked me lightly in the side but the injuries I had sustained made me bend over in pain.

A dark haired woman in flowing robes sat a short distance from me. I was tightly leashed and was not able to reach her even if I tried.

I studied her closely. A vaccination scar at her left shoulder suggested that we had similar origins from Ki. My own scar had long since vanished with my transformation.

“Good morning and welcome to An," she said in [English], a major language of Ki.

“I am sorry for the restraints but your habitual violence left us no choice. My name is of no great importance but my organization and I would like to engage you in a great enterprise. You will be paid handsomely of course, both in kind and in gold.”

“And you thought kidnapping me and killing my friends would get us off on the right foot,” I replied.

“We had nothing to do with that,” she said apologetically. “We had asked for a spirited Qin girl with the necessary qualifications to be a serving maid and they brought us your good-self.”

I assumed this was a lie but held my tongue.

“I serve a small duchy forced to endure the whims of our much larger neighbors. The information we require - and we cannot tell you its exact shape or form - is necessary for the political stability of the continent. If I sound cold and amoral, it is because the times we live in demand it. As we speak, the signatories to that peace are arming for war. The Qin have sworn to protect small states such my own but have gone back on their promises. Do not assume their nobility simply based on the similarity of their skin to yours.

“The Qin consider themselves pacifists and adherents of universal love but what they really are is an insignificant people group with the largest spy network on the continent of An. You will be happy to know that what we need from them is simply information, primarily on the neighboring kingdom of Thamud and also on the Qin. Once you have insinuated yourself into the Qin household you will attempt to access any information profitable to our cause. In your present form, one assumes that you will find suitable employment as a maid when the time arrives. The Qin have not made slaves of their own kind for quite some time. The more's the pity. Suffice to say, we have several irons in the fire of which you are but one.

“Upon the completion of your duties and at the appropriate time, we will endeavor to extract you and return you to Ki – in your original male form if you so choose. Or not. After all, the female form can be quite addictive if you allow it to be, or so I've been told.” She covered her mouth as she chuckled.

I glanced at her witheringly.

“And will I be sold into their household as just such a serving maid?” I asked.

“Nothing quite so crude,” she replied. “As a group, the Qin are xenophobic and utterly paranoid. I say this as a compliment by the way, it is exactly the way in which the organization to which I belong is run.

“A Qin girl suddenly appearing in their midst or even being brought to their attention would not be acceptable. Accepting gifts such as yourself from traders would be anathema, which explains the pathetic price women such as yourself fetch on the auction block. And yet rumors abound that the Qin have surreptitiously brought in the odd stray into their fold, perhaps in their quest for knowledge of other worlds or out of some crude ethnocentricity. As you might have guessed, you will have to become that stray, and we will endeavor to wash you so clean that not even the Seven Gods could find fault with you.”

I was not a fool and could easily guess what this meant. Like a debased coin, I would be placed into the system, shuffled around to create distance between my body and those of my captors, and then somehow brought to the attention of the Qin.

“I agree to being bought and sold as a household maid as part of your schemes,” I replied calmly.

The nasty sight of that grown woman giggling brought a scowl to my face. It was as bad as I had assumed.

“I will not risk stating the obvious but you will be trained, prepared, and sold at the appropriate time. This will be the last time you will see me for many cycles. If you choose to forfeit our deal through your actions – and I assure you we have ways of knowing – then we will be done with you.

“Perhaps you think that death is preferable to any of this. That can be arranged. If escape seems more palatable, I assure you that a small Qin girl without means would be quickly swallowed up by this world even with your set of skills. I do not urge you to roll the dice on that. But if you decide to serve, you will not only be richly rewarded but have the firm assurance that you will be serving the cause of peace. If that does not entice you, then you should consider your own self-interest.

“Do not be afraid, my child. Many free women will find you strange and exotic I assure you. As for the men you will undoubtedly be forced to serve, this will not be a problem as you will find out yourself with time.”

With that, our interview was over.

She had provided me with scanty information and only enough to point me in the right direction.

An over-educated slave girl would be highly suspicious and I would thrown into the rough like any other abductee – completely illiterate in the ways of this world and devoid of almost all knowledge of it except that it treated human life with contempt.

Over the next few days, a servant girl would tend to me, applying balms to my body to heal me as soon as possible. It was impossible for us to communicate. Once my wounds were healed, my new life would begin.

[Scribe's Note: The imperial censors have removed the following section from the few extant copies of Lady Zhou's journal.]

My Master has a prurient interest in the lives of slave girls and has admonished me not to leave out any details of my life before I came into his possession. I have acceded to his command as is my duty and in my nature.

The life of a slave girl is not hard if she simply obeys.

I did not known this at the time, but the serum which I had been injected with was one derived from a natural slave. In my case, the blood of a Qin girl from eons past who had displayed exceptional tendencies towards submission. While my face remained uniquely my own – a lottery derived from the blood of my female ancestors – it was molded to be symmetrical and pleasing. The first time I saw myself in the mirror, I realized that no man would be able to resist me.

My dark lustrous hair reached down to below my shoulder and I would allow it grow further like other Qin girls. My breasts were firm and bounced alluringly whenever I was led around naked by my collar. My waist and hips were beautifully proportioned and seemed almost unfathomable to the men I would soon service; I had a desirable teardrop posterior; and lower lips which were utterly delightful to behold.

My training in the slave school began the moment I was physically able to.

I was the only Qin girl in the school and perhaps the first one any of my fellow slave girls had ever seen. They would touch my hair and gaze into my almond shaped-eyes and nod and smile knowingly.

The methods of breaking down a slave girl's defenses are time tested. In the mirror room specially designed for this purpose, we were first to observe ourselves naked and repeat our new status as slave girls until it became an indelible part of our being. In my dreams, I would no longer recall my days as a mercenary but my naked body and call to servitude.

It was only then that the lessons proper would begin – first with slave positions, then a smattering of dance and instruction on how we should display ourselves on the auction block. I was a quick learner and a favorite of my slave mistress. Throughout this, I was picking up the basics of Talosian, the main dialect of the largest kingdom of An. Apart from basic sustenance and needs, the first complete sentences I learned were in relation to obedience and submission.

We were expected to help each other in all aspects of grooming.

I was “born” anew with an exceptional coverage of pubic hair to be taken back as a master saw fit. We were instructed to remove all the hair on our labia and leave the rest to our new masters.

When I was man of Ki, I did not take the eroticism of pubic hair at anything more than face value. The Qin librarians, on the other hand, were avid transcribers of ephemera including the erudite thoughts of certain scholars from Ki who dwelled at length on this obsession with depilation - once the preserve of only the most elevated of women in society, now adopted by the lowest dregs of society, namely us slave girls and the pornai.

Much later, upon visiting the slave taverns, I found that the vast majority of men left their nether hairs in their natural state. Hairless pudenda in males was reserved only for the enslaved. It was only women who shaved and waxed themselves to look like prepubescent girls of little consequence in society. A free woman bares her genitals only to her husband and her female servants. When I knelt nude in front of my masters, my naked mons served to advertise my youth, weakness, and availability

In my first week, I was paired with a olive-skinned beauty with exceptionally large soft breasts and wide hips. Neela and I practiced massage techniques on each other and I certainly enjoyed the feel and touch of her body. She would giggle whenever I pinched her nipples or brushed my hand against her nub. As newly transformed girls, we were nearly the same age. She had once been a brigand and had reached her current state through ceaseless plunder and insurrections; so much so that the authorities had no choice but to put a bounty on her head. Her unconscious and natural femininity seemed inexplicable - I could not understand why our mental progressions to full slavehood had diverged so greatly.

Neela was my first friend on An and I enjoyed cuddling with her at night when we were sent back to the stables to be chained. The other girls were no exception. I enjoyed pressing myself into their backs and rubbing my firm nipples against them. Certainly this was the case after the odd baths we were allowed, but also after a full day's training and when we were drenched in perspiration. I would often place my head on my partner's soft breasts, tweaking her nipples absentmindedly, and fall asleep right there. The keepers did nothing to discourage any of this eroticism.

It was only after my first moon cycle that I finally experienced what the woman of Ki had hinted at during our interview.

The whispered gossip during training after the second week was almost exclusively of this change but it had taken me a full three weeks after this for me to reach this epiphany. I dreaded it and hoped it would never come, even if it meant being the runt of the group.

Edan was the first among us to succumb. She had once been a young nobleman and judge who had perverted the course of justice – she of course protested her innocence. I was training my new body to a constant state of alertness even at night, when I noticed her pleasuring herself when all others had long since drifted off; sometimes closing her eyes and at other times looking into the distance. The next day, I caught her looking up longingly when her knees were kicked open by one of the slave trainers.

Instead of slapping her for insolence, he lifted her chin and spoke to her with an even voice, “Congratulations, little Edan. You are the first. But you will not look up at your master without permission again - even if you are in torment.”

With that Edan bowed her head and spread her knees even wider. The rest of the girls fell one by one after that.

Each night was now filled with the stifled grunts and sighs of my fellow slave girls. At training, there was a distinct difference in the obeisance paid at morning greetings. There were the haves and the have nots.

Nixie was one of the girls upon whose breasts I used to lay my head on each night. She had merely stolen some bread and fruit and hardly deserved to have her male sex undone.

I heard her whimper in lust one night as I lay with her. I fingered her and played with her nipples to give her some relief but she would not be satisfied till the next morning when she was commanded to lick the feet of a slave master. This she did with relish and devotion. As she did this, I saw my old friend Neela licking her lips with a look of unbridled carnality on her face. I wept inwardly when I observed her engorged labia and nub; more when my eyes were led to the small drops of feminine moisture beneath her.

The serum is both pleasure and punishment but the victim is unaware of the latter. I swore that I would find and kill the alchemist who devised this evil. It was horrible to behold.

It was 2 weeks after my first moon cycle that the changes began in me.

Kai, was a boyish youth who used to serve us food each morning, a strapping lad with handsome features.

“How are we doing this morning, ladies?” He would greet us each morning at breakfast, and always with a kindly voice. Surely he was more like a farmhand feeding the livestock but he was not a cruel master.

Once, when I was a solider back on Ki, I would have addressed such a boy as I would a young inexperienced brother. That morning I no longer looked at him as I did previously.

I admired his large arms and chest as he carried the heavy food bucket to our feeding area. That little indention between his clavicle and chest seemed particularly delectable as I spied it through his half open shirt. As he passed me, I tried for a moment to move closer to him to take in his masculine scent. I half lifted my arm thinking of a way to pull aside his shirt discreetly.

I spent so long admiring him that he stopped ladling the food for a moment to look at me and asked, “Anything I can do for you, Amber?”

He had no idea that the stable was host to twenty rutting females.

I looked down and answered, “No, master.”

“If you need any extra food, don't be too shy to ask,” he said chirpily.

Neela crawled over to me and whispered, “You see it now, don't you?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Men are wonderful, are they not?”

“Yes.”

Neela reached down discreetly and touched me there. As confined slave girls, we had long since stopped being embarrassed about our new body parts. It was a natural part of a slave girl's armory. My vagina being wet was no more unusual than a man licking his lips at the sight of food in a banquet hall.

“So wet,” she giggled licking her fingers. “Naughty, Amber.”

Then more seriously she added, “The slave needs get better once you submit fully for the first time. Once the master allowed me to lick his cock, I could think clearly again.”

She soon went back to eating breakfast which was thin gruel and some vegetables.

Of course, the really strange thing at that point was that I felt no overpowering “slave needs” at all. The stable boy was indeed beautiful and I did want to suck his cock, but no more so than when I, as a man, observed an especially fetching and available woman on Ki. My desire to be penetrated by the boy was certainly greater in intensity than anything I had experienced as a man but I did not find all men attractive or desire to be taken by all of them. In essence, my female libido was set at a very high normal point. I wanted the boy that morning because by any standards he was eminently fuckable. I have only experienced the “slave needs” once, and that was in the presence of my true Master.

To be sure, the slave masters and mistresses were not entirely pleased by my lack of groveling but since I was completely obedient, they paid me little attention.

As for myself, I would exercise in private to maintain what little musculature my frame would allow. I now focused on moves that relied less on strength and more on the use of lighter hand held weapons. If a man now looked beautiful to me, it did not mean I could not find it in my heart to kill him should the situation require it.

On Ki, there is something known as the myth of menstrual synchronicity, a situation in which prolonged contact with an alpha female determines when the entire group menstruates and ovulates.

This was known to happen consistently with serum girls kept in the same stable. Edan was our alpha female and leader – and we all followed her cycles. She was not only the first to develop the slave needs, she was also the very picture of femininity in both word and deed.

It was clear in training that she was exceptional as far as block posing was concerned. She would be stern and sexually unavailable as she strode on stage purposefully, then switch in seconds to a coquette, then grimace playfully as if displeased with something in the distance, and then return to the disposition of a sweet little girl. She would raise her hands to her chin, flick her hair, and bat her eyelids completely naturally, as if this was part of her entire being.

The slave house was certainly very pleased with what a fine catch Edan presented, and she would get many treats from the masters as first girl. The price she sold for would easily dwarf mine on the day we were placed on the auction block..

The day before our sale, we were all given a liquid prophylactic and would continue to be given this once every month to prevent pregnancies which had not been assigned by our masters.

Edan was among the top five lots of the day and would be among the first to be sold. She knew I was nervous and walked over to give me some words of encouragement before it was her turn to be sold.

“I am sure you will fetch an excellent price, Amber. I hope we'll be able to meet again.”

It was rare to find a first girl with such a sweet disposition. She looked exquisite in red flowing slave silks and did in fact sell for the highest price that morning.

As with most auctions of this nature, the winning bids had been decided long before the circus of actual bidding. I knew quite early on that two slave traders were interested in acquiring me. They were the two who examined me the most thoroughly – my face, mouth, limbs, and skin naturally; and of course my genitals. We had been trained to expect this and to respond accordingly. My virginity was then attested to by an adjudicator and a chastity belt affixed to my person.

They were both interested in exotics and were intelligent enough to agree not to bid against each other in order to get the best price. The loser on this round would get free rein when the next Qin girl arrived at market. They agreed on a secret maximum bid and shook on it. The slave house was happy not to have to pay the commission to the auctioneer and agreed to sell me for an acceptable profit. I didn't even need to step on to the auction block like Edan. That evening I was shackled at the back of a cart and sent off to my new owners; thus bringing an end to the first step in my mission.

The Story So Far: A story taken from the Journal of Lady Zhou Yu, (known to us as Amber) – a slave girl living in the capital city of Thamud. A war currently rages between Talos and Thamud. Amber is a former Chinese military contractor from Earth (Ki) who has been kidnapped and transported to the planet, An. Now transformed into a slave girl, she has been tasked with infiltrating the Qin (the Chinese-like people of An) in order to regain her male body and return to Earth.

Last Chapter: Amber has been trained at the slave school in the ways of a pleasure slave. She discovers that she now likes men but does not have the slave urges of her fellow classmates. At the end of the last chapter, she was sold and is now being transported to her new owner.

Chapter 3 A Servant Girl in Gaius' Household

Dear Reader,

It has been three months since I last wrote in this journal.

The first snows fell last night and there was no possibility of taking a walk after the morning meal. My Master has told me that I should practice my written Thamudi again instead of spending endless hours at swordplay or with my war bow. He hinted that it was behavior unbecoming of his consort, much less someone in my condition; and that he did not wish to be known as a ruler who approved of illiterate women.

As always, I have been obedient.

The armies of Talos have been in full retreat since late autumn, and our scouts have reported only a small rearguard action. Of the 100,000 men who marched against us, about half remain. At least half of these have been taken by food and water borne diseases introduced into their supplies trains by my spies - this service largely performed by the women in their mobile brothels; apparently a necessary evil to curb the unhealthy appetites of these would be conquerors. My Master has ordered the mounted archers to harass any stragglers all the way back to Talos.

We will spend the winter resting and strengthening our defenses against a possible Spring campaign. Every family remains involved in war production whether it be in arrow making or siege defenses, or the standardized spears used by our female conscripts. Once the thaw allows, new wells will be dug within the two border fortress to detect any attempts at tunneling underneath our walls. My Master and I have visited most of the noble families to discuss the new taxes which will be levied in the new year. I have reason to believe that the silver requested will be delivered without much complaint.

Almost all of the frail and elderly have been moved from the border towns to encampments and new villages; and resupplies of wood, stone and food are gradually being transported from inland forests and quarries to the front now that the siege has been lifted.

When my Master returns home each day after surveying our defenses, we take our evening meal alone. He has forbidden any extravagances as long as a Spring war is a possibility. I read to him for about an hour from illuminated texts each evening so that he can properly judge my pronunciation of the High Thamudi expected of courtiers. I have also begun teaching him the basics of weiqi but he always resigns within twenty moves in frustration.

My Master who has been reading my journal over my shoulders is nonplussed that I have not said anything about my life after being sold. As I have indicated previously, his tastes run towards the salacious.

I will continue where I left off.

If you will recall, I was sold privately in the depths of the auction house without the need to ascend the auction block. I soon surmised that I had been deemed unsuitable material for the slave taverns

Instead I had been sold into the house of a feudal lord of Albion, called Gaius. Like much of the nobility, Gaius was born into his riches but he also dabbled in the market place and had fingers in many commercial pots. For this reason, he entertained frequently and was in need of an efficient household. He barely glanced at me two days after I was brought to his villa saying distractedly, “She is rather plain but I think she'll add color to our serving staff.”

Most of the pleasure slaves treated me with disdain as well. I was merely a servant girl, and it was I who served them. My duties were to bathe them, wash their clothes, and serve them at meal times.

In my second week at Gaius' household, I was assigned to a statuesque beauty who would make any man hard with desire. Her long golden tresses reached down to the middle of her back and she had a delightful posterior and hips. She had light blue eyes, a small upturned nose, and a few freckles running across this on to her cheeks. She was wearing a long silk loin cloth but her sizable breasts were bare with each of them crowned with alluring bright pink nipples and puffy areolae.

I knelt and bowed deeply to her saying, “My name is Amber, Mistress, and I am here to serve you.”

She did not reply and the room was absolutely silent for an uncomfortable period of time. As such, I looked up slowly only to see her startled face.

“Do you speak Qin?” she asked me in one of the ancient languages of Ki.

I had not heard anyone speak in my mother tongue for months and was similarly startled but kept my composure. “I do speak Qin. You have an excellent accent, mistress. May I know where you learned my language?”

“I am from Ki just like you. Do you come from [Szechuan] ? That is my hometown as well.”

My accent had given me away. There were many foreigners in the vast lands of the Qin on Ki, and she was hardly unique.

“I am so pleased to hear someone speak my mother tongue,” I told her with a smile. “Perhaps, we could use it in conversation in the privacy of your room. But only it pleases you, Mistress.”

“It would please me very much, Amber,” she said “Please call me, Eumelia. You do not know how happy it makes me to hear your voice.”

We exchanged information on our kidnappings and soon discovered that we had both been taken around the same time. And that we were both serum girls. We had no cause to be embarrassed by our shared fates, nor of our previous livelihoods – we had both been soldiers in our previous lives. I assumed at the time that this was a pattern of behavior, and that our captors intentionally chose men trained to violence for their inexplicable purposes.

“Amber, I do not want to deceive you so I will say this now before I lose the courage.” She looked down and averted her eyes from me. “My name on Ki was [Ma Jun] and I used to be a Qin person just like yourself.”

She looked up again when she heard my sobbing. I could hardly breathe for all the emotions this caused to rise in me.

“Please don't cry, Amber. I have come to accept this.” She hugged me and wiped away my tears.

I was sobbing and gasping but managed to say, “ You don't understand. I'm [Cheng Yi].”

And then we were both crying. What a strange sight we would have seemed to anyone who happened upon us. My old comrade in arms who I had assumed to be dead, now found. My last connection with my old life on Ki. A fringe benefit of my own capture and taken to cover expenses I assumed at the time.

Eumelia's memories of her old life were largely intact and it had taken her months to accept her new body. The slave urges had helped greatly in this respect. When she realized that her new body made her especially attractive to men, she had marched down the road of acceptance with abandon.

“It is not so bad. Our master's guests have a thing for blonde barbarians which is what they take me for considering my poor Talosian.”

I was a servant girl but one who had received training in the arts of the passion slave. Eumelia was no different and more experienced than I was in this respect. She had a tremendous attraction to men and did not shrink from describing her desires – for she assumed that I too could barely quench my thirst.

If anything, she told of her sexual exploits with considerable pride. Her virginity had been given to one of Gaius' honored guests who had then described her sexual abilities to his friends the next day at breakfast even as she knelt by his feet like a cat. She had been fed by hand with morsels from the table and looked forward to seeing him again when he next attended one of our master's feasts.

I would help her manicure her nails, perfume her body, and irrigate both her nether holes for use by the guests. She did not find this troubling for the slave urges had fully taken; but I did.

Where once we helped each other in our preparations for battle, I was now helping my old friend to look her best to service men. Unlike myself, Eumelia had lost all interest in her old abilities. Those were things of the past, and she was eager to cultivate the arts which would serve her best in her new life. She was being given instruction in stringed instruments and conversation; and also gleaned knowledge from the rest of the pleasure slaves in the harem with regards pleasing men.

If she returned early from servicing her guests, I would be ready to bathe and groom her again so that she looked her best. If we had time, we would cuddle and pleasure each other. Our former lives were the furthest things from our mind at these times; and Eumelia was absolutely ravishing, a prime candidate to be given as a gift to men of wealth and distinction.

My own progress was more mundane. I would be employed throughout the household mainly as a cleaner - in the slave quarters, at the dining table, in the boudoir, and in the many private rooms in the villa. Here I was tasked with providing service before and after copulation. There was always food and drink to be served, clothes to be folded and arranged, and detritus to be disposed of. I would clean both the men and women with warm towels if so commanded; and if a master or mistress wished to see me use my mouth to clean up the sexual emissions on their genitals, I would do so unhesitatingly. I knew this much from my days at school.

I was only a servant girl and certainly of less value than then the redwood furniture which adorned Gaius villa. But unlike the furniture, I was privy to every conversation and every indiscretion disclosed in the heat of passion. My owner, Gaius, would question me and the other girls at least once a week concerning these things; though this was often of little help due to the education level of the average servant.

It will not surprise you to know that while the Qin were politically and communally reputed to be wealthy and devious, the Qin as individuals were considered strange, illiterate, and feeble minded. Certainly, they were not considered to be especially civilized. I conformed to all of these stereotypes at least in my early days. The slave school had started me on the road to understanding the main languages of this world but it took me a while longer at Gaius' house to be reasonably fluent – not least due to hours with a tutor at Gaius' expense. If Gaius' wanted spies, he would need to train them, and what better person than an individual who everyone assumed to be a “retarded” Qin girl.

Gaius did not assume I was an idiot but he did expect me to conform to the low cunning my race was often derided for in this world. He would pump me for information at every hour of the day once my level of language acquisition was deemed adequate. I would hand him my neatly written reports on slate boards, and the information would be memorized, sieved, and confirmed to the best of his organization's ability. Sometimes, whatever news I brought him would be the corroborative evidence he needed for a business venture; most of the time it was completely useless and filed away for future use.

At various points during our interviews, Gaius would mumble or curse under his breath. I would politely ask him the reasons for his distress in the tones of warm honey that had been inculcated into me since my days in the school. I would then bow my head while kneeling and offer suggestions as they came to mind in the way of small talk.

When rumors of war were whispered by a minister post-coitally, I would remind him to consider a larger stake in the hitherto humdrum sulfur and saltpeter mining industries. I later described a method to use these ingredients with gum and wooden splints to make matches – an item which I had not seen used in my short time in that land.

A poor crop report hidden from his eyes but not my ears, prompted me to remind him to enjoin his tenants to increase their use of 'horse-hoeing husbandry' and row cultivation, a practice which for some reason was not widely used in Albion.

I would help him sift through reams of old reports from across the continent on various new sightings or technological wonders. The fire wells reported near the Qin homeland certainly caught my attention and I suggested that he could consider a barter for know-how in its transport and use. It was clear to me that the Qin had been extracting natural gas from both shallow and deep boreholes, and transporting the gas across large distances with bamboo and wooden containers. Gaius sniffed and said he would consider it.

Gaius was a well kept middle-aged man but he had no interest in women. He did display some enthusiasm for boys half his age but his main pleasure was money. He kept me permanently in a light wooden chastity device saying crudely that both my brain and my cunt had value, but that he didn't have the time to exploit the latter just yet.

It was only a matter of time before he divined that I had other abilities as well. When one of his business rivals threatened violence in the privacy of his study, I quickly brought the sharpened knife I had stolen from the kitchen to his neck. The aggressor had no reason to consider the small Qin girl serving drinks a threat. He hurled abuse at me and attempted to reach behind to grab me. I simply kept my calm and divided the skin at his neck exposing the subcutaneous fat. He was a small fleshy man and took little convincing of his diminished options.

So it was that I became Gaius' favorite servant girl. At some point, he started treating me less like a servant and more as an inconspicuous bodyguard and a conversation partner. I told him what I deemed to be less important details about life on Ki and he was happy to reveal the workings of his own world.

It appeared that transportation between worlds was uncommon, as was the presence of alien serum girls such as myself and Eumelia. The vast majority of serum girls were derived from men of the large continent which dominated An. As such, I was considered more useful as trading material with the Qin then a pleasure slave. I asked him if there was any way to remove the slave urges which dominated the lives of slaves like my friend. He was non-committal but told me of legends of jungle women called panthers who staved off the effects with a regular intake of herbs. He clicked his tongue and called them man-haters.

To my mind, there seemed little reason for these women to spend their days in a hot sweltering jungle when the more comfortable jungles constructed by men could offer safer refuge. He shrugged his shoulders and repeated that they hated men, and that some of them were marked. Perhaps they were a secret society with occult rituals just like the acolytes of the Seven Gods.

I was marked as well of course and quite early on. By my second week in the slave school, my ears, nose and navel had all been pierced. Ear piercing was considered the most degrading of these for it immediately marked one as a slave girl. I, on the other hand, resented all of it. I knew quite well that these adornments were meant to make me more attractive to men, and seethed with shame and anger at these overt attempts to make me more feminine. I merely tolerated them and my need to be submissive as part of my mission; the completion of which would free me from my female body.

The other girls could not understand my bitterness for the slave urges were fast upon them. I was only partly mollified when I began to find men attractive some weeks later.

Of course, today I gladly wear all the jewelry that my Master lavishes upon me. Indeed, he will be pleased to know I have become like many natural born women in this respect. In the slave school and the harems I have resided in, clothing and jewelry took on an element of ritual display in lieu of physical violence. The aforementioned panther girls would have nothing to do with this.

A number of the slave girls in Gaius' stable had also been branded – this was thought to be especially fitting for barbarians like Eumelia who had been marked on her mons with the Imperium Rose also found on Gaius' heraldry. I myself was tattooed with the same rose on my left hip, it's thorn and tendrils extending and curving around my left thigh. Gaius had decided that this would be more appropriate for a Qin girl. By this time, I had been so thoroughly debased that I no longer cared about being marked as property.

And thus, I spent twelve months with Gaius in relative calm; a calm which I knew could not last. For his lands and coin had grown considerably in that short period; as had his rivals. And Gaius had carelessly failed to placate or dispose of his enemies; nor did he care to be generous with his good fortune as I had repeatedly advised. Even worse, he had foolishly begun to use me far too liberally.

The first sign of this was guests becoming more leery in my presence. There was also the odd shipping agent or manager who would refuse to be served by that “filthy” Qin girl. Gaius’ business rivals were previously quite happy to simply ape his agricultural and commercial plays. For instance, he would buy into spices from the South Eastern Archipelago at immense prices on the open market the moment he received word that a shipment had failed. The other feudal lords were happy to play along and pick up the crumbs at a moment's notice. When he started encroaching into their vested interests in continental agriculture and heating, on the other hand, they had no choice but to bring him down.

First to be displaced were the informants he had cultivated in various government ministries; then select members of Gaius' street gangs who he used as enforcers. Soon a whispering campaign began against me, first among the pleasure slaves and then the general household. It was only a matter of time before I was considered a usurper by both the majordomo and ikbal. Even Eumelia began to treat me more coldly suspecting that I was badmouthing her to Gaius in the privacy of his chambers. The Qin already had a reputation for being ingratiating backstabbers and I could not escape their prejudice.

When items started turning up missing among the pleasure slaves, it was I who they first cast their eyes upon. I protected myself as much as I could but there was only so much a servant girl could do. By the time, I was accused of stealing a noble woman's pearl necklace, there could only be one culprit. Inevitably, the piece of jewelry was found among my clothes. Gaius had no choice but to turn me out. I was whipped, banished to the outer courtyard, and sent to clean the lavatories and chamber pots.

It was an entire month before my sacrifice paid dividends.

Now fully isolated, I had only to wait for my accusers to attack me directly. Only when I had been fully humbled would their confidence be at its highest.

I kept note of anyone who sought to humiliate me further and, even more, those who wished to be rid of me entirely. I was now insignificant enough to be killed off quietly. At first, I only encountered the personal maids of two odalisques who took the time to kick and demean me, but finally after nearly a month, my servant's hovel was visited by two men determined to string me up in an act of assisted suicide. I could not take too many chances with two large males even if they were unsuspecting. I slit open the femoral artery of one of them and allowed him to exsanguinate; the other I crippled by slicing his heel tendons.

This man, and the two odalisques and their serving girls were brought before Gaius for questioning. He needed to know which of the other feudal lords he could ally with in a war; and which others he would punish with violence - for war seemed inevitable, all it required was an opportune time and a valid excuse. We had only to wait and prepare.

I stressed to Gaius the variable if not poor information resulting from torture but he would have none of it. As with his business dealings, he would take whatever information they offered and confirm it by other means. From indolent passivity, he had swiftly shifted to maniacal hostility - he planned to wage a campaign of terror. His spies would infiltrate the towns of the feudal lords who has been fingered and prepare incendiary devices of oil and gas which would destroy the entire grain reserves of these towns – an act which I knew would lead to immense suffering in the winter.

It was I who had given him the knowledge and means for this act of vindictiveness; I who had brought the suspected household spies to him. If thousands now died as a result of famine, it was I who would be chiefly responsible next to Gaius. I suspect that in my previous life on Ki, I might have reacted with a certain amoral nonchalance, but something had changed in me. Was my new perspective the result of a year in chains or the more empathetic viewpoint of a woman, or both?

The die was cast when Gaius was accused of consorting with a Qin witch from whom he had derived largess in exchange for his eternal soul. I would now need to decide whether I would participate in Gaius' war, enjoining him at every turn to mercy; or kill him outright and save the lives of thousands.

Synopsis: A story taken from the Journal of Lady Zhou Yu, (known to us as Amber) – a slave girl living in the capital city of Thamud. A war currently rages between Talos and Thamud. Amber is a former Chinese military contractor from Earth (Ki) who has been kidnapped and transported to the planet, An. Now transformed into a slave girl, she has been tasked with infiltrating the Qin (the Chinese-like people of An) in order to regain her male body and return to Earth.

Previously: Amber has been trained at the slave school in the ways of a pleasure slave. Sold into the house of a feudal lord named, Gaius, she has proved useful in enlarging his fortune; but at the cost of the good will of his neighbors. Gaius now seeks to annihilate his enemies with fire and famine as his main tools.

Chapter 4 Messengers of the Gods

Dear Reader,

It is eventide and my master has fallen asleep by the fireplace after returning from a week long survey of the fire villages.

The winters of Thamud are bitingly cold but I have refrained from partaking of the warming effects of my favorite rice wine; at least not yet. Why there is so much snow in this desert landscape still eludes me.

When last I wrote in this journal, a decision had been placed before me.

Would I be able to temper Gaius' wrath by joining in his war of terror, or would I betray him; perhaps forfeiting my life and consigning the better part of his fiefdom to unknown retribution. The former was the easier path but which would be the greater act of mercy?

Neither choice required much preparation. Killing Gaius would be as easy as turning one's palm – I would simply slit his throat in the privacy of his study. He had no reason to suspect me apart from my periodic entreaties not to follow his most violent inclinations. This seemed strange to him for he knew that I had killed more people in my short life than all the members of his household combined.

A week before Gaius planned to ignite hostilities, all the servant girls were called upon to prepare the audience room for some unexpected guests. Gaius had indicated that I and two other servants would see to the three visitors he was expecting on an individual basis. We were made to kneel unobtrusively at the sides of the room with refreshments neatly arranged on trays by our sides. As always, I kept a small knife on my person bound to my inner thigh.

At the appointed hour, Gaius led the three guests into the room. He did not take his place on the dais but watched with his head slightly bowed as the leader of the three sat upon the small throne.

They were not dressed in the natural fibers of the nobility of An but what seemed to be the artificial fibers of my homeworld of Ki. They appeared to be men of our great continent but were surrounded by a faint glow emanating from their very beings as if they were made of light.

{My master is keenly interested in my first meeting with the emissaries of the Seven Gods having never met them in person. I will thus attempt to record theirs words as accurately as possible.}

“Lift your head, Gaius. It is wise that you did not hide her and I encourage you to avoid all artifice in our conversation,” the leader said.

“Of course, your holiness,” Gaius answered.

“You will withdraw your men from the cities immediately and commit no more evil.”

“Of course, your holiness.”

“Your greed is unbecoming of one of the nobility. This world is in a perfect balance, and we will not hesitate to amputate any source of corruption. I foresee many hours of moral instruction and contemplation in your future, my son.”

“Of course, your holiness.”

“The female is the source of much of your new fortune and has led you astray. We will now discuss whether she should be destroyed.” Then turning to me the leader said, “I would like your opinion on this.

“I will continue after which you will answer. As a woman of Ki, you should know well that the displacement of a single [electron] or the removal of a single grain of sand could disrupt the entire system; to say nothing of an entire human being. Why have you sought to gratify yourself at the expense of this civilization?”

“I have only tried to survive like everyone else,” I replied.

“That is where you have failed,” the high emissary announced dispassionately. “Did you intend to kill the man, Gaius?”

“Yes,” I said. I saw no point in lying. Then a bit desperately I asked, “Will you give me time to learn? Will you give me time to change?”

The emissary looked at me with a blank expression. Looking back, I saw little indication that he was interested in my personal growth.

He continued. “Perhaps you consider us overly paternalistic. We do not deny this; neither do do we intend to change our ways. This world will progress when that progress has been earned. Your own civilization will cease to exist within the next three hundred years. We will not make the same mistake twice.”

With that, they were gone.

Did these acolytes really believe that the medieval society I had found myself in was the ideal form of human civilization? Half the population remained in subjugation to the other, and each day brought more rumors of war, misery, rapine, and death. Was this the best of all possible worlds? I was incredulous at the thought.

Since our first short meeting, I have searched the Qin libraries for more accounts of their visitations. Surely, the acolytes had little interest in the travails of a mere slave girl, but they would not overlook so blatant a violation of the blockade that they had instituted between Ki and An.

The Seven Gods or at least their priests allowed for some wars. They would only intervene if revelation allowed them to foresee that this would disrupt the acceptable peace of the continent. The scholarly among you will know already that there are no discernible patterns to these interventions – neither the size of these wars nor the suffering that ensues seemed to be at issue. The conflagration between the three large states that sit astride the great lakes was permitted, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of men and women. Yet a minor border dispute would be deemed sufficiently dangerous for them to intercede. Only the high priests of the Seven were privy to the sacred calendar the gods had laid out for this world.

Any attempt to physically harm the emissaries would have resulted in the annihilation of Gaius' entire household. No building would be left standing and not a single servant or slave left alive. It was truly a kind of divine punishment.

“Were you really ready to kill me?” Gaius asked as I was leaving.

I did not answer him. As I left the audience chamber, I felt myself dissolve into the ether.

Previously: Amber has been trained at the slave school in the ways of a pleasure slave. Sold into the house of a feudal lord named, Gaius, she has proved useful in enlarging his fortune; but at the cost of enraging the emissaries of the Seven Gods who have promised to chasten her. She disappears suddenly from Gaius' villa in Albion.

Chapter 5 - A Slave Girl Meets Her Master

I awoke to the sounds of dripping water echoing through the cavernous halls of the Temple of Ea. I had not the strength to move my limbs. A middle-aged woman with skin seasoned by the desert sun and dry winds was wiping down my face as if I had a fever. Each stroke of her cool cloth seemed to wipe away the fog that enveloped my mind.

“I am a priestess in the Temple of Water dedicated to Ea, who is one of the Seven Gods,” she said.

She spoke to me first in Thamudi and then in Talosian to elucidate which I understood. I was too confused to answer so she continued to clean my body. I heard the sound of women chanting and then breaking into unaccompanied song.

The priestess paused when she reach my left thigh saying, “A very lovely mark but sadly still that of a slave.” Then lifting my face and turning it from side to side she smiled and said, “You are quite pretty.”

She informed that I had been found on the temple steps not two hours ago. She said she was sorry that I was a slave but the laws of this land dictated that if I remained unclaimed for two weeks, I would have to be sold by the local administrator through an assigned merchant.

“We have no choice in this but we will try to ensure that you will get a good owner,” she promised. “We have also removed this,” she said, holding up a belt of leather and wood. You will not be touched until the day you are sold.”

It was the chastity device which I had worn almost daily while I was owned by Gaius. She then offered me some food and water, and told me to wait in the sanctuary until she returned.

As I searched the harvest calendars in the temple, I realized that I had lost two weeks of my life. I had no memory of what might have happened between my disappearance from Gaius' villa and my reappearance in the temple.

In what way had I been punished by the high emissary. My body seemed unchanged as were my inclinations and feelings. I did not seem to have lost any memories apart from the past two weeks.

I was without means in a strange land. The only way in which I could effect an escape would be through violence; and my memory of the events at Gaius' villa made me hesitate on taking that course. It seemed improbable that they had judged me based on any kind of simple morality but I could not take that chance.

My only chance of becoming a man again and to return to Ki was through being moved through the system to my ultimate goal. If the woman in Aix was to be trusted, they would be the ones to guide me to a fateful meeting with the Qin.

As expected, I was unclaimed after two weeks and was moved to a slave merchant's establishment to be sold on one of the city's market days. Here, once again, I was reacquainted with the frightening nature of the continent's slave trade – something which I had shielded my eyes from while in Gaius' retinue. I counted myself among the lucky ones – I had chosen this course seeking uncertain liberation.

I was chained in the main business area of the merchant's shop with other women – the majority designated for agriculture or household labor; and a small selection including myself for potential employment as passion slaves. My body and youth marked me as such. The slave merchant made no distinction between “born women” and serum girls - he had no means to do so. Our personal histories were however recorded on our sales sheet.

In the distance, I saw a tall man with dark hair and brown skin dressed in the guild robes of a date merchant. It was early in the day and customers were few.

This was the first time I laid eyes upon my Master...[...]...

[Scribe's Note: Here the text diverges from Lady Zhou's journal entry. A hand written account on silk has been found in the libraries of the Qin. ]

My Beloved Prince,

As you have commanded, I have prepared an account of our first meeting solely for your eyes.

This was the first time I laid eyes upon my Master.

He was about five years older than me and strongly built. I had never seen a more attractive male since I had become a slave girl; this I will admit. I am indeed a fortunate woman to be able to wake each morning with my face pressed against his magnificent chest and abdomen.

My Master is, however, incorrect in thinking that I was practically salivating at the sight of him. I will allow that my nipples were hard and engorged, and I will not dispute and I was already wet by the time he placed his hands upon my nether regions. He had insisted on placing his fingers to my mouth and nose to ensure that there was no doubt in my mind that I was captive to him.

He browsed haphazardly as the slave merchant trailed him like a helpful dog, sometimes stopping before some local delights before moving on to the section offering a small selection of blonde barbarians. I was recommended as something a bit more exotic and mysterious - a masterless Qin girl found naked near the temple of Ea

“Perhaps, she is a gift from Ea,” offered the slave trader. “She indicates that she was trained at one of the finest slave houses in Albion.”
“She would, wouldn't she...,” my master commented, looking bemused.

{If my account appears too glowing with regards this prince of Thamud, I will add here that my Master has been continually offering corrections since I began my account of our first meeting. I assure you that this annoyance will not affect the accuracy my account. I have therefore retired to my bedchambers where I now write undisturbed.}

My Master affected a certain levity when he first cast eyes upon me. He took a quick glance before moving on to the rest of the merchant's wares. But as a trained passion slave, I knew this was an act. I have been taught to look for the slightest spark of arousal in a male and fan it with all my wiles; and I knew quite well that he wanted me there and then.

I was not, however, prepared to display myself in the traditional manner of slave girls to the consternation of the slave merchant. Instead I affected haughty indifference in front of him, tracking him out of the corner of my eye even as he circled the establishment.

He soon made to purchase a few trinkets, some collars, and a few training devices which slave girls are intimately familiar with. And then with his back to me, he began to negotiate my price with the same distracted air. The merchant wanted a better price but, in the end, he was happy to be rid of an arrogant and difficult girl even if she was white silk. The priestess had already told him that I was not to be sold to a slave tavern if he wanted his commission.

I was placed in a small slave shift of embroidered silk which my master had purchased for my transportation. It was clear that my new owner was quite wealthy from this choice alone; a fact which was made abundantly clear when I was delivered that very afternoon to the palace whose multitude of turrets towered over the city itself.

I was made to sit on the ground in a small alcove with a group of male and female slaves, all recently purchased. I could tell that some were manual laborers and others were destined to be servant girls as I was previously. None were dressed as finely as myself.

“His highness wants to deal with this one personally,” the majordomo said, stopping his underling from escorting me into the slave quarters with the rest.

My heart sank when I heard this. For almost a year, I had been spared the indignities of being a slave but it was now all returning. I was bound very tightly with leather straps and a spreader bar attached to my ankles. I was then led by a leash to a small room. I knew what was about to happen, the moment I saw the brazier and branding rack.

My new owner stood at the center of the room and asked the servants to leave once I was made to kneel in front of him.

He spoke to me in perfect Talosian. “I see more anger in your eyes than fear. That would be unusual in a girl of your age; and even more in a trained passion slave. That cold murderous look you have – I presume that is what the Qin call 'killing intent'? Will you at least hear me out?

“This is necessary for your safety. An unmarked girl could be taken without consequence or legal repercussions. You could be taken at any point and by anyone, if not within the palace then without. Even the king my father is beholden to the laws of this land; and the royal mark provides the greatest safety of any in this kingdom. I have not as yet placed my mark on any woman and I would like to get your permission for this. Do you understand?”

You may well ask - did I even have the right to refuse? The conversation was occurring in private for his sake, not mine. In this barbarous medieval world, a master did not ask his slave's permission to brand her – he would be held a laughing stock if word of this ever got out. I only knew that the decision had to be made now. What would happen to me if I rejected his brand?

I only knew that I could not remain here without his mark. I would have to be killed or more likely discarded; given to one of his underlings who would then brand me without hesitation. Did I prefer to be the property of a prince or one of his retainers – that was my only choice. Which option would give me the best chance of entering the world of the Qin, and at least some hope of becoming male again.

“I will accept your mark,” I said evenly.

“Thank you,” he replied.

I think he must have seen my shoulders slump slightly in resignation. He lifted me up to the rack gently and pulled my shift up. Then he tied me down as firmly as possible with straps across my pelvis and thighs leaving only the area to be marked exposed. The branding iron was red hot and finely made. He gave me a word of warning and I felt searing heat as he pressed the hot iron to my mons. I grit my teeth; I dared not move for fear of causing further damage to my person.

I did not scream; but my tears flowed liberally not simply out of pain, but frustration, and anger at my lot. It had been months since I was so thoroughly humiliated – certainly not since my early days in the house of Gaius. I swore in my heart that I would harm this man the first chance I had.

When it was done, he stroked and soothed me, applying a cold balm to my brand which lessened the pain within moments. I was still bound hand and foot, or I would have struck him there and then. Looking back, I must have seemed like a wild animal; struggling to no avail in his strong immovable arms, each of which seemed larger than my own tiny waist.

As I was now the prince's slave girl and sole concubine, I was assigned my own group of attendants who bathed me and dressed my wounds. I instructed them to provide me with boiled water and white rags, highly distilled alcohol, and honey. My master came to see me every three days and I would lift my dress to show him my progress. By the middle of the third week, my wounds had largely healed. I was now ready to serve him as he saw fit.

I do not think I was a cruel mistress to my servants having once been in their position. Even today, I have a bit of a reputation as a light touch, and the one person in the royal household who can be taken advantage of. The idea of beating one of these young girls that they might better remember their mistakes has been recommended to me on more than one occasion, and still fills me with fury and indignation. Instead, I brought them into my confidence with a combination of treats and compliments and they soon plied me with gossip from the palace halls.

“The crown prince has not taken a wife, and his ailing father is beset with worries that he never will. It is rumored that he is only interested in men. Perhaps your boyish figure attracts him?”

This was the first time I had heard my sizable breasts and fleshy ass as “boyish” to be sure, but compared to many of the women of the continent, I was certainly slight of figure.

The women of the harem would look at me and whisper and it was easy to surmise that as the only marked woman of the prince, I was now the subject of gossip and envy. This was not helped by my being a Qin woman who seemed in every way unequal to the charms of the other pleasure slaves.

My attendants at least seemed to be loyal and had been personally chosen by my Master. On the night I was to be taken to his bedchamber, they offered suggestions on hairstyles and bed attire. My ears and belly were adorned with jewels, and my nails neatly filed and painted. The servant girls had cleaned and perfumed my entire body paying special attention to my armpits, pudenda, and my bottom. All of these and more were tended to at length to ensure that I was smooth and soft when he chose to touch me. They rouged my lips, nipples and lower lips so that I seemed to be in a state of perpetual arousal. I will admit that by this point, I was eager to feel my master's lips and hands on my body.

That night I entered my Master's bedchamber for the first time.

I could see him quite clearly lying on the bed for the room was not too dimly lit. His torso was quite bare and he motioned for me to come closer to him and disrobe.

I undid the clasps of my silks and let my dress slip to the ground with a light elegant motion. I now stood naked before him with one leg slightly bent and my foot extended.

“The slave merchant called you Amber,” he said breaking the silence.

“My name is whatever my Master wishes.”

“I have thought about this and have decided to call you Shasa . Do you like it? It means 'enchanted water' in the ancient tongue of my ancestors.”

“I am Shasa, Master,” I said, my head still bowed.

He was eager to put me through my slave paces as he would a newly acquired mare. I had so thoroughly imbibed the lessons at the slave school that the movements came instinctively as if I were a trained athlete. I had forgotten nothing and my movements were performed swiftly and sensually.

Starting from a standing position and at each command, I knelt, spread my legs wide with my hands palms up on my thighs, and placed my hands behind my head to better display my breasts. I then reclined with my knees bent before spreading them receptively Then I was on all fours, then bent down with my ass lifted towards him before lying face down with my arms behind my back as if to be bound. There were many slave positions and he knew all of them which seemed highly unlikely for someone who didn't own any slave girls. I presumed he patronized the many taverns and brothels scattered across the main commercial district.

I had maintained a regular regimen of exercise in my quarters and kept pace with his commands without difficulty. He first watched me while reclining on the bed, then while sitting upright when he found that I did not fail to keep up with his commands. Finally, when I once again presented my posterior for his scrutiny, he placed his large palm on me and massaged my labia and nub lovingly. In the silence of his room, there were only the modulations of my light breathing and the sopping sounds from my cunt.

“Amazing,” he finally said. “It is hard to believe that you were once a man.”

I was surprised that he knew of my former state and that he had chosen me despite knowing this.

He now joined me on the carpet, holding me tightly from behind as he massaged my breasts and worked my nipples. I arched my back as he did so and felt his manhood pressing firmly against my buttocks. That feeling drove me wild with lust

I remained strongly attracted to him despite myself. I recalled how I, in my past life, would seduce the women of Ki with gifts, humor, and displays of masculinity. It was second nature to me, just as it was second nature for me now to entice this man. I ached for his touch and was thrilled that my body pleased him.

Perhaps it is hard for a man of Thamud, who has never experienced what it is like to be a woman, to imagine my feelings at that moment. I will attempt to assist you in this. Remember back to the first girl you were infatuated with and how merely her scent would fix your attention, and the sight of her bosom and the soft skin of her thighs would make you hard with desire. And if this woman was so high above your station that you could never have her, imagine your daydreams of taking her, and enjoying her cries of ecstasy. Now imagine that your dreams were completely fulfilled, and that she wanted you to take intimate possession of her.

That was the position I was now in.

My Master was now that object of infatuation for me; his power over me had suddenly become an aphrodisiac. The humiliation of my branding lasted but a few moments, my anger a few hours more. What followed was a state of constant arousal at the thought of being this man's rightful possession to be used as he saw fit. When he commanded me into increasingly erotic positions, I was glad to do so – knowing that each and every move I made heightened his desire for me. This was my power over him and it sent slow waves of pleasure coursing through my body.

A man feels pleasure in making his woman respond helplessly to his touch, and then penetrating her. Now I was that woman. How can I explain my overwhelming desire to be filled by my Master and to be thoroughly fucked. Instead of taking I would now be receiving. I reveled in my passivity in bed, and I absolutely craved his touch – those large rough hands on my soft skin, on my breasts, and on my cunt; the way he used me and controlled my every movement when he was in the heat of the moment; the way he held me as he thrusts into me and made me mewl.

I had been a woman for over a year but it was only now that I realized what it meant to fully inhabit the mind and body of that most feminine of creatures - a passion slave. My days as a soldier and even as Gaius' slave girl had been marked by discipline and exactitude – a stringent control of word and action. In my Master's chambers, I chose docility and surrender – I yielded to his every command and to his every touch.

I submitted fully to my Master that night.

“You are an amazing slut,” he told me, half gasping.

Instead of shame, I felt pride in this statement. Consider a male lover who is hardly embarrassed when he is praised for his skills at lovemaking and his staying power. I was no different now as a woman. My lessons at the slave school had now been brought to fruition. They had taught me how to be a matchless female lover and now it was paying dividends. He was enraptured by every part of me: my utter shamelessness in displaying my body to him; my sensitiveness to his touch; my obvious arousal when I saw him naked; my screams and grunts as he took me firmly; and my quickness to orgasm and to do so repeatedly.

He soon realized that this aspect of my being was exclusively his preserve. I had far greater control of my emotions and drives when it came to other men – all of whom paled in comparison. I abdicated all memory of old self when faced with my Master who I was besotted with

[The Lady Zhou's journal continues where it left off.]

My Master will smile if and when he reads this but my love for him has only grown in the intervening years; for I have seen the true measure of him in his interactions with his fellow men. And I know that he loves me.

Previously: Amber has been trained at a slave school in the ways of a pleasure slave. Sold into the house of a feudal lord named, Gaius, she has proved useful in enlarging his fortune; but at the cost of enraging the emissaries of the Seven Gods who have promised to chasten her. She disappears suddenly from Gaius' villa in Albion, and awakes in Thamud where she is sold into the royal household. A break in the narrative follows.

Chapter 6 - Old Friends and Enemies . On Serum Girls . I Meet My Master's Family

Dear Reader,

I have finally found Neela; Neela who I loved best from when I first trained as a slave girl. I wept when I received the news, and was determined to meet her myself despite my Master's protestations. I have managed to find almost half of the girls who trained with me and released them all from the slave urges which ruled their lives.

Why it has taken this long I cannot say but she was privately sold to a rich but insignificant marquis, a gift from his long suffering wife who I understand prefers the company of women. With her amiable disposition, humorous anecdotes, and political savvy, she quickly worked her way up the ranks and is now her master's favorite.

I arranged to meet her at a Qin dressmaker's shop which dealt with embroidered silks woven and sewn by the young women apprentices of the Flaming Mountains. Here I posed as a serving girl. Of course, she recognized me the moment she set eyes on me in one of the private suites reserved for the nobility.

We hugged and kissed, and spoke at length as we once did back in the slave school. I asked her if she wished to be free – she did not. She was in love with her mistress who cosseted her; and she could be found between the marquis and his wife on many an evening. To add to this, she had a new role as the primary carer for the marquis' new heir, born to her mistress earlier in the year. It was clear she loved the new babe and her mistress was encouraging her to have one of her own that their children might be friends.

We had far too little time. I offered her the antidote for the slave urges which she quickly accepted. It would take a week for the changes to take effect. She thanked me and told me that I should approach her if I ever wanted for anything. Afterall, she was now the favorite of the Zeeshan Emperor's chief military advisor, a post to which that insignificant marquis had risen to in the intervening years.

I kissed her and told her that the only thing I wanted was the opportunity to meet her again in the not too distant future to rekindle our friendship. I did not ask her to become a spy in my network as is my practice after releasing any slave girls I have encountered and vetted. I could not bear to stain our friendship in this way.

Of more immediate interest is my capture of Anais, the woman who I first met in Aix. A creature of habit, she was easily found and taken. The loss of one Qin spy (myself) dictated the acquisition of another. When a new Qin girl fitting my own background and qualifications came into the possession of the traders, we merely waited patiently for her to turn up.

I did not torture Anais nor did I enslave her. That is the way of this world, not mine. We merely had conversations about her travels between Ki and this world, and her reasons for choosing this line of work.

Her value as a bargaining tool is negligible but we intend to send her to Talos in the Spring as part of a prisoner exchange. A Qin delegation, acting as our intermediaries, intends to revisit diplomacy again at that time as a cure for all our ills.

I return to my original narrative.

When last I wrote, I had become the slave of the Crown Prince Of Thamud. I spent a year with my Master in his house. I had not known such happiness in my previous life as during that time. It was in that year that the seeds were laid for my eventual decision to remain a woman and his bond slave.

You may be wondering how it is a mere serum girl of no distinction could become the favorite of a young prince. Was it simply fate and good fortune? Or did this betray the hand of a certain Talosian spy or the ever watchful Qin? Perhaps your disbelief stems from my softening of the account of my suffering, and the depredations I experienced in the slave school and in the house of Gaius. Whatever your viewpoint, I urge you to remember that the fate of this world is not simply in the hands of the women and men who inhabit it.

The casual reader may wonder as well what exactly the status of serum girls were in the continent of An. To answer this, I will attempt here a potted history of the transformation serum as I have gleaned from conversations with the historians and nobility of Thamud.

The oldest recorded history of the serum is a fragment by the overlord who once held sway over the great continent. Almost all of this was lost during the great scouring of An. These are the words preserved on some burnt parchments found in the tomb of the great conqueror:

“.... [the] serum was an adaptation of this process. It was created by a bio-chemical genius whose pay mistress and director was the slaver Vanora...[...]... She required [the serum] to achieve certain aims, such as allowing transformed men to conceive and bear children and a psychological sexual reorientation to female heterosexuality. But as a slaver she was intrigued by the idea of producing a superior type of slave girl.”

As you might imagine, the disruption to the communal and political life of this new invention was extreme with the serum used for punishment, deception, and assassination. The efficacy and ease of its administration ensured that all men were vulnerable, there were no agreed strictures placed on its use. If not for the limited supplies of the serum, one could imagine entire families or towns transformed into submissive slaves.
Yet if the users of the serum had constrained themselves to the dregs of society or at most the lesser nobility, no one would have lifted a finger to curtail its use. Its liberal use in the decimation of the highest houses in the land, however, spelled the beginning of the end.

Soon registries documenting the features of all potential serum girls were disseminated through all the nine kingdoms - that any attempt at espionage could be thwarted and social division quelled. Then through various alchemical tests, the royal houses began to push back on the moles hidden in their midst – transformed nobles without a trace of royal blood in their veins were taken and extinguished.

The discovery of an “antidote” to the original serum led to one of the darkest times in living memory. This was the Great Scouring where all traces of the serum was hunted down and destroyed; and decades of genetic and biochemical knowledge burnt on pyres in all the “civilized” kingdoms of the known world. What followed was a kind of chemical genocide. Serums girls were rounded up and forcibly returned to their original forms. Many chose death over this return to unwanted former lives as men. Only the intervention of the Seven Gods through their emissaries prevented a more devastating conflagration. What serum girls remained migrated to the desert basin which lies to the far West of our great continent.

The world I was transported to had emerged from this age of moral decay; a world where the serum was seen as punishment and not as reward or cure - to inflict the curse of womanhood on malcontents and social deviants.

The serum still exists in limited and dwindling quantities at the peripheries of society. The rest are controlled by the nine great families of An, under the watchful eye of the gods themselves. They were forbidden on pain of death from using it beyond their borders or as instruments of war, but they were still deployed against their political enemies within the confines of their own kingdoms. Yet on rare occasions, the serum presented itself as the perfect solution to longstanding dilemmas.

When my Master had claimed me in his bedchambers over several nights, his family requested that I be brought before them that they might know me better.

His father, the High King of Thamud, was bedridden and frail and I was simply brought to kneel beside his bed to pay my respects. The Queen on the other hand was hale and healthy and determined to know everything about me.

I was brought before Her Majesty and my lord's three sisters dressed in the robes of a royal concubine to pay my respects following a morning ritual honoring the Goddess of Water. I surmised that as a Qin girl and a slave, I was not ideal material as a consort; yet even then I knew that I was expected to produce an heir for the kingdom.

With only the chancellor by their side, they told me to reveal my entire history without omission. This I did save for my meeting with the Talosian spy mistresses – I had not earned enough of their trust to do that just yet. Nor did I go into any details regarding my life as a slave girl, for they all considered it an ignominious but necessary evil.

Even as I sat there reciting my history, I did pause to wonder why I felt so nervous and so anxious to please. Was it simply my eagerness to be a pampered woman in this court or was it fueled as much by my desire to be by my Master's side? Why did these four women seem so composed as they listened to a former male warrior express his wish to accept a future of feminine subservience at the feet of the prince.

“Do you love my brother?” asked my lord's eldest sister, the Princess Farah.

“Yes,” I answered truthfully. But I wondered why love was even an issue; how could she even believe my statement? I was overcome with emotion as I said this and my eyes brimmed with tears.

Then the Queen said, “I sense some hesitation on your part to tell us about your former existence as a man; that you feel that this will prejudice us against you. You are not wrong to be so concerned. But I also sense something else, that you wonder why we should act so calmly when you state so boldly that you would gladly remain a woman for the sake of my son. Perhaps you have forgotten that we are women just as you are, and have all known what it means to be in love. But could it be more than that? Is it perhaps because you consider the status of women in this world so abhorrent that you feel that no one would knowingly choose to be one?

“Yes, I admit that this is the case.” I was downcast.

“I am glad that you have spoken the truth, and it is easy to understand why your experiences have led you to think as such. But you will find in years to come that there are many compensations for this new life you have chosen. You have already foregone the joys of growing up a young girl, you now have the rest of your life to understand what a pleasure it is to be a woman.”

Then pointing to her left with her outstretched hand, she said, “Perhaps you have taken note of the portrait which hangs on the wall to your right.”

I had not (as was my usual practice) for I had been consumed by an unfamiliar restlessness throughout the interview. I turned my head to inspect it. It was a life-sized family portrait of the royal family done in a style similar to what was known as [tenebrism] back on Ki. I saw the king and queen at the center surrounded by their devoted daughters on each side. The eldest daughter stood as tall as her father and wore plate armor with the royal crest emblazoned; but it was not Farah who I saw.

I knew then that the gods had truly sifted me like wheat.

Previously: Amber (later known as Zhou Yu) has been trained at a slave school in the ways of a pleasure slave. Sold into the house of a feudal lord named, Gaius, she has proved useful in enlarging his fortune; but at the cost of enraging the emissaries of the Seven Gods who have promised to chasten her. She disappears suddenly from Gaius' villa in Albion, and awakes in Thamud where she is sold into the royal household. There she meets her Master and learns of his "secret."

Chapter 7 - My Master's Story . Another Old Friend

As with many of the medieval kingdoms of Ki, Thamud had long practiced male-preference primogeniture.

By the time, the Queen, had given birth to her fourth child, a daughter, my Master was already a child of seven and already showing the stature which his father's side of the family was known for.

He had, of course, been born a girl and was brought up to be the First Princess of the land. He had his first moon cycle at the age of thirteen and bloomed into one of the most beautiful young women in court. At least from all outward appearances, he seemed to enjoyed his girlhood under the loving care and tutelage of his mother. He did not seem to disdain the beautiful gowns he was made to wear, nor did he completely resent the buds which grew on his chest in due time. He was brought up to be an obedient child and that was what he was.

Yet, there is little doubt that he took surprising delight in activities thought solely the preserve of the designated male heir of the line – of which there was none as yet. He excelled at swordplay, the bow, and horsemanship, and would spend hours hunting in the woods with the trackers. It was clear he preferred the loose shirt and baggy trousers worn by the stable hands to the usual finery expected of female royalty. In secret expeditions outside the palace, he would wear a thawb and head cloth to disguise his blossoming figure.

It is hard to say when he started thinking of himself as a young boy but it was clear that he was acting the part of one.

The first sign of any trouble, his mother recalls, occurred during a courtship ceremony when he was fifteen. He wore a beautiful green dress in the style of Talosian women and dutifully danced with a number of boys that night.

Only when the Queen praised him later that night, gushing that he would make a wonderful wife and mother, did a faint sign of resentment cross his face. He knew that to be married and bear his husband's children was an essential part of his function as a princess of Thamud; if only to solidify or forge new alliances. This was his lot in life and he was, as noted, obedient.

Soon after, he could be found in the palace library looking into any text concerning the Great Scouring and of the original concoction which transformed the most manly of men into the most feminine and subservient of women. The treasury of Thamud was stocked with a small selection of these, all with the permission of the emissaries of the Seven Gods; but they had not been used for decades.

When my Master's father had ascended the throne he had decreed that the serum would never be used again as a tool of punishment but instead be reserved for those of Thamud who wished to live life as one of the other sex. Having made this announcement, the King promptly erased the edict from his mind, and neglected to establish any mechanisms for the proper use of those alchemical wonders. The duty he owed to his people was one of fairness in justice and not to encourage their fantasies – or so it seemed to him. It was the Queen who felt that the serum denigrated the place of Thamudian women in society – as if it was a punishment to be attractive and vivacious. But, like her husband, she seemed altogether less interested in those who desired to experience everything that she had enjoyed since her birth as a baby girl.

The scientists and alchemists of An had long since distilled and recreated the original serum so that new formulations no longer engendered overwhelming female libido. Further, they had crafted antidotes and sera which could turn a woman into a man with all the characteristics of her family line. There were precious few records of any women who had been injected with this “Anti-Vanorian.” No one could tell what manner of male would emerge upon its use, or what effect it would have on the the recipients personality. Would they retain a love for men or would their tendencies gradually gravitate towards women. The original serum was once seen as an instrument of discipline; a method of turning strong, aggressive, and dangerous men into helpless damsels eager to spread their legs. Would they also turn women into strange caricatures of the male sex with hyper-aggressive tendencies? And what conditions would need to be in place for the lords of the land to use this serum on a female – when was it a punishment to become a male in the patriarchal world of An?

It is telling that the Thamudian judicial system almost never punished women in this way. What reason would there be to give a female criminal the chance to become a much more formidable and dangerous man?

There was one recorded instance in Thamud of an actress who worked her maid servant to death and who was transformed into a man, and sent to work in the sulfur mines in the east. The hard labor had lasted 15 years before she was deemed rehabilitated and released into society. She had once been a handsome man in keeping with her genetic potential but the years in the mine had damaged her physically and she was now plagued with an assortment of bony and respiratory issues. Now, thirty years later, he worked as a stage hand for a traveling troupe of actors. On questioning, the now elderly stage hand, it seemed that the once pristine beauty had taken on most of the characteristics of a man of Thamud. There was not an ounce of daintiness about him - he scratched himself distractedly while he was being questioned and was not particularly concerned about his personal hygiene.

During their conversation, he swore unceasingly, and thought nothing of threatening violence against those who annoyed him - this was completely understandable considering the deplorable conditions of the labor camps. The once beautiful young woman had learned to protect himself over the decades – and he still appreciated the sight of the young male actors he served. Yet his countenance became more solemn when he saw the young actresses prancing about in their costumes. My Master could almost hear the stagehand whispering the lines of the ancient plays to himself probably in memory of what could have been. For all intents and purposes, it seemed that the serum had largely preserved the actress' mind in the body of a menial laborer. This merely confirmed what my Master knew from the start, that the use of the serum as a form of retribution should never be allowed.

My Master was now faced with a simple choice - to continue living a lie, or gamble with a largely untested serum. Of course, he chose the latter.

My Master has desisted from describing his adventures following his transformation for fear of causing me offense and envy. He is right in so thinking for I am indeed as jealous as the Seven Gods, and he knows this. If he desires the company of another woman – and why shouldn't he, he has an entire harem of idle women at his disposal – then I insist on being there together with her pleasuring him.

In light of this, I prevailed upon him to purchase and send for my old friend Eumelia from Gaius' household, thinking that a new life in the palace would be preferable to one of endless toil in the fields of sexual avarice. My Master was eager to acquire her once I described her attributes.

As I have previously intimated, she was thoroughly callipygian and had the immense bosom of a typical barbarian maiden. Her flesh was that perfect blend of softness and firmness, and her pudenda exceptionally well sculpted. The distance of a few months, made it apparent to me that there was now little trace of the solider I once knew, but she was still my friend and she still remembered aspects of her old life as if they were daydreams.

While I was once her servant girl, I now stood several stations above her as my Master's favorite (and soon his imperial consort). I soon realized that she gained great relief if she was made to perform household chores for myself or my Master. It was not as if she could not be my friend but the serum had made service an erotic activity in itself. When the slave urges were upon her, she would be uncomfortable in anything but a position of obeisance. I knew that a cure for her ills might be found in the serum vaults of the kingdom of Thamud but my status at the time was not sufficient for me to access it with impunity. But even this seemed beside the point.

I had thought to spare my old friend a life of sexual servitude but this was not to be. She had told me in no uncertain terms that she had no wish to be a man ever again; and wondered why I sought to punish her in this fashion when I merely suggested a return to her old form. She was almost inconsolable and I dared not bring the matter up again. I could understand her desperation but only if I thought first and foremost of my Master.

Notwithstanding my earlier suggestions concerning my Master's mischievousness as a newly made young man, he had in truth retained a conservative attitude towards marriage and courtship; a vestige from his days as a young woman taking instruction at the feet of his mother. This was compounded by his unparalleled affection for Talosian courtly romances in which the hero remained devoted to his virginal bride through various perils – clearly always seeing himself in the knight gallant who was strong, immovable and loyal. His watchword to this day is fidelity.

I am sure some of you are wondering whether I found it especially humiliating to sexually acquiesce to a man who was once a woman. To be sure, all forms of submission were alien to me.

It is only with my Master that I find it absolutely correct that I should submit. I had somehow found my place in this world, or at least in his bedroom. I have told him in no uncertain terms that there is no comparison between being made love to as a woman, and making love as a man. Unlike him, I had experienced both and the former was far superior in every respect.

[Scribe's Note: Here the imperial censors have been at work again, preserving the reputation of Lady Zhou for posterity; not taking into account that these journal entries are foremost a love letter to her husband the King Idris II of Thamud.]

At first, I kept Eumelia as one in an ivory tower, shielding her from the men of the court. My Master would not touch her without her explicit permission, but I soon realized that she was in no position to offer it.

The familiar scene which I once observed in the slave school now repeated itself again in the bedchamber I shared with Eumelia. She had not been with a man for two weeks when the signs first appeared. The frantic rubbing at night when she could not be distracted was the least of it. She would beg to worship my feet and suck my toes, and after some hesitation I agreed to this. She was truly beautiful and irresistible to both men and women.

I could not resist squeezing her soft white breasts and kissing her pink teats, but this only made her more hungry, and her tongue made its way to my nub bringing me to orgasm after orgasm. All of this I did with my Master in attendance. I finally begged him to take her and quell her needs, which he did. He, of course, dominated her utterly. I stroked her body even as she was being penetrated, ensuring that her eager tongue still had access to my cunt. In short, I made sure that she was satisfied in every way to make up for my mistake. Her screams of contentment must have been heard across many hallways that night.

Henceforth, I did nothing to deprive her and we would share our Master's bed together at least once a week.

It was only too easy to forget that this was my old comrade in arms. Eumelia would reminisce with me about Ki in the tongue of the Qin, recalling places, people, and most of all the food. She would recollect all of this and even prior acts of murder, and then slip quite easily into her obsession with men. This was all of her being - my friend had not disappeared, she had merely emerged into this new form; like a colleague not seen for many years now much changed.

From my Master's statements and the histories I have read, I have come to the conclusion that both Eumelia and I were given only mildly altered versions of the original serum. I was meant to be, in every way, a helpless supplicant to any male who took command of me forcefully. This was obvious from the way my body moved reflexively whenever I was distracted or heavily intoxicated. I knew even then that the slave girl deep within me would dominate my entire being if ever I forgot who I once was. That path was easy, pleasurable, and instinctive; the other less traveled one which I have chosen more winding and treacherous.

Months later, when I left my beloved for the first time, I chose as my parting gift the elixir to reverse the slave urges in Eumelia. I would not see her again for almost three months.

Now as I write before the warm fire in my room, I can say that I have done all I can for her or at least as much she will allow me to. The woman who received me at the gates of the palace three months later still invited envious stares but was now a keen swordswoman. When sometimes she drank and caroused with the servant girls, I could still see aspects of the man I once knew on Ki. Her love of finery and seduction had not abated but I could see that some of her athleticism had been rekindled. She never lost her taste for submission - it had taken root firmly in her.

My final duty as a friend was to find her a partner who could care for her as she deserved. My Master is not a petty man and thinks nothing of letting others plough where he has sown; I being the sole exception to this rule. In the end, she was given to my Master's third sister who had always admired her from afar.

This evening, before I retired to the tower to write this entry, I saw them leaving through a side gate for a ritual at the Temple of Ea. They had promised to return with a tincture of holy water from the priestess that I might anoint myself and the life that I carry. They held hands and kissed thinking no one was about them. They made a handsome and very loving couple.

Previously: Amber (later known as Zhou Yu) has been trained at a slave school in the ways of a pleasure slave. Sold into the house of a feudal lord named, Gaius, she has proved useful in enlarging his fortune; but at the cost of enraging the emissaries of the Seven Gods who have promised to chasten her. She disappears suddenly from Gaius' villa in Albion, and awakes in Thamud where she is sold into the royal household. There she meets her Master and learns of his "secret."

Last night I dreamt I walked in the halls of the Seven again. Here the emissaries are in a constant state of worship and guardians stood silently in rows watching over rivers of mercury. The walls were made of burnished bronze and studded with beryl, rubies, and lapis lazuli; and the pavements lined with silver and gold. The chosen enclosed my body in a sarcophagus of light and instruments more advanced than anything in Thamud or even Talos groaned in the background probing my my soul. My mind was a swarm of thoughts - a myriad realities where every consequence of my actions and inaction played out. I held them in my hands and then lost them as they evaporated into nothingness. I was asked questions which I have since forgotten, and I gave answers which I no longer comprehend. All I know is that I was given a choice.

My Master gave me the slave name, Shasa, when he branded me. He is a creature of habit and tradition, and it is common knowledge that this asserts a master's complete dominance over his property. I can attest to this both during my time in the slave school and with my Master here in the Grand Palace of Thamud. For the natural slave, not having a name and then acquiring one from her master is humbling and erotic.

When my Master first saw me displayed in the souk, he had been filled with lust and thought only of dominating me, which he did. It is an experience that I will never forget and which I still cherish. Months later, I sensed he felt a modicum of regret in enslaving the woman he had grown to love; perhaps he had been persuaded that words of affection and loving action form far stronger bonds then a brand and a collar.

As a soldier back on Ki, my name had been Cheng Yi. Since my days in Gaius' villa, I held a new name in my heart that I would not completely lose myself in the ignominious acts I was made to perform as a servant girl.

One night, as we lay in bed after lovemaking, my Master asked me whether I had a name in the language of the Qin.

“I do, Master,” I said softly. “My name is, Zhou Yu.” This was the first time I had told anyone my real name.

He repeated it a few times, finally managing to get the pronunciation correct. This is the name by which I have come to be known in the land of Thamud.

I told him that he could call me, Xiao Yu, if he wished – a diminutive which means “little fish” in one of the languages of the Qin. He liked that and did so constantly when we were alone. He was even more excited when I begged him to call me Shasha when I was with him in bed that he might better master me and make me yield.

I knew by now that I would never give up the body I now possessed. I had no more use for my bargain with Anais, the dark-haired Talosian spy who I met during my first days on An. The very idea of becoming a man again and returning to Ki had become unthinkable in the space of two short years. Every time I played the wayward slave girl in his bed; every time my Master tamed me and crushed me in his strong arms; every time he took me and brought me to ecstasies - I knew I did not miss my old life.

But then, as predicted by Anais, the Qin found me.

The Talosian empire had reach its present size by absorbing two of its smaller neighbors. It was only a matter of time before hostilities between Thamud and Talos would boil over. There was every sign that the war of words would progress to something more physical. The Talosian border patrols were now larger and more assertive, and the threats from petty satraps were getting bolder with each passing day; as if they knew they had license to make mischief.

All small states learn to consult the Qin in times like these and Thamud was no different. The Qin would provide information, strategies, supplies, and even new and inventive defensive implements in times of need; but they are nothing if not mercurial. My Master, the Crown Prince of Thamud, negotiated with the Qin alone. They came armed with maps and plans of the Talosian border towns; and with suggestions for defending ourselves.

And of course they asked to see me.

I was brought before them in the robes of a royal concubine, whereupon the Qin ambassador – a woman in her forties - promptly informed my Master that I was a spy. My entire history, including much of what I have written here, was then laid bare including my agreement with Anais. They then offered to take me and rehabilitate me in the temples and academies of Emei, in the Flaming Mountains.

My Master would have none of this and replied to them saying, “I trust her completely and I will not let her go. This is my final word on the matter.”

The ambassador replied calmly, “We are sure you have excellent reasons for trusting the girl beside you, Your Highness, but you must understand that she was brought to An explicitly to undermine Thamud not to mention ourselves. Now that a gathering storm approaches, you would be wise to reassess your affection for this woman.

“You have until tomorrow to consider our generous offer. A king should not let a mere slave girl hold captive the fate of an entire kingdom.”

She then proceeded to enumerate the occasions when the Qin's own dynastic kingdoms had fallen when kings were led astray by cruel, duplicitous, or wanton women. As a Qin woman, I knew many of these stories - they were in fact from the historical annals of my homeland on Ki - but what a difference it was to hear these stories from my new perspective. Was my sex truly so poisonous, or were these histories simply written by men?

That night, I told my Master that everything the Qin ambassador had revealed about me was true save one – that I would never betray him or Thamud. I no longer wished to be reacquainted with my old body, at least not any more than he did with his. I would go with the Qin to convince them of my innocence. In exchange, the Qin would assist in the defense of Thamud without qualms.

My Master understood that the Qin could not take a chance with a potential spy in their midst even as they planned to repel the Talosians; but he still resisted the idea of giving me up. He protested and pleaded with me at length but, in the end, he knew from experience that I would have my way. While I looked every bit the innocent slave girl, he knew that I came to him with experience well beyond my years - I was intimately acquainted with deprivation, cruelty, and violence. If my love for my Master was at stake as it was here, nothing would deter me from my course.

“Return to me,” he told me. He held a goblet to my lips and bade me drink, something no master should do for his slave.

[Scribe's Note: The following section has been redacted in the few extant copies of the Journal]

I made love to him, covering his entire body with kisses. His muscular body was a delight to touch and I ran my fingers softly over him making him squirm. The sensation of the ridges and valleys of his firm male abdomen made me hot with desire. I followed the trail of bristly hairs down to his groin and licked his manhood lovingly before proceeding to suck it with abandon. Whenever I sensed he was about to lose control, I would desist and roll his cock over my cheeks and nose; I could not get enough of it. I made sure to let out sighs of pleasure as I did so – it was not difficult, it tasted absolutely delicious. Once he had regained control, I used one of my small hands to massage him eliciting groans of pleasure which filled the room. My fingers were dwarfed by his stout tool, a fact which never ceased to amaze me whenever I had a chance to worship it as a slave girl.

Then I felt his hand in my mane pulling me off; he could wait no longer. He lifted me with the ease of one lifting a small kitten. So small was I in his arms. He had not touched me but already my nipples and lower lips were swollen with lust. Then suckling desperately on my breasts, he let me fall decisively on to his penis, filling me to the brim. We thrusts against each other as I wrapped my thighs around him for leverage. I assure you there is nothing which a man experiences in love that can compare with this – the feeling of being filled with the pulsating flesh of your Master; his lips nipping and pulling at your teats; and the glorious friction of his body against your nub. I lost control and orgasmed twice while still impaled on him.

Then still within me, he flipped me over My posterior was now lifted towards him as it was on our first night together. He slapped my flesh lovingly - I knew he liked the way it briefly wobbled - and began to take me from behind. I was left sucking my fingers to prevent the volumes of my screams from getting any louder. Then with two firm thrust, he ejaculated and filled with me with his warm cream. Like a trained passion slave, I gripped him tightly with my nether muscles and massaged his member. By now, we were both covered with a sheen of fine perspiration; I was still gasping when he fell forward lightly on to my back and started licking my ears and neck, and playing with my breasts.

We remained like this for several minutes before he softened and slowly withdrew from me. Then as if reminded of something, he straightened up while holding me in that position of submission. I felt his fingers on my labia pinching them close, then felt myself flipped on to my back as my legs and pelvis were lifted upwards to ensure my womb would be inundated with his offering. I should have suspected that something was amiss, but my eyes were shut tight and I was still lost in the fading ripples of my last orgasm. It was only 6 weeks later when I missed my moon cycle that I recalled this strange ritual.

[Scribe's Note: Lady Zhou's journal continues.]

Thus I left Thalmud both a contented woman and miserable one.

On the morning of my departure I was dressed to look like any of the other servant girls in the halls of the Qin. My hand was pinned up in an elaborate coiffure. I had been given a loose diaphanous silk dress typical of an ancient dynasty from Ki and [huadian] make-up applied to my forehead.

I could see that my master was surprised to see me dressed in this fashion. He was probably wondering why I had never dressed like this for him before. The answer being that I would not have known where to begin in the first place; my sole expertise being in the slave tunics and dresses of the women of Talos and Albion. Everything had been arranged that morning by the two servants who traveled as attendants for the Qin ambassador.

I knelt before my master one last time but he lifted me up to my feet and hugged me reminding me in whispers not to forget my promise to return to him. I was then ushered into a waiting carriage. It would take us nearly a week to reach the Flaming Mountains.

I sat alone with the ambassador; she did not seem especially concerned that she sat opposite a former Talosian spy with a history of violence.

As if she read my thoughts she said, “Don't be surprised my dear, didn't you protest your innocence just yesterday. And wouldn't killing me in this carriage destroy all that you hope to accomplish?

“Let me see your face, dear,” she said pleasantly, holding out her fingers to lift my chin, turning my face slightly. “And now your hands, if you will. I will need some of your blood.”

A few drops was all she needed for the two small tubes she produced from a wooden carrying case. Upon contact with a few drops of my blood, the clear liquid in one of these tubes slowly turned red, while the other turned blue.

“Thank you. Now that I've ascertained that you do in fact come from Ki and were once a man we can continue our discussion as we make our way to Emei. Do you prefer to speak in Mandarin? I have studied the vernacular Mandarin of Ki from other visitors to this world, and wouldn't mind some practice. You may call me Diaochan.”

It was a clearly a false name for no Qin woman would have the gall to claim that appellation. Diaochan was one of the four legendary beauties of ancient Qin, and while my interlocutor was certainly beautiful - looking at least 5 years less than her actual age – one wonders if she was truly worthy of being named for someone who brought down the the greatest despot and warrior of her time.

“The process which you have just witnessed analyzes the humors in the air which surround each city of the continent. From this we can tell in which parts of this world you have stayed longest. As you know, the Seven gods have chosen to keep this place a backwater of knowledge and alchemy but they have tolerated these minor advances in biochemistry.

“We know much about you but would like to know more. I will divulge what knowledge has come to us after which you will answer whatever questions I have. I am sure you will be cooperative; Gaius tells us you were an obedient girl during your time with him. Except for the part where you almost killed him, of course.

“As you must have guessed by now, we have known of you ever since they day you were brought to An by that dear lady of Talos, she of the dark hair and miserable sense of humor. She sometimes goes by the name of Anais. The servant girl who tended to you on your first day was one of ours and she gave you everything you needed to survive in this world.

“Don't look so shocked. Did you think you resisted the slave serum because of some innate ability of yours? I'm afraid the science of the serum has been perfected and its effects quite reliable. I do not doubt you have a strong will but that would only get you so far in the face of the perfection of that science.

“Do not look so downcast, your efforts have not been completely wasted. If nothing else, think of what you have done for the kingdom of Thamud.

“And why have you taken me only now?” I asked, guessing already at the answer I would get.

“Could we have judged your character better if we had taken you earlier? As for why, well, perhaps we are not completely sure that we can trust you not to return to the Talosians and their promised rewards. We are ever cautious in our ways, though my servant girls have intimated to me that you would not consider becoming a man again any sort of reward. Judging from the way you've enjoyed dressing up and the way you comport yourself, you have truly become a woman in every sense of the word.

“Perhaps I should strangle you here and prove otherwise.”

She clicked her tongue and said, “That would hardly prove your lack of femininity. In any case, have you not considered that you are of greater value to us as the Talosian spy you once were? I am sure that scheming little brain of yours has worked it all out. It is one of the reasons why you agreed to join us on this trip to Qin, is it not? In this you will serve the cause of the prince of Thamud and that of revenge if you so wish. Yes, I think you will prove quite useful in the grand scheme of things.

Six months ago I left my happiness in Thamud behind to enter the service of the Qin. At the time, I feared it would be forever. For three months, I served the Qin and sought to prove my loyalty to them and to Thamud.

While the Qin believed that man was by nature good, they also took very much to heart selfish human nature. It was already in the nature of the Qin to help small states overcome aggressive large ones in times of war. It was their way of managing the peace in An. They had lost track of me when I disappeared from Gaius' villa and their worst fears were realized when I reappeared on the arm of the crown prince in the palace of Thamud.

To the Talosians (if they even had knowledge of my sojourn in Thamud), I was simply a little girl lost found by her own kind. As for the Qin, once a presentable amount of time had elapsed and I was firmly established as a servant in the Qin palace, they would proceed to feed Talos whatever information they desired. Their advantage in information was everything in this game.

I was made a servant girl to the youngest daughter of the Qin emperor – the Third Princess called Pingyang; that name presumably chosen that she might draw inspiration from her famous historical forebear. She was a very well behaved and precocious woman of sixteen who cultivated a reputation for frivolousness and naivete; all this to shield her from the machinations of the Qin court and her power hungry siblings. Writing now in the comforts of the women's tower in Thamud, one wonders whether the Qin ambassador had hoped I would form a bond with the Princess while in her service, for this I surely did. Even now we exchange letters detailing our experiences while leagues apart. Her kindness during my short tenure in the Qin mountains has emboldened me to help her in any way which might improve her standing in the Qin palace.

As part of my duties, I was sent on delivery trips first to small villages and then to the larger cities on the continent. They made me do the rounds of the various Qin communities and merchants which ran businesses in all of the capital cities. On my first trip to Albion, I finally made contact with the Talosian spy network and promptly handed over whatever paltry information I had, allowing them to put pressure on me to deliver something more substantial.

Soon I was communicating the internal gossip of the Qin courts. Nothing was left out, including the power struggles in the inner court reserved solely for women. Finally, I began to ladle them major revelations about troop compositions and readiness but always leaving out critical pieces of information, thus painting an incomplete picture of Thamudian strength and placements; breeding overconfidence and hubris. The Qin and I did all we could to make them ill-prepared for a long siege.

But it was not always this way; most of my days were spent in the company of the Third Princess and tending to her needs. She had clearly been informed that I had a way with violence for she would often smilingly remind me me not to be too quick to pull out my weapon whenever we found ourselves in any crowded spaces.

I had been in her presence barely three days, before she told me that I was the strangest serving girl she had ever had in her few short years on this plane. She said I was very beautiful and even seductive in my movements, but it was as if I had never really been taught how to be a woman. Then touching my hair she wondered aloud, “What a strange childhood you must have had, Zhou Yu.”

She quickly apologized and said that she had no right to judge someone who didn't have the advantages that she had; and that there was no single way a woman should act. But it was clear that, from that day, she had secretly undertaken to teach me how a lady-in-waiting of the Qin court should act and to interest me in more feminine pursuits.

She would take time each week to visit the forests of stele and take rubbings from the many inscriptions there, after which we would practice calligraphy together and recite poetry first in her tongue and then in mine. Deeper still in the mountains, are the distant cousins of the Qin known as the Balhae who have constructed gargantuan woodblock libraries dedicated to the teachings of the dark god of enlightenment whose cult can be found throughout the continent. I spent two days here in the company of my mistress, not understanding a single word as she conversed with the monks behind screened compartments. I have wondered since whether this too was part of the Qin network of spies.

In my two years on An, I had mostly been in the service of men or engaged with other women in servicing them. This was the first time I had been ensconced in a community of women concerned only about their own thoughts and desires. When I returned to Thamud and my beloved after the space of three months, he did suggest that I seemed somehow different. I simply smiled and turned away to speak with his mother and sisters, showing them the gifts I had brought for them from the land of the Qin.

Previously: Amber (later known as Zhou Yu) has been trained at a slave school in the ways of a pleasure slave. Sold into the house of a feudal lord named, Gaius, she has proved useful in enlarging his fortune; but at the cost of enraging the emissaries of the Seven Gods who have promised to chasten her. She disappears suddenly from Gaius' villa in Albion, and awakes in Thamud where she is sold into the royal household. There she meets her Master and learns of his "secret." Discovered by the Qin and accused of being a spy, she is forced to spend three months as a servant girl at Emei in the Flaming Mountains.

Chapter 9 - Homecoming . An Argument

Dear Reader,

I have tried my best to forget every evil thing that was done to me since I arrived on An. Better this than to wallow in despair or the desire for revenge.

If you wonder why I write nothing about being whipped in the slave school or in the house of Gaius, than this is the reason why. Nor have I written about using my mouth to please men to whom I was not attracted in Gaius' villa, though most would have assumed this was the case. I had no problems with the many kind and beautiful guests – both men and women - who attended Gaius' banquets but a slave girl of my standing could not choose. I was trained to an exacting standard in the slave school in Albion and I performed as a passion slave is expected to.

Without the slave urges, it was left to me to fully expose the Submissive who is always at the periphery of my soul. Only because I managed to forget myself and enter fully into the role of a pleasure slave were those times bearable. That and seeing everything as punishment for the men and women I have murdered as a mercenary on Ki.

So it is that write about my return to Thamud and my first night with my beloved. The first time I was reminded what it meant to be a woman in the hands of men in many months and, worse, by the man I loved. For a moment, I knew once again my status in this world and what was expected of me.

Once I finished conversing with my beloved's family, we retired to his bedchamber where I proceeded to tell him of everything that I had done while with the Qin including all the information I had conveyed to them concerning the defenses of Thamud. I, of course, explained that this was all a deception and in service to the defense of the realm. Yet I could sense his growing anger as I gradually revealed all the information I had revealed to the Talosians, clouding his initial joy at seeing me again. He finally reached his limit when I informed him that the Talosians knew about our poor harvest and the Horse Fever which had ravaged the Thamudian calvary. The next moment, he kicked a chair clean across the room furiously.

I fell to my knees instinctively in deference and fear; such is this body I now possess and its reflexes. I fought through my slave instincts which gripped me and spoke.

“I have done everything for the sake of Thamud and you, Master. The Qin have already arranged for us to obtain horses from the nomadic steppe tribes, and have undertaken to send us grain from their own stores.”

“Do you understand that our every weakness has been revealed to the Talosians.” he told me sternly.

“It was necessary so that they would trust me and the information I plan to give them even now as the battle draws near. If you do not trust the Qin, will you not trust me?

“I trust you Shasa but you have gambled with all the lives in Thamud.”

“I would give my life for Thamud – whether they see it or not, they are my people now just as you will always be my Master.

My Master was not quick to anger but once ignited it would take some time for him to regain his composure. I knew it was my duty as his consort to calm him, just as the Queen would calm her own husband in times past. I was the only one who could do this but now I was the object of his displeasure. He glowered and would not speak; and my own irritation grew - as a woman, as his companion, and as a person whose devotion and service had been spurned. Neither of us would repent of our actions.

“And what about this?” I finally said, with an edge in my voice, pointing to my slightly swollen belly. I was at that time three month pregnant but, in all honesty, with my small frame, one would have thought I had merely had too much to eat that day. “Did you intentionally impregnate me?” I asked indignantly. “Were you so concerned that I would open my legs to the first Qin man I saw and bear his child?

“Should a master ask his bitch's permission in matters like this?” he said under his breath with a vicious authority that startled me. He clearly had enough of my slave defiance. I was perhaps the only slave girl in all of Thamud who would dare to speak to him like this. This was not the man I loved but some monstrous male.

His words were as daggers through my heart. I could see the regret on his face within moments of his irritable outburst. He knew that he had hurt me. Tears welled in my eyes and then I felt my anger rising. I had almost forgotten that, all my experiences with my Master notwithstanding, this world was medieval and barely civilized by the standards of Ki.

My love for him seemed to evaporate for a few moments. Could I love this man who could call me – the woman who bore his child - a mere domestic animal to be used as he saw fit? Was this what truly lay in his heart? And what would happen if he struck me in anger? I was prepared to defend myself but I did not know if I could disable him without also killing him. And in spite of everything, I knew I could not kill this man who I still loved.

Suddenly, I felt him reach out to me and his fingers on my arm.

“Don't touch me!” I shouted. I do not think he had ever heard me raise my voice in all my time with him, and he knew then how serious this had become.

A few tears streamed down my face and I spoke shakily but audibly, “I am delighted to bear your child. It is the greatest gift you could have given me, and yet you treat me like a common animal. Have you forgotten everything from your childhood, and will you have the people you love treated like objects, mere things to be used and discarded?”

“I love you, Zhou Yu. Please forgive me,” he said, with a certain tremulousness in his voice.

He was on his knees holding my feet and then my waist from behind. I could feels his tear through my silk dress.

“Please forgive me, I beg you,” he said softly as he wept.

My anger still burned in me. I turned around and we held each other. He kept saying sorry and I wished my anger would abate. I had never seen him so vulnerable as at that time. Time of course heals all things but I knew for certain then that, the difficulties in this world notwithstanding, even a woman who has been taken must maintain her own independent means and security to the best of her ability.

Since then, my beloved has never raised his voice to me again or shown any violence in my direction. Master, if you read this, do not assume that our relationship is irreparable. Just because I am independent in means and mind, does not mean that I cannot love with all my heart.

Let me speak to you in the poetry of the world from which the Seven Gods brought me to you.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!
For your love is better than wine;
your anointing oils are fragrant;
your name is oil poured out;
therefore virgins love you.
Draw me after you; let us run.
The king has brought me into his chambers.

Come, my beloved,
let us go out into the fields
and lodge in the villages;
let us go out early to the vineyards
and see whether the vines have budded,
whether the grape blossoms have opened
and the pomegranates are in bloom.
There I will give you my love.”

[Scribe's Note: A redaction occurs here.]

I was clear that my master feared thatl our love had forever been tarnished, so I gave him varied assurances that I would always be by his side.

I had taken to wearing simple silk underwear when a guest of the Qin in the inner courts of the Third Princess. I continued with this even when I returned home so that when next I disrobed for my master, removing my sirwal, he saw my nether regions enclosed in tight silken fabric. I had also used a translucent silk cloth to bind and lift up my breasts as if they were gifts. He was enraptured when he saw this - my labia were outlined by the silk as was my nub, my posterior seemed even more inviting when enclosed in that tight material. I saw that he was hard with desire and pressed my breasts to his face, then sat lightly in his lap rubbing his member through his loin cloth with my thighs.

By now the silk which I wore was stained with moisture from within me. He pushed his fingers into me and made me gush even more. Then as I playfully shook my head in protestation, he tore my silken loin cloth off and placed it gently in my mouth to stifle my screams. Then he placed me on my back and took me.

He played with my breasts with one hand, and with the other held my chin lightly. I was now whining through my silken gag and my eyes pled with him to take me harder; which he did. When he knew that I had lost all reason, he pulled the gag from my mouth and allowed me to grunt even more obscenely – our eyes fixed ever on each other until I could do nothing but close them as an intense spasm cascaded through my body.

I have no idea whether this was his idea of an apology but in lieu of conversation, he licked and fingered me to even more ecstasies until I could take no more; so exhausted was I by his ministrations. He held me, and stroked and kissed my hair and my face until I fell asleep contented in his arms.

[Scribe's Note: The journal continues again.]

I return now to a time adjacent to when I began this journal.

Our scouts had informed us of the encroaching armies of Talos who would cross our border in a matter of weeks.

When they had finally made an incursion, I used the Talosian networks to convey the exact placement of the Thamudian armies and their composition. Further, I gave them information as to where we planned to ambush the invading armies enroute to our border, and how we intended to do so. The mounted attack on their column occurred just as I predicted giving the Talosians even more confidence in my material – all of which was entirely fabricated to our advantage. We would hit them with force where they least expected, poison their supply trains, then retire to our border fortresses to wait and defend against their cloud towers and earthworks.

Our only concern were the emissaries of the Seven Gods and whether the use of gas, oil, and “fire medicine” in warfare would violate the restrictions that they had placed on this pre-industrial civilization. As I have written previously, it was never entirely clear whether the scale of the violence or methods by which this was accomplished moved their hearts one way or another.

In the capital city, I had set out on my own light armor so that I could accompany my master, at the very least, to a walled town in the rear which harbored supplies. When he saw me so dressed, he immediately made to unbuckle my armor starting with my breast plate.

“There is absolutely no reason for you to join me. You have done more than enough for me and Thamud. Please desist from your irresponsible behavior and remain in the city,” he said. He was clearly harried and exasperated.

“It is unbecoming for a master to request things of his slave. Can I assume this is your command?” I asked sweetly.

“It is a request,” he grumbled under his breath. “Will you be more obedient if I asked this as your husband?”

“In case my Master has forgotten, when we first met, you branded me in lieu of a ring.”

“You will be risking two lives instead of one,” he said. I was of course now fully showing.

As you already know dear reader, I obeyed. I accompanied him no further than the walled town before returning to the capital to while away the summer and autumn in worry and writing.

My Master's sisters kept me distracted as did Eumelia, dissuading me from my studies with the bow and sword once I had reached my fifth month. Instead they encouraged me to return to my lessons with the guzheng which I had not touched since returning to Thamud from Qin; and when that failed to distract, engaged me in lessons in embroidery. I do not know if that suited my frame of mind any better.

It is a strange thing to carry a life within your belly and I certainly had no expectations of doing so as a young boy. My nausea had thankfully ceased by the time I returned from Emei but I had begun to notice some swelling in my feet on prolonged standing. I would watch as my sisters instructed the maids on the preparations for the baby's room. They had even engaged a wet nurse for me. My breasts were already growing and I was looking forward to breastfeeding my child since I experienced my foremilk, but they were ever cautious.

There were a number of things I knew to expect from my body once I became a woman on An; if only from the experiences of others. I expected my moon cycles to be painful, and they were at least some of the time. I also knew that I would have to start examining my breasts more regularly in years to come because my mother had developed lesions there. What I did not expect was to feel an intense desire for my Master even halfway through my pregnancy. I had expected the opposite though I presume at least some men find a pregnant woman desirable. I do not know if it is simply this body or something quite natural - no one was quite prepared to discuss this with me, save one.

I asked Eumelia about this since she was clearly the most shameless woman in the court and the most experienced sexually speaking. As expected, she had not only heard of these urges but seen them occur in a slave who had been bred at Gaius' house. The women of the harem would service each other in these instances; especially when no men cared to take them later in their pregnancies. She described absurd tales of women fornicating and sharing their breast milk with each other which I thought...[...]...

[Scribe's Note: This next section has been lost.]

Previously: Amber (later known as Zhou Yu) has been trained at a slave school in the ways of a pleasure slave. Sold into the house of a feudal lord named, Gaius, she has proved useful in enlarging his fortune; but at the cost of enraging the emissaries of the Seven Gods who have promised to chasten her. She disappears suddenly from Gaius' villa in Albion, and awakes in Thamud where she is sold into the royal household. There she meets her Master and learns of his "secret." Discovered by the Qin and accused of being a spy, she is forced to spend three months as a servant girl at Emei in the Flaming Mountains. Returning to Thamud, she begins preparations to meet the invading armies of Talos. She is three months pregnant with her Master's child.

Chapter 10 An Uneasy Peace . Motherhood

Our late Winter negotiations with Talos ended in indecision and suspicion; and the Qin negotiators arrived in the capital of Talos to replace them and begin their own entreaties one week ago. Messengers continually arrive from across the border with days old news of what has transpired.

The Qin first appealed to the Talosian emperor's military acumen.

They reiterated that the forces of Thamud, without the conspicuous aid of the Qin, had annihilated the invading armies of Talos last winter.

They added that they had just returned from the emissaries of the Seven and received word that the Qin's personal intervention in the conflict would not be impeded. At their disposal, was a more extensive knowledge of the transport and use of the fire medicine derived from saltpeter and sulfur, as well as the gas and oil normally used to heat the cities of the Qin. The Talosian already knew of the Qin's ability to fight off siege engines and this would only add to their worries. In essence, they promised to make Thamud a poisonous frog which if consumed would only make Talos vulnerable to all its neighbors

They then appealed to the Talosian Emperor's reason reciting a story from their own ancient history, a story about an imminent war between the much larger state of Chu against the state of Song which was but a tenth of its side.

[Scribes Note: Here a meeting between Mozi and the King of Chu is given in a translation by a scholar of Ki by the name of “Johnston.”]

“Suppose now there is a man who casts aside his own decorated sedan and wishes to steal a broken-down carriage which his neighbor has; who casts aside his own embroidered coat and wishes to steal a short jacket of coarse cloth which his neighbor has; who cast aside his own grain and meat and wished to steal chaff and dregs which his neighbor has. What sort of man would this be?

The king replied: “He would certainly be a pathological thief.”

In relating this they allowed the Talosians a moral and face saving excuse to forego a new invasion of Thamud. And so the Emperor of Talos, after a period of deliberation, relented, and an uneasy peace has settled upon us. The negotiations continue as I write and our preparations for war proceed as planned but now at a slower pace; we dare not assume that Talos is done with us.

Dear Reader,

My first portrait on An was done when I was first married to my beloved; we were both dressed in all the finery of the royal house and stood before an imagined Thamudian landscape. Later, I would sit for portraits with the entire royal family and once again when I was pregnant.

In the latter work, my husband and I can be seen standing in our bedchamber while wearing the attire of Thamudian royalty. The room was decorated with fine silks, gold ornaments, and decorative colored glass, a specialty of the Northern “Barbarians.”

I wore a headdress which largely covered my hair, and also an ear ring on my left ear lobe which peeped out from underneath my veil; indicating that I had once been a slave. My husband's large mastiff sits obediently in the background between us on an elaborate Thamudian rug. A convex mirror above this reflects not only us but a distorted map of all the historical borders of our land; even those which had been previous annexed by the Talosians. I am looking down demurely and at my beloved as he looks out towards the viewer, his hand lightly and possessively touching my pregnant belly.

My first born child arrived in the Winter and he was a boy. We named him, Safin.

It has been a week since he was given to me. He now sleeps in a cradle by my writing table after his feeding. He is so well behaved and the joy of his father. My delivery was, thank the Seven, uneventful or so the midwife has told me. I have not seen any woman in labor but I can truthfully say that it is as painful as it is rumored to be; I have been told that it will get easier with my third child if not my second. The kingdom is always in need of more heirs and I am willing and happy to perform my duty.

It is tiring but fulfilling to be a mother. I had hoped it would be so but still harbor doubts about my fitness to take on this role. I am much too young, too lacking in the milk of human kindness, too selfish. More than ever, I wish that I had grown up as a girl; I feel that would have better prepared me for my obligations as a mother.

The Queen and my sisters have helped me considerably – delighted as they are with the first new life in the royal household in years. I am sometimes tearful, and they have spent long hours waiting on me and talking with me when I am willing. When I drift off to sleep only to be awakened by my son's cries, one of them is always beside me, to help me. I have told them to leave but they will not as long as they see the unaccustomed sadness on my face.

I know this will pass. I still dream of life with my son and my beloved. What a joy it will be to see him grow. I now know, more than ever, that I was given the greatest gift in the world on that day, over three years ago, when I was taken to this world and made a woman.

If I am tardy with further entries into this journal, all new mothers will know why.

[Scribe's Note: It is unclear if any other entries were written by Lady Zhou between Chapters 10 and 11 of this transcription. But if there were, they have either been lost or excised. The following section occurs in the third year of the reign of King Idis II of Thamud. It has been four years since the last entry transcribed.]

Chapter 11 Three Years Later . Absent Friends

Dear Reader,

I take up my pen again with some reluctance. But I must write.

Eumelia is dead.

It has taken me nearly six months to write these words.

My last connection with Ki gone (or so I thought).
Oh my dear friend, why did you leave me so soon?

She left with a smile on her face as I placed her daughter in her arms. Her face was ashen, her vision dimmed, and she fell away without a word.

Her wife, the Third Princess, would not be consoled for months, wracked with the guilt of having made her bear a child. Which is, of course, nonsense and I told her so; for Eumelia wanted a child more than anything else. She was familiar with my own happiness at childbearing and this was something she had dreamed about since she fully accepted her new gender.

The child is a beautiful baby girl with green eyes and her mother's blonde hair. Her father is my Master, the King of Thamud. The Princess has named her, Amal.

Even now, I sometimes see the Princess walk the palace gardens alone, always choosing the path through the labyrinth which was their favorite. They say that time heals all wounds. I can only hope that this will be true for both of us.

Why have I only written of this now? Because now, more than ever, I feel acutely the pain which the Seven have sent my way, and their cruel humor.

As always, I found this pain in Talos where my son was to be betrothed to the daughter of Princess Sabine of Talos. He is four and she is three. They met quite unaware of what their selfish and uncaring parents had arranged for them; for it is the way of this world; that our kingdoms may at least tread softly into a long peace.

A minor emissary of the Seven was in attendance to witness this event, as was an ambassador of the Qin. The meaning of this seemed plain - that no one should lightly tear asunder the bonds that were being laid down that day.

I have come to the other reason why I must write, if only to assuage my guilt. Now, months later, I can write about what happened in Talos more dispassionately, with an eye to my own poor justifications and faults; with a more even assessment of my own impoverished morality and thinking.

It was as always Anais who led me to this point – that woman who had brought me to An, forever altering the trajectory of my life. I had not seen her for four years and had been glad to see the back of her; except that as usual she found me.

As I walked the strangely deserted streets of Talos with my guards, I saw a slight figure dressed in flowing silks. She approached us with a nonchalant gait and a smiled which reeked of her usual confidence. Anais enticed me with an offering – a gift in thanks for being returned little harmed to Talos; she having been my prisoner following the conclusion of the last war.

We spoke in the corner of an establishment called somewhat incongruously, The Eudaimon, possibly the most renowned slave tavern in Talos. Suffice to say that the place had nothing to with reason, ethics, or self-actualization.

Leaning forward conspiratorially, she pointed towards a sinuous shadow making its way across the large room.

“Do you recognize her?” she asked me

“No, I do not,” I answered.

I saw a typically beautiful Talosian slave girl glide towards a young and clearly wealthy patron who hurriedly cleared his table of unwanted guests and attendants as she approached him. I looked more closely and saw that she had the facial features and light brown skin of a Thamudian woman. I remember thinking to myself that while I could not save every tavern girl in Talos, I could at least attempt to do something for one of my own countrywomen.

I could see she had lightly toned but fleshy limbs, a magnificent belly and hips, and, of course, ripe breasts which fell attractively on her torso. She had clearly been born with tremendous advantages but I knew from experience that she had spent many hours cultivating and maintaining her appearance. This was no ordinary serving girl.

She seemed at times innocent and demure but would then shift her posture revealing the undersides of her breasts or her inner thighs. She would occasionally caress her patron's cheeks with her nipples when she served him drinks, or bring her hand down to affectionately squeeze his crotch if she noticed that he was becoming hard. To my shame, I felt my own lust for her growing in me.

“She is incredibly skilled. I almost envy her.”

“Aisha is all that and more - the first girl of this tavern and one of the most famous pleasure slaves in the quarter. She commands a very high price for a night's amusement. And there is something else which might interest you - I understand she speaks the language of the Qin of Ki. Do you take my meaning? ”

That made me scowl. “You are a disgusting liar, Anais, and always have been. What have I done to deserve your hatred? Did I not release you when I could have listened to my husband and had you put down?”

Anais affected a look of exaggerated shock and continued.

“I am quite sure that you are as pure as the driven snows of Thamud, my Lady. But let me remind you that by all accounts, you are especially deserving of my hatred and wrath considering how you misled me, decimated the army of my paymasters, the Talosians, through your intrigues, and then plotted to capture me. Now look at me, reduced to weeding out pathetic insurrectionists within the borders of the Kingdom.”

The fact that she spoke the [Chinese] of Ki strongly suggested to me that she was a woman from my home world and, from the way she held herself, very like a serum girl. It is said that the serum slows the pace of aging but this has never been studied. The life of a slave girl is so hard that whatever benefits which might accrue to her constitution are quickly erased with years of difficult service. I, however, saw no signs of wear on her.

Anais, interrupted my train of thought. “This is a gift; a peace offering. It is well known, even in Talos, that your Highness has charitable instincts towards slave girls having been one herself. Now that I have assisted you, perhaps you will think of me in the months and years to come should I be in need.

“I have already told the tavern owner that he should expect a potential customer for one of his girls. He will drive a hard bargain but will be more forgiving now that he knows that you have my imprimatur. The drinks have been paid for.”

With that, Anais took her leave of me. But before that, she leaned down and whispered a name in my ear.

The name was one that I had not heard for seven years, the name of the leader of the group of mercenaries I once belonged to on Ki; the man who had trained me and whom I had respected since I was brought into the fold.

The last time I had seen him was in the back of a wooden cart where he lay asleep with Eumelia [see Chapter 1]. I had not recognized them then as my brothers in arms. I had not even bothered to look for any of them.

It had been seven years since I last saw him.
He had been a slave girl for seven years.

I resisted the urge to weep then; I would not as long as Anais stood within sight of me. I had on me a pair of heavy chainsticks fashioned after those favored by the [Ryuku] islanders of Ki. I gripped them tightly in my palm to prevent myself from losing control.

The moment I saw Anais leave the tavern, I got up and made my way to the back rooms to make my bargain with the owner. I had on my wrist, a bracelet of exceptional craftsmanship encrusted with rubies and sapphires given to me by my Lord. The owner did not hesitate for one moment – he knew I was of the Thamudian Royal House; the price was more than adequate; and my face clearly indicated that I would not tolerate any further bargaining.

Once I had Aisha's ownership papers and the seal designating her release, I walked back into the main room of the tavern, gripping my chainsticks tightly. I do not remember much else except being pulled off a bloodied man by my bodyguards. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aisha huddled in a corner screaming in terror.

Previously: It has been four years since Zhou Yu has written in her journal. Her friend, Eumelia, from Earth (Ki) has died in childbirth, and she has just discovered that the two women held captive with him when she was first brought to An were actually her male mercenary counterparts from Earth [see Chapters 1 and 11]. Zhou Yu has just managed to retrieve her formerly male friend (now called Aisha) who has been working as a slave girl for the past few years.

It has been seven years since Zhou Yu was first transformed into a woman and brought to An.

Chapter 12 - Aisha's Story

Anais' Surveillance Notes: Albion-04-010 [In English]

The Chinese girl (note: now named Amber) is on her way. I have assigned Marcus to keep an eye on her. My expectations are low. Infiltrating the Qin in this fashion seems doomed to failure. For the record, this is our third attempt and against my explicit written dissent; the first died within the year, and the second disappeared into the Flaming Mountains never to be heard from again. This is an utter waste of time and resources but I'm a merely cog in this big fucking machine.

My bottom line on this: Always, always use the locals.

Want to spy on Albion, then get a girl from Albion! Want to spy on Trowulan, then get a girl from Trowulan for Christ's sake. WTF is wrong with these people. You get at most 2-3 shipments per year and you choose to get this lot? Ok, I understand getting someone from China, they're in short supply here, but why not just get a real Chinese woman who can take care of herself and pump her with the serum for desired effect. Oh, tried that before? Then try it again! You think some transformed guy will have more motivation than a real life woman? My bet is that he'll kill himself within a year.

Fuck them. At least I get to earn some extra bucks with the surplus girls.

[Scribe's Note: Written in Lady Zhou's Journal]

“Fortune is ever most friendly and alluring to those who she strives to deceive, until she overwhelms them with grief beyond bearing, by deserting them when least expected. If you recall her nature, her ways, or her deserts, you see that you never had in her, nor have lost with her, aught that was lovely.” [A fragment of Boethius found in the Library of the Qin.]

Shouldn't I be happy to have found her? To have saved her. Then why does my heart feel so heavy. Aisha's story could have been my own. Why was I chosen for this task and not my two sisters? Was it simply chance or was it because I was the only who fought back? Surely the latter would have consigned me to the worst fate of all of us. Why did the Gods choose to take Eumelia from me?

[Scribe's Note: A letter found clipped within the Journal of Lady Zhou]

My dearest friend Zhou Yu,

We have talked but you have not listened to me. I have tried to comfort you but you will not be comforted. I have heard from your servants that, since you found me, you have not been your usual self and have been quick to anger and even violent.

You would think I would be the one weeping and who would need all the comforting. I know that you feel guilty for not having found me earlier, perhaps for thinking me dead; perhaps for not realizing until now that it was Eumelia and I that you left behind in that wooden cart seven years ago.

You feel guilty for having been the only one – or so you assume - to have reached a safe harbor, to have found love on this cruel world, to find a family and to have children. That is your arrogance talking. I say this as one who has known you longer than anyone on An.

From your stories, it seems that Eumelia was the happiest of us all in her brief time in this world. But I have had some happiness myself or do you think that there is only one way for a woman to feel happy and content in this world?

I have known love even if it was quickly taken from me; I have the friendship of my sisters; I have a certain pride that I am exceptional at what I have been trained to do; not to mention my hold over the men who desire me. Having a husband and a child is not the only path which leads to happiness.

Do not be too proud of your own success – not every woman wants to be a wife and have children. Not everyone wants to be a queen or princess.

Why do you think you needed to save me?

Do you think the idle life of a pleasure slave so horrible? Do you think that seeking one's own gratification while earning one's way in this world is somehow demeaning? I never thought to escape and I never assumed anyone else had survived. That was what I was told by the woman, Anais, and I believed her. Perhaps you now think that I was at fault for this self-centeredness.

Wake up, Xiao Yu! Learn to forget and learn to live in the present.

You told me that you have sought out almost all the girls you trained with in the slave school in Albion. I understand why you did this and I might have done the same if I had been in your position. Yet did you know that the serum which induces the slave urges in “new” girls fades with time? All that remains after that moment of pure bliss is the woman that is within your soul. And I know I was always meant to be a woman, even on Ki where I dared not admit it.

Your family are waiting for you to return to them. I am waiting for you to return to me. Do not abandon us.

Yours with love,

Your sister, Aisha.

[Scribe's Note: An account written by Aisha to entertain the Third Princess, and to allow her to remember times past.]

My dear Princess,

Our long hours together talking about Eumelia has led us to this. How I wish I had known her more fully as a woman and as a sister.

As you have requested, this is my story.

I was alone when I awoke, just as I suspect she was all those years ago.

I was chained by an anklet to a pole, and an upright mirror stood a short distance from me as if my captors wanted me to know immediately what I had become. I assumed that I had gone insane or that my mind had been transposed into that of a young [Middle-Eastern] girl - there seemed little difference between the two at the time. While I had doubts about my mental state, I delighted in my appearance. I had long black hair, large brown eyes and a pair of full lips. My skin was light brown, soft and delicate; and completely unmarked.

A woman stood over me and explained my situation and my choices.

I could either be sold to a slave brothel or given to a Talosian lord as a gift. I chose the latter thinking that it would provide me with a better opportunity to escape. I was promised considerations in exchange for whatever information I could provide once ensconced in his household. Perhaps a return to my male body; perhaps a return to Ki.

But I could not be given to him directly - he had to ask for me and I had to make him want me. I had much to learn in a single month but the body I now possessed helped considerably. It was clearly derived from a female of low virtue who derived gratification from the seduction of men. My movements were always fluid and sensuous, my hips moved with unrestrained ease. My whole body seemed to be made for pleasure.

I first met my Master not as a slave but as a poor serving girl. He was a man of the South with skin the color of onyx. Tall and toned like the demi-gods of myth and legend. Perhaps even you, my Princess, might have found him attractive, though you will undoubtedly titter at the suggestion. But let me clear on this point, even as a man I would have humbled myself before such a magnificent specimen of the male sex.

I knew I had him the moment I stepped forward to dance.

I knelt and presented my naked belly to him inviting him to touch me if he was so moved. He did not hesitate for a moment and touched me gently around my jeweled belly button, before reaching down to caress my labia though my silken thong. I knew that I was already moist with desire and smiled at him to show my appreciation for his attentiveness.

By this time, all his dinner companions had the good graces to leave us alone in the room. When I heard the dining hall door close behind me, I crawled forward on all fours, my posterior seductively shifting from side to side as I did so.

As far as phalli were concerned, I had only seen the lesser specimens bandied about by the slave masters. My Master's manhood was magnificent and my two small hands would hardly suffice to take full control of it.

I pulled back his foreskin to reveal his shiny red glans, and held his muscular shaft in my dainty hands. I knew what had to be done - I had been trained to it and was eager to perform. First I inhaled his musk and licked the clear emissions that he was already producing. Then I put my delicate face flush against his manhood, kissing him and taking in all of his sublime odor. I made sure to look up at him every now and then to show him my appreciation for granting me access; played with myself to demonstrate my unbridled desire for him. I enveloped him with my mouth and tongue while massaging his organ. I had been whipped a few times while in training because of my carelessness with shielding my teeth but I made no mistakes here.

I took nearly all of him in and he was clearly shocked by my abilities and could not help but compliment me while in the throes of passion. I spent an inordinate amount of time worshiping his manhood, and my gullet was thick with his scent for the rest of the evening.

Was it an act? No, I truly loved this. It was something I had always longed to do, and now I had been given permission to do it without shame and without constraints. After all these years, my experience is that most men are constantly surprised to find a woman who enjoys intercourse as much as I do. I knew that this was now acceptable where once, back on Ki, it would have been embarrassing, at least for me. He wanted me as I was, the woman I was meant to be and dared not hope of becoming.

My vulva had become even more slick and engorged the moment I placed my lips on him. I rubbed myself against his manhood even as I licked his nipples. For some reason, he was content to lie back and let me have my way. But his forbearance soon gave way, and I felt myself lifted up and placed on my side. He held my left leg and separated my thighs, and thrust into me with a smooth sliding motion. I am ashamed to say that I let out an ugly guttural grunt at that point – it is impossible to describe what it means to be so thoroughly filled for the first time. I had imagined being taken as a woman frequently on Ki, but a man simply cannot fathom what a woman feels when she is full penetrated.

He took me several times that first night.

He slept noiselessly beside me once he was spent, his huge arm still draped across me while my head rested on his chest. I licked playfully at his nipple like a kitten even as he slept, admiring his body which seemed to be carved from stone, tracing the ridges of his musculature with fascination and barely contained lust. Yet, it was not enough that I had been filled and inseminated; I clung to him as if he was some prize for enduring so long in my old body on Ki. I only wish that the gods had granted me more time with him.

Perhaps it is hard to understand what it means to have been given this gift – to have been made to take this step which I would never have taken by myself otherwise. To be an attractive and desirable woman has always been my dream – a fantasy which I knew I had no possibility of fulfilling for lack of courage. If someone had told me then that the cost of my dreams would be two years with a man I would grow to love, and twice as long as the mere plaything of strangers, I wonder what would have been my answer. Many women on Ki have done much more than this to achieve their dreams.

My days with my husband passed uneventfully and with much joy, but I will relate a visit to a petty feudal lord of Albion which I now recall more fondly. It was here that I met my sister, Eumelia, unknowingly.

I do not know if this is the nature of this world – how it toys with us - or the hand of the Seven.

My husband had been provisioned with a blonde virgin who we joined in deflowering that night. My old friend may have been untried but was exceptionally responsive. It was I who guided my husband's cock into her cunt while playing with her nipples to tease her. She was such an innocent – so sweet and startled by her own responses. I could tell immediately that she had only recently begun to enjoy the company of men. I taught her exactly how to please my husband, how to take her own amusement from his body, and how to use her pussy to grip him at just the right moment.

When my husband had fallen asleep, I continued to kiss and caress her – she was irresistible. I remember well our tongues playing and my lips on her perfumed neck and ears. I had no idea she was my old friend of course – her blonde hair and ungrammatical Talosian marked her as a barbarian from the North. But she did reveal that she was a serum girl which made me concerned that being with a man that night would be troubling for her

She told me she had fought for days with her captors refusing to entertain any idea of servicing men or even submitting. She preferred pain and death but the slave masters would only grant her the former. For unlike Xiao Yu and myself, Eumelia has always preferred the company of women exclusively. Of course, the slave masters did not countenance any permanent damage to their own valuable merchandise but merely encouraged her to sleep with her sisters in the slave school – the better to discover the improvements and pleasures her new body offered.

What happened then was of course the slave urges – which effectively reversed all her innate preferences. She woke up one night to find that she found men even more desirable than she had women. When a few years later, she was freed from her master by Xiao Yu, she became the woman she was always meant to be – in your arms, my Princess, and deeply in love.

As for my husband, he was killed on the battlefield in the last war. Or should I say more bluntly that he died defecating blood in his tent. I am sure you remember that this was orchestrated by Xiao Yu herself. My husband was, after all, Talosian and an officer. I have not told Xiao Yu how my husband met his end for I know it will send her into another prolonged period of melancholy.

Like much of the minor nobility, my husband had debts, and these debts had to be settled upon his death. Hence my sale to the tavern where I was found.

It is not always easy servicing men. I enjoy their company and the way they look at me and treat me. I had my choice of them in later years but my early days were marked by toil and many adjustments. I always knew there was a price for being a woman in this world; now I had to make the best of it. The woman's - Anais' - promises of freedom were now all for naught. I could no longer earn my freedom through deception and eliciting information.

The slave urges had long since left me and I dealt with this as any woman of An. This was a job I could enjoy on many days and merely endure on several others. I did what I could to survive. Only when I became first girl did my troubles begin to dissipate. I had become as one of the [oiran] of my homeworld of Ki; and the tavern owner was eager to ingratiate himself to me because of the income I brought in. He knew of my former status as one of the minor nobility and all the upbringing this entailed – a sense of etiquette and [je ne sais quoi] which the most powerful men of Talos had a taste for.

I had become akin to the finest and most beautiful of Talosian women with one exception – I was available; but only at an astronomical price and at my discretion. I would not frown if propositioned by an impecunious baron or lady if there features were to my liking; and many were.

Xiao Yu doesn't realize that I am now a wealthy young woman who has chosen her profession because it is what she is most accomplished at. Of course, my choices have been limited by my circumstances and my sex; but I have considered the alternative of retiring to a nunnery and decided against that quite categorically.

Let no person pity the woman who has made her choice.

[Scribe's Note: The rest of the account has been destroyed.]

Previously: It has been seven years since Zhou Yu was first transformed into a woman and brought to An. In order to solidify the peace between Thamud and Talos, her four year old son has been betrothed to the daughter of Princess Sabine of Talos [see Chapter 11].

Chapter 13 - Succession

[An entry from the Journal of Queen Zhou Yu]

Dear Reader,

My son's future mother-in-law arrived in Thamud barely six months after the betrothal in Talos.

It was a beautiful Summer's day and her disposition was that of a woman who had just returned home from a strenuous walk ready for the morning meal. There was not a drop of perspiration on her and she looked every bit the visiting relative; not the political exile that she actually was. This was the result of a typical Talosian succession battle which had been brewing over the past year. Allow me to explain.

The Talosian order of succession was largely commonsensical. Upon the death of the current King, the crown prince or his male offspring, would ascend the throne. Next in line was the Second Prince, Alaric, and his male offspring if any.

Then came, the Second Princess, Sabine, our guest of two months now, daughter of the ailing Emperor of Talos. Barring any protests or contests by the Talosian nobility, she was third in line to the throne. Obviously, she had my future daughter-in-law in tow and a small retinue of servants and bodyguards. Her husband had been killed in the last war between Talos and Thamud some four years back.

Others who had once been in the line of succession (since deceased) included the King's only brother and the first princess who died at the age of 10. Some strange events which had occurred over the course of the past year had led Sabine to this point.

First, the Emperor's eldest son, the Crown Prince has begun suffering non-specific symptoms of abdominal discomfort and loose stool, as well as subjective feelings of paraesthesia affecting his limbs. He seemed very much to be on his last legs – a sad ghost of a man or so my spies tell me. He could barely sit, much less ride a horse during the hunt organized in our honor at my son's betrothal some months back.

I had read enough mystery novels back on Ki to immediately consider foul play, but the symptoms could easily have stemmed from any number of gastro-intestinal diseases resulting in various forms of deficiencies. The Qin had long known of nutritional deficiencies and had been treating them appropriately for years, but they have yet to understand their underlying pathology. It was going to be a case of trial and error if this was the cause of his ailments. The Thamudian royal physician who had guided me through the births of both my son and my daughter concurred, and said that this was a likely cause and that any capable physician would consider the possibility.

There were other complications. The Crown Prince's two offspring had expired some years back soon after attaining the age of majority as defined by the Talosian legal code; and The Second Prince's only son had died of the pox at the age of five just this year. He of course suspected his sister or at least used this as an excuse to be rid of her. And who could blame him - members of the Talosian royal family seemed to be dropping like flies and someone had to take the blame. Hence her flight to Thamud, seeing as she was the future mother-in-law of my own son.

Sabine had all the airs you would expect of the most powerful woman in Talos. Some would describe her as an older woman and she had in fact given birth late in life by the standards of Talosian women, and only at the instigation of her father. I did wonder if she felt somewhat slighted by the fact that her only daughter would be married to a prince and possible future King of Thamud as a kind of peace offering; for she demonstrated in both action and speech that she thought Thamud a backward kingdom which should be thankful for her good graces.

For instance, on my last trip to Talos, she expressed surprise that any of us had ever partaken of the delicacies of the sea or even common Talosian game birds – almost all of which were part of the barter trade which existed across our extensive borders. I considered snidely remarking whether her tutors had lapsed in her geographical and economic education but decided that discretion was the better part of valor (on in this case, diplomacy).

A few days later, she turned her head away from me with disdain when I wore a pair of leather trousers to the hunt organized by the Crown Prince in honor of our visit. Pointing towards my clothing she remarked, “Is that really advisable for the Queen of Thamud?”

“They are practical, comfortable, and the King certainly has no complaints,” I replied.

“It is a bit lacking in decorum for a noble woman, don't you think?” she said clicking her tongue. “Did you actually expect to do any hunting today?”

The men and the women had clearly been separated during this part of the festivities, with the former directed towards larger game. I gathered I was meant to watch in wonder as the huntsmen brought me rabbits and game birds.

It is not as if organized or ritual hunting was unheard of in Thamud – it was regularly undertaken for estate management and occurred in conjunction with feast days when the food would distributed to the poor. It was simply that my husband would never think of separating me from the main hunt. Or if he had at some point in his life, he had quickly learned better of it – my accuracy with a bow was certainly better than his, as were my abilities with a light spear. And I was already thoroughly submissive and obedient to him in his bedchamber.

Sabine seemed to show more interest in me when I wore one of the flowing robes typical of one of the ancient dynasties of the Qin at the banquet the same night. At least she patronizingly stated as much to me. Like certain Talosian gowns, the dress showed substantial amounts of cleavage and flattered my figure.

As future members of the same family so to speak, we retired to the women's drawing room for drinks alone. Sabine bade me sit beside her on a large couch and plied me with spirits and unwelcome conversation.

“Is it true that you were once a man?” she asked with all the tact of a viper.

“I prefer not to speak on that subject,” I replied.

“You enjoy dressing this way now, do you? I've heard that former men often make the most feminine of women, though I assumed that was a lie until I saw you this evening.”

“This Talosian whisky is really quite fine,” I said, ignoring her.

“The men in my family feel that Qin women, in general, leave very much to be desired but I am of the opposite opinion. I have not detected any of the strange scents and odors said to emanate from your people – perhaps it is a question of the food you have consumed or rather not consumed in Thamud.”

“Have you never met a Qin woman in all your years?” I asked, a note of irritation entering my voice. It seemed that the woman was determined to be rude. She had been consuming copious amounts of wine and liqueurs throughout the evening.

“None as lovely as you, my Queen.”

She did not say this out loud but had leaned forward to whisper it in my ear. I smelled the acrid stench of alcohol on her breath. and almost jumped to one side in shock and mild revulsion. It is not that Sabine was especially hideous, but I was not in the habit of being seduced by my son's future mother-in-law.

“Please, stop,” I said turning to face her, restraining myself. If she had been some common man, she would have been lying on the ground unconscious at that point.

Instead, she grabbed my head and kissed me full on the lips, using her other hand to squeeze my breast through my evening dress. I pushed her away and stood back from the couch.

The princess flopped down on the couch and looked up at me

“Does that feel any different?” she asked, without a trace of remorse. “Please sit, I promise not to touch you again, or at least not without your permission.”

“Control yourself, Princess,” I said with an exasperated air as I sat across from her on a large cushioned chair. “Our children are to be married.”

“Your son - is he the type of person who is inclined to share? When my daughter takes her place in this world, she will want to exercise power with him.”

“Isn't this discussion somewhat premature?” I said guardedly, “He is only four years old. In any case, I have every hope that my son will be generous, dutiful, and respectful to his wife when he becomes a man.”

“It would be good if they had more time together as children.”

“I'm sure that can be arranged,” I replied non-committally.

Looking back, this seemed to be a premonition of things to come. Now some six months later, my son was spending many hours with his betrothed both at school and at play.

We left Sabine to her own devices for nearly a week.

When she was fully settled into the Second Princess' former chambers, I told my husband that I might have to do something unseemly but that it was necessary for the sake of our son. It did cross my mind that I might have to let that harpy touch me, though even the thought of this made me shudder.

He kept asking me whether it was completely necessary, in the way that men say to women when they think they know better. I told him to stop fussing and let a mother get on with her job. After all these years, he knew exactly what kind of woman he had married, and just kept quiet after that.

That evening I plied Sabine with all the vices the dinner table allowed, her wine glass was filled the moment it was half empty and she was provided with an array of spirits and absinthe once dessert was served. We soon found ourselves back where we once were some six months back - in a drawing room alone, except this time in my own house.

I decided to forego any small talk and simply asked her the most obvious question at once. “So before we carry on with our conversation, would you like to say for the record whether you did in fact having anything to do with the death of your five year old nephew?”

I was referring to the Second Prince's son who had died just that year - the likely reason for her flight from Talos.

“None at all,” she said without hesitation or any signs of deception. “Do you believe me?

“By the way, thank you for ridding me of that abominable man – my husband I mean. I always knew that Qin women could be conniving bitches but it definitely makes you more appealing in my eyes at least. I know perfectly well what you're doing but I don't care. You've seen me drunk before, and I have nothing to hide - everything I've done benefits Thamud. If anything you should be kissing me on both cheeks in admiration and gratitude.”

“I simply want to talk, mother to mother,” I replied.

“Your spies should be informing you quite soon of what nefarious deeds I am purported to have done,” she said, releasing an unladylike belch as she did so.

“Won't you save them the trouble and simply tell me?” I pressed.

“A powerless woman in exile can hardly be blamed for the misfortunes of her siblings. I have simply given my brother what he has always desired. Alaric is weak and undeserving of the crown – I have simply shown him the truth of these words. His proclivities will see him disowned within a year if not sooner. The only difference between my brothers and I is that they lack the will to do what is necessary.

“Have you done something to Alaric?” I asked innocently.

“It is already done. Do you think I would tell you about this if there was even slightest chance that it could be prevented? Oh my dear Zhou Yu, for someone who has personally arranged for the deaths of tens of thousands of men, you seem so full of scruples when it comes to the future of your son. I do not know what your husband thinks of you, but in Talos you are perceived quite differently. Do you know how?” she asked with a slight slur in her speech.

I shook my head to suggest ignorance but I knew quite well my reputation.

“A monster – a hideous beast and a butcher of sons and fathers.

“Our generals did wonder what had happened to the gallant prince of Thamud who would meet challengers in single combat on the field of battle, and would brook nothing which would stain his reputation for chivalry. Had he merely matured with the years and put aside childish things? They did not consider, at least at first, that slight female slave by his side.

“But I know what kind of woman you are, because I would have done the same given the chance. Incidentally, I know what you arranged in Albion despite the warnings of the emissaries of the Seven; why they seem so unenthused about joining us against Thamud despite our petitions.

“If they did not spit on you in Talos, it is simply because they did not have the chance [see Chapter 11]. They will never forget what you have done. Your son will need my daughter's help if he is to rule both Talos and Thamud in years to come. And if I do succeed, I will certainly become your son's best friend; for I have every intention of making my daughter the Queen of Talos and Thamud.

Sabine mumbled a few more indistinct sentences and was soon snoring on the couch. The alcohol had certainly made her more loquacious than ever but there were limits to its effectiveness. Still, her circumlocutory explanations seemed to suggest exactly what she had done and why she misguidedly thought that I would approve.

Previously: It has been seven years since Zhou Yu was first transformed into a woman and brought to An. In order to solidify the peace between Thamud and Talos, her four year old son has been betrothed to the daughter of Princess Sabine of Talos. Sabine has since been exiled to Thamud following the deaths of a number of persons in the Talosian line of succession. In conversation with Zhou Yu, Sabine has hinted at the unfortunate fate of her brother, the Crown Prince.

Chapter 14 Case Closed – The Mysterious Disappearance of Prince Alaric (Lurid Tales No. 136)

[Scribe's Note: An extract from a fictionalized account of the last days of Alaric, the Second Prince of Talos. The pamphlet was rumored to have been authorized and widely distributed by the Crown Princess Sabine herself a year after his disappearance.]

Everyone by now has heard of the mysterious disappearance of Alaric, the former Crown Prince of Talos. Many are the theories which surround this gaping enigma at the heart of Talosian political life. Most assume that the prince is dead but this author has it on good word that Alaric still lives. Through arduous investigation and lengthy interviews with those closest to the Prince (including the Captain of the Guard who served Alaric), his real fate can now be revealed for the first time.

With his brother, the original crown prince (since deceased, may his soul be blessed by the Seven) ailing in bed due to causes unknown, Alaric was ripe to ascend to the second highest seat in Talos. Many have suspected foul play directed against the elder brother; and what better suspect than this Second Prince of Talos who hungered for the throne and for pleasures hitherto withheld from him.

Alaric was not sufficiently satisfied with the readily accessible delights of wine, women, and song. No, his dark appetites ran much deeper - and when he yielded to temptation, those vices swallowed him whole.

With his installation as the crown prince, his father had presented him with new responsibilities including the key to that vault which only those with the greatest of expectations could hope to access. And, thus, one night, a shadowy figure was found entering the sanctum sanctorum of the Royal Treasury, That figure was finely dressed in the robes of the nobility and held in his hand the simple shift of a servant girl,

A prince had entered the treasury at the witching hour; the much slighter figure of the servant girl, Annalise, emerged alone an hour later.

Annalise was slim, with gracile arms and legs. She had petite breasts which naturally fit her build and she held them full in the palms of her hands, perhaps wondering if they could have been any larger. Her hair was disheveled as if she had been in the throes of passion and her dress soaked with her sweat.

When the guards first caught sight of Annalise, she was walking daintily down the corridor, a small messenger bag containing a selection of sera on her left shoulder; quite unaware she was being spied upon, her fingers at her lips as if she was licking honey off them. The name Annalise had been entered into the household register as Alaric's personal serving maid two weeks prior to the assumption of her new duties – but no one had ever seen her. Everyone assumed that she was the Prince's personal plaything, such was his licentiousness

We would all pity Alaric if he had not been so careless, so utterly foolish, and so possessed of such a perfidious nature as to toy with a serum reserved hitherto for the punishment of malcontents.

Alaric-Annalise was, of course, immediately seized by the guards. He dared not reveal his true name if only because of the utter shame this would have caused. Yet he promised in his heart that he would have the guards' heads once he returned to his original form the following day.
Back at the guard room, the Prince was tossed around like a rag doll from man to man – he felt one man pull him into a tight embrace, another grab his bosom with both hands; and another youth reach down and press firmly on his crotch through his skirt. All of a sudden they stopped and he was left sitting on the ground in a daze.

“What are you lot doing?” someone behind him growled.

It was the Captain of the Guard, a tall imposing man who few dared challenge. The other guards quickly apologized and left his presence as fast as their legs could carry them.

“Come on, get up and head back to the servant's quarters where you belong. Don't let me catch you here again, you hear?” the Captain said kindly.

The Prince nodded his head and acted as if to go, but his gaze was leveled steadily at the man's crotch as if mesmerized by what he saw. He felt his chin lifted up by the large man who stood before him.

“What's wrong with you?” the Captain asked.

“Thank you,” replied the Prince; instinctively he hugged the man's leg and pressed his face against his thigh. He remained that way for a few moments like a naive girl hugging a bolster. With growing fascination, he observed the Captain's manhood stiffening and lengthening down a trouser leg. It was at that moment that the Prince noticed a strange heat rising through his body - first in his cunt and then in his nipples. Soon his face was completely flush with desire. By now, the Captain could feel the servant girl's nipples scraping firmly against his thigh, like a bitch against her master's legs. There was only so much he could endure.

“You may touch it if you wish,” the Captain offered.

Alaric looked up for reassurance at the Captain and then reached out to touch his manhood through the linen pants. He watched it grow and strain against the thin cloth and made to rub it further making the man let out a soft sigh. The he looked up again as if for permission to undress him. Then the Prince opened the ties which held up the Captain's trousers and pulled them down with a sharp movement, causing the fleshy shaft to jump out erect, hitting him full on the chin.

The Prince immediately stuck out his tongue to taste it. Then he was kissing and sucking it recalling all the girls who had pleased him in the past and their erotic strategies.

“Have you done this before, girl?” asked the Captain. “You seemed as nervous as a mouse just moments ago but now look at you.”

Prince Alaric knew that the body he had chosen was that of an ordinary girl of Talos, blessed with the physique of a court dancer and a sweet face, but of commonplace libido. Anything which he felt now for this man was purely from the depths of his heart.

He spread his long delicately muscled thighs to show his Captain that he wanted him now - using two fingers, he spread his inner lips to indicate that he was both wet and ready. The Captain glanced down and saw the narrow untried entrance of Alaric's vagina and wondered for a moment whether it would be uncomfortable for the young girl. But only for a moment.

By the time the Captain was done with the little servant girl, Alaric had come three times. The Captain took care not to inseminate her and instead sprayed his seed over her face to mark her as his own. The Prince supped on this with abandon.

The Captain soon fell asleep and the Prince picked up his small messenger bag and returned to his chamber where he reluctantly pulled out an injector and returned to his original male form.

Alaric-Annalise would return to the Captain's quarters regularly from that day forth. The guards knew better than to interrupt her passage.

When Alaric was not masquerading as a woman, he could be seen acting in strangely more intimate ways with the Captain – who, I should add, had no idea that Annalise was a serum girl. The Crown Prince was seen touching the Captain of the Guard's hand as he did his morning rounds of the palace. His head would lean transiently on the Captain's arm for support during long sessions in the audience chamber where he met the nobility of Talos. It was all highly suspicious.

But it was not only the members of the court who whispered; there was also his wife, now left to her own devices for a number of weeks. Alaric's recently bereaved spouse (she had just lost her five year old son) had expected the prince's company on most nights of the week, especially in this time of mourning.

Almost inevitably, Annalise was caught sneaking into Alaric's bedroom on just one of those nights. Alaric nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard his wife's voice behind him.

“Are you the little minx who has been keeping my husband busy these past weeks?” she said with a quiet snarl.

Alaric-Annalise was at a loss for words and before he knew it, his wife has pushed him hard against the wall and had her hand at his tiny neck.

“What does he see in you? You're just a tiny bit of nothing. Thin as a rake; no breasts and no hips; a sweet face I suppose but there's nothing there.”

“Please, mistress,” Alaric-Annalise finally managed, “I am not sleeping with your husband, the Prince. Please...”

Alaric was stopped mid-sentence by a short sharp slap across his face. He held his cheek in shock and pain, and felt hot tears rolling down his eyes.

“Don't lie to me you disgusting little vixen. I saw where you were heading and you smell of fornication.”

“I would never...” Alaric-Annalise felt another much harder slap across his face and shielded himself with his arms. “Stop!” he pleaded.

“You would never what? Never open your legs like a whore to my husband?”

With that, the Princess, pulled down Alaric's skirt. She swatted his desperate hands away and told him to be quiet or she would whip him right there. Then she stuffed two fingers into Alaric's vagina and after some scooping motions brought the fingers up to his face, smearing whatever leftover semen remained on to the poor servants girl's face.

“What a loathsome little whore, you are. To think you would be so selfish as to take him from me. Me - a grieving mother.”

Alaric-Annalise was dragged across various corridors to a place he was intimately familiar with – his wife's bedchamber.

There he was put to the sword in a manner of speaking. The Princess put on a pair of gloves and proceeded to spank him. When his buttocks were finally sufficiently red and swollen, she took hold of a particularly nasty slave device made of polished wood and slowly inserted it into his anus – this he would wear for the entire duration of his punishment. The Princess kept Alaric-Annalise in her bedroom for an entire day and night. He was made to act like a bitch and led by a leash on her hands and knee through the apartments, and fed from porcelain bowls reserved for the Princess' toy dog.

The Princess finally relented when she saw Annalise crying bitterly in the corner of her room. The Princess had finally come to her senses – if her husband didn't want any more children with her, then she would wash her hands of the entire matter. What choice did a poor servant girl have if the lord of the house wanted her – she was punishing the girl out of pure spite.

She asked one of her maids to bring a wash basin and some soap and instructed Annalise to wash and clean herself. Then the Princess combed the servant girl's hair and gave her one of her old dresses; she said she was sorry while averting her eyes in shame, and pressed a gold coin into her hand as if in compensation.

With that Alaric-Annalise's ordeal was over and he was released

And thus, Annalise-Alaric being forewarned and chastised, kept away from the guard's quarter for nearly two weeks.

Then one night, as if feverish with need and anticipation, the servant girl, Annalise, was seen again in the halls of the palace, with an envelope in her hands. The girl presented the Captain of the Guard with this letter. It was from the Prince himself – offering her to him as a gift in thanks for his loyalty and service.

“He said that you should take me as your wife,” the girl said with her head bowed.

The Captain was not one to listen to the whims and fancies of lowly female servants. He knew that he had to discipline her or she would be difficult to manage in the future. He first broiled her thoroughly without giving her permission to come, then handed her to four of his men to be used as they saw fit. This was the first time Alaric-Annalise had been handled by such a large group of men. He struggled to keep up with all their demands, for they insisted on using every one of his orifices. Suffice to say that his screams of pleasure filled the guard's quarter for several hours that night.

The other servants were of course not well pleased by this turn of events. It was fine for a servant girl to enjoy herself once in a while - it was the way of this world, But she was a complete wanton and was unrestrained in her licentiousness. She would be seen playing cards with the guards and stripping off pieces of her servant's dress with each loss. The Prince was not particularly skilled with cards.

Early each morning, Alaric-Annalise would emerge from the guard's card room covered with their emissions, which he barely bothered to wipe off his person. He reeked of cum and clearly wanted the odor of the men to linger longer on himself.

As for the Captain, the original object of his infatuation, Alaric-Annalise would kiss his toes and lick his feet pleading with him to keep her as instructed by the Prince (that is, himself). The Captain was finally moved by her mewling and wheedling, and gave her what she wanted. He told her to prepare herself for the next night where they would be bonded in private.

Alaric dreamed of this the whole of the next day - of being brought to the Captain's lodgings as his fiancee; there to be married to him in a small ceremony. That night, he was brought to the artisans' quarter in secret. There, in a neat but stark little hut, the Captain bound Alaric-Annalise tightly to a wooden bench so that his legs were spread, and his breasts and belly pressed flush against the wooden furniture. When the Captain expertly pulled off his nether clothes, the Prince anticipated that he about to be well taken like a she-hound on this his honeymoon.

Then from a small alcove the Captain brought forth a brazier with branding irons. Alaric-Annalise screamed in panic but his open mouth merely invited the insertion of his own slave thong into it. The Captain bound the girl even more tightly and then pressed his mark firmly into Alaric-Annalise's right rear end.

Alaric-Annalise's muffled screams and wails could barely be heard through his gagged mouth. But like the true slave that he was becoming – he felt some hidden pleasure mixed with that torment. Finally, when he had finally calmed down, the rag in his mouth, now soaked with his own saliva, was removed, As he gasped and swore with words no virtuous woman should ever let near her lips, he told him,

“I am the Prince Alaric! Release me at once,” he cried. “I promise that no one will hear of this once I return to my original form. There will be no retribution I assure you,”

There was little confidence or authority in his voice. Instead the Captain only heard the pleading high pitched voice of a new slave girl. The girl was clearly deranged, the Captain thought, and even if she wasn't, he found it quite amusing to image the Crown Prince as a helpless female on his knees servicing him. Thus, he brought his hand near the freshly seared brand to discipline her. Alaric-Annalise screamed in pain as the man's finger crept near her new brand

“Please...” he begged, “Have mercy.”

Then the Captain switched to fondling the girl's pussy, massaging her lower lips and clitoris before inserting a finger into her soaking wet vagina.

Alaric-Annalise was beginning to pant desperately – there was no hiding the slut that resided within his soul. The Prince came spasmodically mere moments after the Captain started working the lovely ribbed area in his cunt.

“You do not seem like a man to me,” the Captain observed, plunging his fingers back into the slave girl.

Alaric-Annalise let out a loud gasp and was, once again, breathless with need. He felt the man's thumb move within her and then suddenly stop just as she approached the edge.

“If you are in fact the Prince and a man as you insist, I should probably stop,” the Captain explained. “What say you? Are you a man or a woman?”

Alaric-Annalise knew that the Captain was simply toying with her and there was no way he would desist from using her whatever she answered. If anything, there was every chance that he would be disciplined if he continued to pretend to be a man. It seemed far wiser to play along, enjoy himself as a woman, and return to the Palace and his old life when he was released.

“I am a woman,” he answered greedily, “I am your woman.”

The Captain demanded that the girl say her new name and recognize him as her master.

“What is your name?” he asked firmly.

“I am Amanda, Master,” the Prince said nonchalantly.

“Again.”

“I am Amanda, your slave girl, Master. Please.” The Prince adopted a more feminine and docile posture.

“Again but as sweetly as you did not so many nights ago.”

“I am Amanda, your loving slave girl, and I beg to please you, Master,” Alaric-Amanda finally answered.

Finally satisfied, the Captain unshackled Alaric-Amanda and placed her gently on the ground. He then sat down, removed his boots and crossed his legs. Then pointing downwards he said, “You may begin with my feet.”

The person who began licking the Captain's toes was still Prince Alaric at least in part. By the time the girl was allowed to lick her master's thighs, Alaric was no more. She had become Amanda the newly branded slave girl in both body and soul. All thoughts of her past life as a Prince of Talos were cast to one side. It would be hard to find a more depraved woman than this Amanda.

Let no one think that such rampant promiscuity has a happy ending. There were no songbirds sweetly chirping or gold-tinged sunsets for this former prince. Some months later, the Captain grew weary of her and brought her to a merchant who subsequently sold her to a slave tavern as a lowly red silk girl. She was lithe and flexible but not particularly buxom – not ideal material for a pleasure slave but good enough.

This author would be happy to report that this was the ultimate fate for this wretched wench. Yet the Gods smiled on this former prince once more, and she came under the care and tutelage of the renowned first girl of that establishment, Aisha; who saw in that lost look a frightened lamb that she felt compelled to take care of.

Aisha taught her the discipline and the techniques which she was bereft of from her “conception.” Coupled with Amanda's instincts which were those of a tramp, she soon became a favorite among many of the patrons of that establishment. You would be hard pressed to find another tavern girl who is so courteous, or whose speech is so rich with the aphorisms of the literati.

[Scribe's note: Another bald lie among innumerable bald lies, since Aisha was nowhere to be found at The Eudaimon by this point. Of interest because Princess Sabine had hidden financial interests in the fortunes of many slave taverns.]

If one visits The Eudaimon today, it is possible that you will see her there smiling as she works the tables. Or perhaps she has been reclaimed by her beloved Captain to be his love slave forever. The male of the species is nothing if not base and capricious .

Available in two weeks - Lurid Tales No. 137: The Harlot Queen of Thamud. Bawdy tales from the life of Queen Zhou Yu of Thamud.

Chapter 15 – Children

Dear Reader,

Are you the same reader who has been with me all these years?

I know that I have been neglectful but writing in a journal hardly seems to be a good use of time though I suppose some form of self-reflection might be beneficial.

The palace is alive with children, and not only my own Safin and my beautiful baby girl, Zeinab.

Anthea was digging through an old chest and brought me this old journal which I had hidden under some old baby clothes. Thankfully, the buckle sealing it had not been undone. I felt a flush come to my face and quickly took it from her hands, telling her that she must never look into it for it contained terrible revelations.

Anthea, the daughter of the Second Princess of Talos. is a year younger than my son but is as tall as he is; such are the [genes] of Talosian royalty. She is an adorable and somewhat precocious four year old who takes lessons from a myriad tutors despite her young age.
I don't know if I quite approve of this but I am only allowed to interfere in her upbringing when her mother, Sabine, is absent. I am sure that many of my own attempts at parenthood would fall quite short of the standards of my homeworld of Ki so I will set limits on my criticisms.

While Sabine certainly keeps her daughter at arm's length, she could never be accused of neglecting her child like many a royal parent. Any expressions of love are shown through minute attention to her progress in her studies. She has never laid a hand on her daughter but is quick to treat her with icy coldness if she lapses in productivity or progress.

Sabine has even asked that I give her daughter lessons in self-defense. I declined and did so repeatedly in response to her constant pestering. A four year old has better things to do than to learn how to wield a dagger. Instead, I taught the children simple [qi] exercises with the emphasis more on fun than on maiming. I assume they will soon get bored and move on to the ample supply of toys in the playroom. Having said, that all the children could not fail to notice that I was the only woman in the entire court that could be found fencing with the instructors or taking regular practice with the composite bows favored by the warriors of Qin and Balhae. I hid nothing from the children who I felt needed to know the reason why their mother was often too busy to play with them.

I am quite aware that I am being used as the carrot to Sabine’s stick. If and when Sabine appeared in Thamud, she would say to Anthea, “If you finish this, you can spend time with Auntie Zhou down at the souk,” or “Memorize this primer on Qin characters and you can go with Auntie Zhou for a two week holiday to Qin.” –as if the Flaming Mountains was a kind of spa town, the abundant hot springs there notwithstanding.

Sabine had already asked me on more than one occasion whether I would bring Anthea to Qin the next time I traveled West. The Qin would never accept the Second Princess herself if only because of the political sensitivities of such an invitation, but a royal child of no consequence to the succession is perhaps on the threshold of acceptability considering I was her guardian.

My daughter Zeinab and Anthea are like blood sisters with the latter always looking out for my daughter and sharing any treats she is given. Whatever one might think of the Princess Sabine, her daughter seems impeccably brought up.

Seeing them at play did make me think whether I should have another child. Idris would certainly not disapprove but he has mentioned Eumelia's death on more than occasion and feels that we should count our blessings. It is not as if Thamud lacks for heirs since the Princess Farah (my sister-in-law) has two children as well.

Safin takes after his father and was brash and outgoing even at a young age. He has begun to ride a small pony under close supervision. The [Mongolians] of Ki were said to start riding at the age of five so while I was very concerned with the risk of potential injuries, I left it to my husband to decide what was best for our son. There were Thamudi traditions to be followed and I told myself that I was thinking like all other mothers.

Almost every evening I would read to the three children from a book of Thamudi myths skipping over any of the more risqué parts.

I often watch over them while my kitchen maids teach them how to bake various pies and grilled dishes. They are frequently roped in to pluck bean sprouts and grind chilies with a mortar and pestle in preparation for the evening meal. I think these would be skills that many women and potential partners would admire back on Ki, but I am not quite sure whether they have any utility for a prince or princess of the realm. At least it gave them some sense that real people were doing real work to place dishes on the dinner table each and every day. I was already known as a soft touch with the many servants in the Palace, and was always carefi; that the children would not turn out to be spoiled brats. I did not allow my husband to ply any of them with excessive gifts.

*
I would sometimes speak to the children in the language of the Qin so that they would have some basic comprehension, but I did not hold much hope that they would be able to master three languages even at this early age.

My old mistress and friend, the Princess Pingyang of Qin continues to delve into the old philosophies of the Qin of Ki and has tried with some success to interest the children in her hobbies.

In her spare time, Ping oversees our shared experiments in gunpowder and metallurgy. Hundreds of Thamudian engineers and smiths have made the Flaming Mountains their second home, creating both small and large arms much of which have been shipped back to Thamud. My husband has ensured that the armies are sufficiently trained in the use of these in case of exigencies.

The arms currently consist of fire lances consisting of bamboo or metal tubes depending on the strength of the explosive blast desired. We also have a reasonable number of metal lances filled with gunpowder and laced with iron or pottery fragments to increase their destructive power

Under my instruction, I have asked both the Qin and Thamudian engineers to begin work on small hand-held versions of the above but I have no idea when I will be able to hold the first [gun] in my hand. Our metallurgists have been experimenting with various sizes of these hollow metal tubes so as to recreate the cannon or huopao (in the language of the Qin) which I was intimately familiar with while back on Ki.

Some of these are small enough to be carried on the backs of men, while others are so big they can only be moved by a team of horses. I have hopes that we will soon reach a point where we can begin work on rifling these barrels, perhaps with manual cutting before proceeding to more economical and faster methods.

*

It is the interest of all of the continent that the Talosian Empire remains benign and inward looking. The Princess is happy to use us and to be used by us as she consolidates her power with the royal faction in the Talosian capital while maintaining sole access to her father.

I knew long ago that women are very much the equal of men in their capacity for evil; they simply lack the opportunity to practice it with sufficient regularity. I am not so different from Sabine in this sense. In the past, as a soldier, I was simply earning a living but now I have things to protect – this kingdom, my husband and my children.

The war between Thamud and Talos was won more through guile than force of arms. We needed the same to weed out the Talsosian spies in our midst; and to instigate the lords of Great Albion to quarrel among themselves lest they lend aid to Talos in their hour of need. If my husband does not have the stomach for such distasteful deeds, then I would have to persuade him or undertake them myself.

It is best to pretend ignorance and a plausible naivete with our enemies. I hope they all believe me a simple woman. If Sabine believes that she acts alone in her palace intrigues, then that is all we had hoped for. If she succeeds at this game, then Thamud's future is secured; if she does not, then Talos is weakened by endless infighting.

Why does my husband trust me? Is it simply that I have shown my competence time and again both on and off the battlefield. Perhaps there is some truth in the tall tales that permeate the streets and alleys of the main souk of Thamud – that the emissaries of the Seven appeared to my husband in dreams asking him to go to the market place on such and such a day to buy and marry that woman who fell from the heavens and upon the steps of the Temple of Ea.

Is that why he listens to me as if my words were informed by the Gods and my taskmasters the Qin. Or does he respect me as a friend and partner? I only know that he loves me

Chapter 16 – Different Perspectives Part 1 of 2

First Year at Mary and Magnus' Tower - A Middle School Novel.

(Excerpts from a non-fiction novel written from the perspective of a Talosian headmistress in which she provides short portraits of some of her more famous students. Written pseudonymously and providing an insight into the upbringing of Zeinab of Thamud.)

Mary and Magnus' Tower was built not [two miles] from one of the most dramatic promontories on the Talosian coast. Once the seat of hermetic philosophers and alchemists, it has been rebuilt and enlarged over the centuries to its present form. Scholars from every corner of the continent still reside in various cathedrals of learning on the outskirts of the Tower, but the greater part of the school has, for the past few years, been devoted to the education of the female children of the nobility of this great land.

Elsa Holmberg had been the headmistress of this estimable institution since its inception; placed there by Queen Sabine of Talos herself in deference to her great learning and position in the nobility of the Empire. She was already well known as a student of the languages and literature of the three great states of the continent, but she was even more renowned for her skills in administration which she amply demonstrated following the siege of Holmberg,

The girls of Mary and Magnus hail not only from the three great kingdoms of Talos, Albion, and Thamud, but also the far flung barbarian kingdoms to the north–this being part of the civilizing mission set out in its charter.

The students were put up in luxurious dormitories but were denied any access to footmen or ladies-in-waiting. While the laundry was handled by vendors from the nearby village, they were expected to keep their rooms tidy by themselves. No luxuries were allowed on site and each and every student was expected to attain the highest merit while conforming to the utmost standards of Talosian society.

In various lectures halls, they enjoyed not only lessons in languages, literature, history, and the arts; but also physical fitness and, at the request of the Queen herself, self-defense. Most important of all was the development of a sense of [Noblesse oblige], something which, all expectations to the contrary, had to be bred into these young women who were destined to form the upper crust of society.

Zeinab of Thamud seemed like any of the first year entrants. She was an average-sized girl of mixed heritage–her father being Thamudian and her mother being Qin. She was certainly pretty as is the case with many children of mixed breeding and seemed to have the usual pleasant demeanor of a girl her age; but it was clear to Elsa Holmberg that the demeanor of her mother and the wilderness of Thamud had penetrated deeply into her being.

There was nothing about her which suggested any of the finer graces of the young ladies of Talos. She had no way with conversation and seemed to have the bearing and manners of a servant girl. Zeinab was, in a word, sullen. But who could blame her? She was one of the few brown-skinned girls in the first form and was the immediate target of curious onlookers and unfiltered comments.

Some were simply curious about her thick black eyebrows and her large eyes–she seemed every bit like one of the exotic dolls crafted by the toy makers of Novus Augusta.

Zeinab ignored the gawkers but tired her best to make friends with the girls assigned to sit beside her in class. The fact that she was well ahead of the other girls as far as her studies were concerned made her popular in various study groups which started appearing a few weeks into the term; even more so closer to the time of assessment.

With her growing popularity as the walking encyclopedia of the first form, it was inevitable that Zeinab would soon become the target of verbal attacks, many of them straight to her face.

She was, not unexpectedly, called a “Raghead” or “Towelhead” ; something derived from the habit of the womenfolk of her country to cover their heads in cloth to keep at bay the unrelenting rays of the desert sun. They would use nicknames like [kebab] to greet her or call her a sand [gook] because of her half-Qin ancestry.

She ignored all of this and restricted her attentions only to those who chose to treat with a modicum of respect. But anyone will tell you that if bullies do not succeed in their verbal aggression, they will inevitably turn towards more physical means–first with pranks and later with physical confrontation.

When Zeinab was confronted with three girls from the second form at the recess area, she simply side-stepped them and pushed them away using their own momentum. She repeated this three times before they pulled themselves up from off the floor for the last time and gave up trying to assault her.

When a larger girl tried to beat her physically with a blunt weapon used in fencing practice, she skillfully knocked the clubs out of her opponent's gloved hand with enough strength that her adversary could not pick up the weapon again for the rest of the session. Other challengers were swatted painfully on the back or buttocks if they decided to engage more forcefully with her at practice.

These were the kinds of painful lessons Zeinab had to endure from a young age at the hands of her mother who had instituted a regime of strength training and physical hardening since an unreasonably young age.

The one time she did come to the attention of the powers that be was when she struck down one of the daughters of Gaius who had deigned to call her mother “a bitch.” To which Zeinab replied, “That's better than your cunt of a mother, are you sure she didn't spread her legs for one of the stable boys?”

To hear such vulgar words coming from this doe-eyed girl was clearly a shock for everyone present at the altercation. And those words obviously produced the desired result since Priscilla immediately saw red and swung her fist wildly at Zeinab. The effort was so feeble that Zeinab simply blocked it with one arm while landing a first on the girl's chin with the other. The next moment, Zeinab was standing over the half-conscious girl and stating firmly that, “My mother may be a bitch but she's my fucking bitch!”

The Thamudian girl had not aimed to disfigure poor Priscilla according to witness reports but had only stuck her full on the chin so that she would be rendered unconscious. She even caught the half-conscious girl's trailing arm as she flailed from side to side before falling on her back, ensuring that she did not hit head on the way down. The only visible damage that could be detected the next morning was a light contusion on her left chin which faded after one or two weeks.

As for Priscilla's bruised ego, Zeinab apologized without being forced to and even provided copies of her notes to the girl who had to miss her classes having been laid up in the infirmary for a few days. She clearly regretted her loss of self-control and perhaps feared the consequences if her parents learned of the incident. Her mother in particular would be absolutely livid with her if she even caught a whiff of this–Qin women have a reputation for being quite demanding with their children.

There is little doubt that Zeinab's life in the dormitories of Mary and Magnus' Tower was more relaxed and forgiving than back in the palace of Thamud. Her weekends would no longer be spent with lessons at dance, embroidery or stringed instruments but at tea with her small clique of like-minded friends–some bookworms like herself; others attained through conflict like Priscilla; and yet others outsiders in need of her protection.

They would have Talosian tea and and some vegetable filling between pieces of bread. [Scribe's note: I presume these are Ki-style cucumber sandwiches]-the kind of concoction which passes for finger food in the impoverished lands of Thamud. At other times, they congregated at one of the quaint Qin diners which had cropped up near the school serving small snacks colloquially known as “dim sum.” Many have been suspected of using horse meat or worse rat meat in their concoctions–all of it covered up by dark sauces or red coloring.

When the weather permitted, they would have luncheons on the lawn with a fine spread engineered by Zeinab's own hands and those of her classmates interested in aspects of catering (hardly the kind of past time encouraged among the true nobility). Further, they would enjoy swimming at the small pond not far from the dormitory grounds bringing with them at times the dormitory mascot-a large mastiff called George.

It took a full two years at the Tower for the kinks to be ironed out of the young Princess.

When she arrived at the school, her innate savagery was clearly evident to all but nowhere more so than on the foot-ball field, and the five-a-side tournaments held between classes and forms on a regular basis. Zeinab was a foot-ball roughneck with a penchant for shoulder charging and hard tackles, sweeping the balls from under her opponents without a care for their safety. When opponents attempted to kick her off her feet, she would simply jump and trample upon their hapless sliding bodies. It was clear that there was no sense of delicacy about her. She was even feared by girls who were slightly larger than her and might have been a match for the boys of our brother institution situated not so many miles away.

Zeinab was feral just like her mother. If she resented her mother in any way, as it seems clear, it was because they were so similar in nature.

Certainly no good thing could possibly spring from the loins of the Queen of Thamud-Zeinab's notorious mother, Zhou Yu; the one-time harlot of Albion who has aided and abetted in the murder of thousands of Talosian citizens over the years; and who has not as yet been brought to justice I should add. It has been said that she has killed many a man with her own bare hands and turned the once peaceful nation of Thamud into the aggressive state of these past few years.

The headmistress of Mary and Magnus herself had intimate knowledge of this. Elsa was born in the fortress town of Holmberg, the pearl of West Talos and a city which still remains one of the great entrepots on the Talosian-Thamud border; this despite experiencing first hand the worst incendiary attacks of the Talosian War of Resistance (against the Thalmudi pestilence).

Here a short history will suffice in explaining the origins of the esteemed college.

When her fellow countrymen and her father, Lord Holmberg, would not yield to the Thamudians, their trading city was subjected to the most inhumane attacks ever witnessed in the last century. Thousands died in their beds during nighttime terror bombings of the ancient town. It is written that this was one of the first times that cannon were used against traditional fortifications. Any attempts at engaging the besieging forces and siege machines directly was repulsed. In short, the forces of Holmberg were decimated.

The siege was finally lifted with Queen Sabine’s intervention, driving back the forces of Thamud, and taking full control of Holmberg.

One should disregard the many conspiracy theorists who suggest that it was the Queen herself who instigated the Thamudians to attack Holmberg. Firstly, Sabine’s position as successor was never in question and, secondly, Lord Holmberg would have willingly opened the gates of his fortress to the Queen if she had simply asked at any point. The Holmberg family has ever been loyal to the throne of Talos. Elsa Holmberg, in particular, was a staunch supporter of the crown princess Anthea who was destined to rule over unified Talos and Thamud in years to come.

Mary and Magnus was set up in the first year of the reign of Queen Sabine in the hopes of mending the rifts between the mighty nations of the continent; but mostly between the nobles of Great Talos, Thamud and Albion. From a position of strength, Queen Sabine crafted a lasting peace with our belligerent smaller neighbors which finally led to the arrival of Princess Zeinab to the Tower to be educated in the ways of civilized men and women.

It was up to Elsa Holmberg to iron out the kinks in Zeinab’s spirit and make her a more acceptable bride in any marital alliance that she should be called upon to undertake.

Of course, not everyone in Zeinab's circle was so hostile to her race or her despicable mother. In fact, the greater part of Zeinab's class (including Elsa) accepted the Queen of Thamud's invitation to reside in the palace grounds of Thamud for two weeks during the summer; though some may have been seduced by their desire to visit that strange land of snow and sand.

Zhou Yu was by now a matron of some thirty years and five and looking much advanced in years. Most would say that she looked every bit the hag she is known as throughout the continent.

(insert image 16ZhouYu04.png, center stand alone)

The Queen of Thamud greeted her daughter with the kind of unseemly affection usually reserved for the lower classes.

“My darling baby, I'm so glad you're home!” Zhou Yu exclaimed before proceeding to smother her daughter with hugs and kisses which seemed to exasperate the girl.

“Please stop, mother,” she said, “I've barely left for 6 months, it's embarrassing.”

“There's nothing embarrassing about a mother hugging her only daughter. Are you well? Have you had enough to eat, Zaya?”

She proceeded pinch and prod at her daughter's waistline which caused the girl to push her mother's hands away.

“You have to tell me everything about what happened at Mary and Magnus. “

Then turning to the brown-haired girl in Zeinab's retinue

“Is this Priscilla? I used to work for your father some years back though I'm sure he has told you all about that, hasn't he? Those were...interesting times.”

The touching Priscilla's chin, she commented, “I see that you've fully recovered from that episode of fisticuffs. No side effects I presume? We must make it up to you.”

The color drained from Priscilla's face the moment she realized that the Queen knew everything about her fight with Zeinab including her comparison of the personage in front of her to a female dog. She immediately looked at Zeinab accusingly, sensing that her misdemeanors had been transmitted through the most obvious route. Zeinab, standing behind her mother, simply glared back at her and shook her head indicating she had nothing to do with this. It was hardly in Zeinab's interest to have her violent actions at school revealed to her dam.

“Stop shaking your head that way, Zeinab” the Queen said without turning back. “I would have thought that all these months with Lady Elsa would have taught you better. We are all ladies here, if you have something to say, then do so with your mouth.”

Then speaking softly in Qin she said, “你怎么会以为我不会发现呢?”

One can only imagine what it must have been like to grow up with a mother like Queen Zhou; to have your entire life under a microscope; to have that darkness hanging over your head and every action.

One particular dark-haired second year girl called, Trisha, held no such qualms. This particular filly had been sired on one of the concubines of the chancellor to the Zeshen Emperor. Unlike Priscilla, she was positively enamored of the Witch of Thamud and her progeny.

Even Zhou Yu was taken aback by the girl's forwardness. Trisha would take every opportunity to walk beside the Queen and would even take her arm if allowed to saying how she wanted to be like her when she grew up and have even “bigger muscles.” Elsa noted that the Queen seemed to turn bilious on hearing this.

Trisha would spend hours gazing at Zhou; taking tea with her at every opportunity, and watching her at practice with her Qin straight sword and her bow. The Queen was so flustered by the girl’s constant presence that she felt compelled to give her some pointers on fencing and to initiate her into the use of the bow. At one point, Zhou presented the young girl with one of her own jeweled hairpins that she might hold up her hair neatly while at practice. This she wore for the rest of her time at Mary and Magnus.

But it didn't end there. During the ball held in honor of the students some three days into the excursion, Trisha could be seen pointing excitedly at the Queen's feet which elicited an audible groan from Zeinab who was standing beside her. Zeinab immediately made to push down her companion's outstretched hand saying, “Stop encouraging her.”

“Are these the [stiletto] heels being sold at the Qin boutiques in Talos?” Trisha asked excitedly.

“They're something new I've had the master cobblers produce based on my specifications. What do you think?” replied the Queen. With that the Queen lifted the edge of her evening gown to show a stockinged foot and calf as well as the high heels which adorned her feet.

“Amazing!” Trisha exclaimed, “Do they make them in my size?”

“You're too young to wear heels, and when you do become old enough, you are not to wear them on a daily basis,” the Queen admonished

“Were you the one who invented them?” Trisha asked

“I didn't invent them. I simply brought them to the attention of the women of the continent; and probably condemned some unfortunates a to a future with bunions.” The Queen chuckled as she said this, then added, “I wear them sparingly. The King likes it when I wear them, men generally do.”

It is common knowledge that only a slut displays her calves as willingly as this so-called Queen of Thamud. More to the point, this particular form of footwear has become popular among the harlots and courtesans of Talos.

As Elsa was seated at the head table, she was privy to many seemingly private conversations.

It appeared that the Princess Anthea was soon leaving for Talos after a sojourn of many months in Thamud. Her marriage to Safin, the Crown Prince of Thamud, was much anticipated, though he was not present that night–the banquet being solely reserved for the womenfolk.

The Queen presented Princess Anthea a parting gift, a rectangular object wrapped in the fine Qin silk, which she opened promptly at the table.

Elsa caught a glimpse at the sketch book. It seemed largely harmless at first glance consisting of no more than clear line drawings of figures. There were pages and pages of these and not all by the same hand; mostly consisting of depictions of exotic female clothing. The headmistress assumed that it was some eccentric find from the libraries of the Qin.

It soon became clear, however, that all was not as it seemed. Elsa saw the eyes of Zeinab and those of her blonde-haired cousin, the Princess Alma, grow wide in shock. [see Chapter 10]

“Inanna preserve us,” Zeinab exclaimed, “What kind of gift is this! Mother, are you expecting Anthea to wear these on her wedding night!”

Then turning to Trisha who was standing so as to get a better look at the sketchbook, Zeinab pointed at the book saying, “This is what happens when you encourage my mother.”

Princess Alma, a former student of the dignified head mistress of Mary and Magnus, nodded her head vigorously in agreement with Zeinab. From this, Elsa Holmberg surmised that the sketchbook included depictions of intimate wear. She could barely control her disgust.

“My dear Zaya, your brother is not to be married for at least another two years so it is your own lewd mind which imagines such things.” The Queen clicked her tongue in remonstration as she said this. “What Anthea does with the drawings is up to her, my dear. I would like to add that some of the designs are my own,” the Queen seemed to beam proudly as she said this, quite unaware of how this made her look.

The Queen's interactions with the headmistress of the Tower were otherwise civil. She of course knew who Elsa Holmberg was–a daughter of that fortress which she once helped incinerate. Needless to say, she never once mentioned her actions and was courteous like the smiling tiger she was.

Every interaction Elsa Holmberg had with the Queen of Thamud convinced her that whatever faults she detected in Zeinab were entirely the fault of her mother.

The girl was being made to study calculus and higher algebra; subjects which had no place in the life of a royal prince much less a royal princess. There were not enough hours in a day as is for a young woman to cultivate her mind properly and master her lessons in art, poetry and music. For a girl to waste her time on these trifles was a terrible mistake.

These were things which even her elder brother, Safin, was not subject to, but Zeinab brushed this away with a wave of her hand saying, “I get bored easily, so I'm doing this to amuse myself until I find something better.”

It was all too clear that the Queen who seemed a light touch when it came to her more normal son, was altogether more demanding when it came to her daughter. One assumes that the boy had been taken under the wing of his father and was spared the harsh influence of his mother.

The headmistress felt nothing but pity for this poor Thamudian princess who had been subject to years of abuse. It was a wonder that her mind had not been irreparably harmed. Elsa advised her young charge that the only serious study a young woman of her status should consider (outside the arts) would be that of history and politics that she might better engage in conversation with her future spouse, or if one was unusually endowed, even to offer gentle advice when he was receptive.

Zeinab let out a loud sigh and said that her mother had already made her read the Talosian classics on war and had given her a Qin book called the Thirty-Six Stratagems as “toilet reading.” She seemed more enthused about the first primer her mother gave her about politics called The Prince, written in an unknown tongue but translated by the scribes of Qin for their libraries. It appeared to be a birthday present which her mother had presented to her when she came of age– a specially commissioned copy transcribed by the Qin librarians with an inscription on the inside cover and closed with the seal of Pingyang, the Third Princess of Qim. Elsa saw the rather slim book in Zeinab's bedside library and assumed, considering its size, that it contained the usual pleasant aphorisms about good governance extolled by all the great philosophers of Talos.

It was only after considering all of this that Elsa Holmberg realized that Zeinab was not a bad girl, she had merely been brought up poorly. But all was not lost for she had two years to regain all that she had been senselessly deprived of as a young girl in Thamud. Only at Mary and Magnus would Zeinab achieve that noble bearing that all girls of her lineage naturally acquired from a young age; she would be instilled with a sense of decorum befitting a girl who had graduated from Talos' finest academy for young women.

When Zeinab left the Tower after two years, she left behind a small gift for her headmistress thanking her for her kind attention and for showing her what it meant to be a lady of substance.

Chapter 17 - The Tale of Crispin, Chancellor of Ajanabha.

[Scribe's Note: A description of Zhou Yu’s household taken from “Letters to the Emperor,” a collection of love letters and erotic tales written to the Zeeshan Emperor by his concubine and published to mark the fiftieth anniversary of his reign.]

*

Lord Crispin hated traveling by sea and he liked the scorching heat of Thamud even less. Still it was vastly preferable to have his feet firmly planted on the arid soil of the desert kingdom; frankly anything would be an improvement over the gently rocking motion that he had been subjected to for nearly two weeks.

Crispin was the Chancellor to the Zeeshan Emperor. He was a Talosian by race but a citizen of Ajanabha by birth. The Zeeshan empire is one of the few multicultural societies on the great continent of An, with a tenth of the population consisting of citizens of Talosian descent. This was the natural result of Talosian expansionism over a century ago which led to the absorption of a third of Ajanabha into the Talosian empire. When the Talsosians were finally driven out, some of the colonizers chose to stay (having intermarried with the natives); bending the knee to the resurgent royal family. Ajanabha was the ruling entity of the conglomeration of small states which constituted the empire, and it was from here that Emperor Zeeshan ruled.

The trade and diplomatic mission led by Crispin had been deemed necessary in the face of recent poor harvests and scattered outbreaks of famine, the result of logistical issues across the empire. Customs incentives were also on the table; seeing as so much trade had to pass through the large land mass of Talos which separated Ajanabha from Thamud with all the resultant cost and taxes this incurred. The trade mission was meant to establish new trade routes using the relatively safe coastal passage.

The suggestion for this diplomatic mission was put forward by the Lady Neela over tea. She was the favorite of Ajanabha's chief military strategist; a coquettish woman who had various mercantile interests throughout the empire. At this point, Ajanabha was desperate to do anything to diversify its supply lines away from its larger neighbor; even a mutual security pact would be welcomed by Ajanabha.

This was Crispin's first face to face meeting with the Queen of Thamud. He was familiar with all the stories emanating from Talos as to how she had twisted the character of Idris, her husband, turning a once peaceful country into one ever on a war footing.

In appearance the Queen seemed an average sized Qin woman with long black hair. She received him dressed in the traditional robes of her race. This made her stand out from all her attendants but no more so than usual, seeing as she was the only Qin person in the entire palace, if not the capital itself. She wore a simple but expensive headdress in the form of a jewel encrusted hair pin which she said was a present from her husband. Some would consider her reasonably pretty for one who was in her mid thirties–shapely for a Qin woman with a pleasant enough face.

Crispin did not think her appearance surpassed those of the average servant girl in the palace in Ajanabha. It seemed even less likely that this was the person responsible for the deaths of thousands of men across Talos and Albion. Was this diminutive Qin woman the person who had helped Duke Gaius subdue half of Albion-inciting the peasants to rise up against his rivals and pledge allegiance to the Duke in exchange for food, shelter, and reduced rents? There was really nothing about her which suggested this or any type of danger.

During his long tenure as one of the King's chief advisors, Crispin had received many rumors indicating that it was the Thamudian Queen who paved that bloody road which Sabine took in her great purge of the nobility of Talos some ten years back. The reader will probably have heard of Queen Zhou Yu's designs on Talos, and that it was she who proposed an alliance between Thamud and Talos through the marriage of her son to the daughter of Queen Sabine; going so far as to keep Sabine's daughter, the Princess Anthea, as a hostage in her palace to ensure that her ends were met. Needless to say, Crispin had a very poor impression of the Queen even before meeting her for the first time.

It soon became clear to Crispin that the citizens of Thamud were the most [propagandized] on the continent. When the Chancellor conversed with members of the nobility, they were invariably convinced that the Queen was a loving mother who treated Anthea like her very own child–almost provoking the jealousy of her own true daughter, Princess Zeinab.

As for the negotiations and Crispin's audience with the Queen; apart from a few cursory words of greeting, she did not interfere in the trade negotiations at all; at least not to his face. Instead, she moved in and out of the negotiation room at her leisure; sometimes for nothing more important than refilling her tea cup or nibbling on some biscuits. The Thamudian negotiators would largely ignore her comings and goings but, whenever a more important decision was to be made, the chairman, a noble of the highest standing, could be seen hastening out of the hall to consult his superior. Who this might be was anyone's guess.

Crispin's delegation was put up in a luxurious summer lodge situated a short distance from the main palace. There Talosian and Ajanabha delicacies were served to them on demand. On other occasions, they would take lunch in the main dining hall where more details could be ironed out informally. Only when the negotiations were nearing their end was he invited to take breakfast with the royal family.

The King had taken his son Safin to the fire villages near the Thamudian-Talosian border and would not be back for a few days yet, but he did have occasion to meet Princess Anthea who was in Thamud without her mother (Sabine of Talos) as had been rumored. Crispin asked her quite casually what she thought of life in Thamud and whether she would prefer to be back in Talos. Anthea gave the Chancellor a look of perplexed disgust and snidely asked him if he had ever met her mother. It appeared that Anthea had no inkling of her status as a hostage, though it did occur to Crispin that the Princess could have been turned by the Witch Queen to her own ends through long years of isolation. Either way, he pitied her.

One morning, when Crispin was left alone at breakfast with the Princesses of Thamud and Talos, Zhou Yu's youngest, Zeinab, seized the opportunity to interrogate him.

Zeinab: Where do you come from?

Crispin: I'm from Ajanabha, your Highness.

Zeinab: But you're a descendant of Talosian colonizers.

Crispin: I suppose that is historically accurate but...

Zeinab: Do you like my mother? You don't seem very friendly to her. Is that because you still feel some affinity for Talos?

Anthea: Stop disturbing the Chancellor, Zaya. He's here to spy on mother.

Crispin: I am not here to spy on anyone, Princess Anthea. I am here to discuss new trading opportunities and to meet the members of our permanent mission in Thamud.

Anthea: As I said, spying. Using a permanent mission to spy on Thamud is about as smart as the Qin using their shops to spy on Ajanabha. Do you think that's the way the Queen gets her information on Talos and Ajanabha, Chancellor?

Crispin: I couldn't possibly comment.

Crispin rarely spoke with or worked with children, but he knew now never to repeat this experience if he could help it. He could hardly strike them down with the cold calculating logic he was known for back in Ajanabha; after all, they were only children and it would be like smiting defenseless rabbits.

The next moment, Crispin felt a light tap on his shoulder which made him almost jump out of his skin. He heard a familiar voice coming from just behind him; a voice which seemed to be laced with warm honey.

“Are the children bullying you, Chancellor?”

“Yes, of course, your Highness. I mean, no...they were not.”

“I'm so pleased that they've been keeping you entertained. Life in the palace can be so dull.”

Crispin noticed that the Queen always spoke kindly to her maids and attendants but it appeared to him that they obeyed her as much out of fear as they did out of love. And unlike many royal matriarchs, she spent an inordinate amount of time with her children, and was even rumored to have nursed them on her own breasts while they were babes. This was certainly not the tradition in most royal households.

The Queen also seemed especially docile with the King, her husband. It seemed incredible that this was the female who had so ensnared him and that had turned him towards cruelty and violence. At her side constantly was a boorish Thamudian woman named, Aisha, who held the tip of her sword to Crispin's neck when he first approached the Queen, telling him in no uncertain terms he was not to advance any further. For this she was playfully chided by the Queen with whom she seemed to be great friends.

In short, Crispin learned almost nothing about the Queen despite his extended stay in Thamud. All she had for him was small talk and interminable discussions on food, something which was ever on the minds of the Qin people (or so he had been told). She seemed to be absolutely vacuous but he could hardly blame the woman for conforming to the intellectual tendencies of her sex.

*

Crispin had chosen to return to Ajanabha by land and was looking forward to visiting the many fine dining halls in Talos. An hour after the coachman informed him that they had crossed the Thamud-Talosian border, he fell into a deep sleep and dreamt of a sumptuous dinner of pork pie and roasted pheasant.

[Scribe’s note: The rest of the account reputedly describing Crispin’s reduction to a servant girl and Emperor Zeeshan’s plaything has been censored.

It is said that Crispin later served as a female librarian in Thamud’s Grand Library. Under a different name, no doubt.]

Chapter 18 - A Disappearance

[An account by a Court Historian, in the reign of King Idris II, in the first year of the blue harvest.]

In the fifteenth year of the reign of King Idris II, consort and chief advisor Zhou Yu of the Qin vanished from the Palace of the Sapphire Gates.

The event, unprecedented in court memory, occurred at the summer solstice, on the evening preceding the Council of Tributary Lords. Her age at the time was given as thirty-six. She was survived by His Majesty, her husband, and by two children: Prince Safin, aged sixteen, and Princess Zeinab, fourteen.

On the night of her vanishing, the consort was seen in her private study, reviewing dispatches from the Thamudic border. A servant, summoned by bell, found the antechamber empty, the windows barred from within, and the loggia secured according to the established procedure. There was no sign of disturbance: the consort’s customary robe remained draped over the back of her writing chair; her ink horn, half-full, stood open on the desk; an unfinished journal entry, dated but unsigned, rested beneath a crystal paperweight. In the adjoining chamber, her bed lay unslept in.

A full audit of the palace commenced at once. The King’s Guard swept all residential quarters, servant tunnels, and garden outbuildings. Scribes inventoried every key, lock, and passage. The riverbank was searched from the southern aqueduct to the refuse canal; all city gates remained sealed throughout the night.

The search was later extended, by royal proclamation, to the five surrounding prefectures: the principalities of Talos, the borderlands of Albion, the nomad steppes to the north, the Tocharian wastes, and the entire breadth of the Thamudic heartland. Heralds posted rewards in every market and at each major crossroads. Witnesses were deposed by the hundred; yet, after twenty days’ labor, not a trace of the consort was found, nor any credible explanation obtained.

The King, upon receiving the report, responded in the manner prescribed by the ancient codes. All ceremonial functions were suspended for nine days. The Sapphire Banner was dipped to half-staff, and the Court entered official mourning. His Majesty authorized unrestricted movement of search parties, personally signed writs of safe passage for volunteers, and expanded the authority of local magistrates to detain and question all persons of interest.

Privately, the King’s demeanor altered little, save for a visible loss of flesh and color. In audience, he maintained perfect composure; but within the private chambers, the king’s sleeplessness became a matter of note to the staff. The head physician observed a decline in appetite, and, by the second month, the royal drafts for pain and sleep had doubled. On two occasions, the King was observed walking the upper halls of the palace at late hours, pausing before the locked doors of his wife’s chambers, but he never entered.

An investigation by the Royal Council yielded no evidence of foul play. All members of the household were accounted for; no stranger entered or left the Palace on the night in question. The most likely explanation, concluded the Chancellor, was “voluntary departure under circumstances known only to the Lady herself.”

In the wake of the loss, state affairs proceeded without visible interruption. Prince Safin assumed a greater share of council responsibilities, especially in matters relating to the Talosian border. He was observed to conduct himself with gravity and composure, attending every session of the High Council and answering correspondence with his mother’s customary discipline. At public events, he stood always at the King’s right hand, and in all proclamations, deferred to his father’s will.

Princess Zeinab was made regent of the northern territories in her mother’s stead. Though young, she executed her duties with notable precision. She presided over council meetings, received foreign envoys, and issued edicts in her own name, always with the careful penmanship for which the Qin are famous. Observers recorded that Zeinab wept only once, on the third morning after her mother’s disappearance, and that she spent the subsequent week in her mother’s chambers, refusing all visitors and even the customary meals.

When she emerged, it was as if a new person had assumed her likeness: her voice was measured, her conduct correct, and her hours of study doubled. Those closest to her reported that she lit a lamp by her mother’s writing desk each night, letting it burn through until dawn, though no one ever saw her read or write at the desk itself.

The siblings, while outwardly unchanged, developed a subtle closeness. Their ways of grieving diverged: the prince through discipline and exertion, the princess through diligence and imitation of her mother’s routines.

Of the consort’s apartments, nothing was altered. Her study remained untouched, save for a weekly cleaning by the chief housekeeper, who replaced wilted flowers with fresh and ensured that the dust never settled for more than a day. The windows were opened each morning and closed before sunset. On the dressing table, her comb and mirror lay as she had left them. The blue silk robe hung, unmoved, over the back of the writing chair. The unlit lamp remained by the side of the bed, wick trimmed and oil replenished. The journal waited for the return of its author. The doors to the inner office were kept locked, and servants posted to intercept any who might disturb the arrangement.

In the court offices, her absence was marked by the silence of the halls. The clerks who once awaited her morning reviews now performed their duties in a hush, as if uncertain whether to grieve or prepare for her return. The consort’s official correspondence was sealed and archived.

In the months that followed, the kingdom prospered. The harvest was abundant, the Thamudic borders held firm, and the Talosian legations reported only minor unrest.

Reports from the field confirmed that Prince Safin, now wedded to Princess Agnes of Talos, had left the outpost at Holmberg and taken residence in the southern capital, where he was said to favor the company of philosophers and mathematicians. Princess Zeinab consolidated her power in Thamud, reforming the Council of Elders and codifying a new legal code, which the scribes described as “an improvement on the Qin system, with additional severity in matters of discipline.” Throughout, the King remained steadfast. His mourning never waned, but his will did not falter, and he ruled with the same patience and force of mind for which his dynasty was renowned.

Of Zhou Yu of the Qin, nothing further is recorded. Her image was painted for the Hall of Ancestors and her name added to the Scroll of Honored Consorts. Each year on the anniversary of her disappearance, the King ordered a memorial service and invited all members of the court to attend. The lanterns were lit, the riverside banners dyed blue, and for a single evening, the silence of the halls was broken by the recitation of poems in her memory.

Thus concludes the account of the disappearance of Queen Zhou Yu. The kingdom remained strong, the royal line unbroken, and the legacy of the consort endured in her children, who governed with the wisdom and resolve she had instilled in them. So recorded by the hand of the Court Historian, in the reign of King Idris II, in the first year of the blue harvest.

Chronology of The Resourceful Little Slave Girl - All Dates Approximate

0 Years

Amber (Zhou Yu) arrives on the Planet An.

She was a man of twenty-five on earth but regresses to a biological age of seventeen due to the serum.

She begins her training as a slave girl.

3 months

Amber is sold to a feudal lord of Albion called, Gaius.
She remains there for approximately 1 year.

1 year and 3 months

Amber is visited by the emissaries and taken to Thamud. She loses 2 weeks of time.
She becomes the slave and partner of Prince Idris of Thamud for 1 year.

2 years and 3 months

Zhou Yu (Amber) is taken by the Qin for 3 months and becomes a lady in waiting to Princess Pingyang.

2 years and 6 months

Zhou Yu returns to Thamud and is 3 months pregnant.
The preparations for a war with Talos are ongoing.

2 years and 8 months

The war between Thamud and Talos rages.
Zhou Yu begins writing in her journal in the Autumn.

2 years and 11 months

The defeated Talosian army is in retreat.

Zhou Yu gives birth to her first child, a boy called Safin.

3 years and 2 months

A peace treaty between Thamud and Talos is signed.
Zhou Yu appears to stops writing in her journal.

4 years

The old king dies and Idris is crowned the new King of Thaumud
Zhou Yu's daughter, Zeinab, is born a year following.

7 years

Zhou Yu writes in her journal again.

Her friend, Eumelia, has died in childbirth 6 months prior.

Her son, Safin, is 4 years old and her daughter, Zeinab, is 2 years old.
Safin is betrothed to Princess Anthea of Talos who is 3 years of age. She is the daughter of Princess Sabine.

In Talos, the Talosian agent, Anais, for future gratification, offers information on a previous colleague of Zhou Yu's – the slave girl, Aisha.

7 years and 6 months

Princess Sabine of Talos is exiled to Thamud. She arrives with her daughter, Anthea. Crown Prince Alaric of Talos disappears soon after, possibly through the machinations of Sabine.

8 years

Zhou Yu writes in her journal again.
The Talosian War of Succession begins

10 years

The Talosian War of Succession ends with the capture of the City of Holmberg. Queen Sabine is now unopposed.

13 years

Elsa Holmberg becomes the headmistress of Mary and Magnus' Tower. She recounts, pseudonymously, her time there in a novel some years later; hoping to discredit Zhou Yu in so doing.

18 years

Zeinab is 13 years old

Her first year in school is described in “First Year at Mary and Magnus' Tower - A Middle School Novel”. We meet Trisha, a school mate of Zeinab’s, for the first time – she is obsessed with Zhou Yu.

Zhou Yu is 35 years of age.
Safin is 15 and Anthea is 14.

19 years

Lord Crispin, Chancellor of Ajanabha, visits Thamud. After being transformed, he spends a year as a serving maid at the Tamarind Flower before being exiled to Thamud.

Zhou Yu disappears leaving behind her family in. A court historian records the event in the archives of Thamud.

Map of the main continent of An

An – The alternate Earth to which Zhou Yu is transported

Ki - The name given to Earth on the planet An

Seven, The– The pseudo-gods of An, based partially on Mesopotamian deities. They are served by the emissaries who reside somewhere in the Tocharian Desert.

Qin – The homeland of the Chinese-like people of An. Apparently late arrivals to this alternate world.

Talos – The largest kingdom of the main continent of An. It has reached its current size through military conquest.

Thamud– A kingdom in the Western part of the main continent to which Zhou Yu has sworn fealty. It has some similarities to the Middle-Eastern states of Earth.

Zeeshan Empire – A small conglomeration of states of which the largest is Ajanabha. Corresponds to the Indian civilization of Earth.

Dear Reader,

It has been 20 years since I last wrote in my journal.

*

My old journals and letters are no longer with me but I have some faith they remain preserved in Thamud where my husband and master still reigns.

I now sit in an inn in the land of the Qin where I have paid for a handsome room for a week, awaiting the arrival of my old friend, the Princess Pingyang.

The journal I am writing in was given to me by the acolytes together with some ink brushes, crow quills, qalams, and a pack of ballpoint pens from Ki, my homeworld [Earth]. They seem quite undecided as to which implements I would prefer to use and never bothered to ask.

The acolytes who took me some 20 years ago have been helpful; almost ingratiating but I was glad to see the back of them once my conversation with Ea had ended.

As for Ea, I would prefer to say as little as possible but I am sure my husband and children will be interested once I meet with them again; so I will, as usual, provide the necessary details.

*

Just one week ago, I awakened without warning, on a cot that was not mine, in a body that trembled as though I had spent the night crawling through snow, though there was no snow in this place.

The ceiling above me was neither stone nor wood, but a smooth surface that reflected the ambient gray of the chamber, marked here and there by bloodless blue and white fractures, like the ice-floes that run through the barbarian lands. Light came from everywhere and nowhere. The air had no scent.

I attempted to rise. A paralysis as total as any drug immobilized me. There was no sign of restraint, but my body refused to obey. On the inside of the cot’s transparent surface, a pattern of condensation ran down in heavy, wet rivulets, as if the cell itself was weeping.

*

A memory surfaced, as clear and sharp as a surgeon's knife: Zeinab, my daughter, in her eighth year, running barefoot down the corridors of our palace in Thamud, her tiny hands outstretched to catch the beads of morning dew that clung to the rushes. "Mother," she would say, always "Mother," though I had trained her to address me as Queen in public. "The dew is so cold, it makes my hands tingle for hours." Her voice had the same sharp brightness as the air in this cell. I wondered—no, I knew—that Zeinab was now a grown woman.

When I slowly regained movement, I traced the skin up my wrist to the inside of my elbow, where in the past a latticework of scars and healed needle marks had mapped my progress through life. They were all gone. The skin was perfect, virginal, untouched. The realization came slowly: my body had not aged. The gods had preserved me exactly as I was the night they took me.

But they had not preserved my world.

Idris, my lover and my master, would by now be an old man. Zeinab and Safin would be adults, or dead, or worse. I had been snatched from them with all the grace of a wolf taking a lamb from its mother, and unlike the wolf, the gods would never leave the lamb’s bones.

The window to my cell now glowed with blue light, the way the sky sometimes glowed over the Emei mountains after a summer storm. A figure approached, a column of shifting blue and white gathering itself into a solid outline as it neared the glass. For a moment it resembled a woman, tall and slender, her hair bound up in an elaborate coiffure. Then the figure dissolved into mist, and the cell was once again empty; but the lid on my cot was now open.

*

I wondered how many cycles of this waking and dreaming I had endured, and whether each time I awoke I remembered less of my own life.

After a time, I discovered I could move my legs. The first steps were hideous; I wobbled, pitched forward, and caught myself on the cool glass walls with a clumsy slap.

On the far side of the chamber, a woman stood there, identical to the one I had seen in the blue light, except she was solid now, her hair black as a river at midnight, her gown white as mountain salt. Her face was serene, but her eyes and skin were the color of deep water, shifting even as I looked at them.

She raised a hand, palm outward, and for a moment I thought she meant to touch me, to comfort or subdue.

"Do you remember your name?" she asked, her voice was both familiar and terrible. It almost sounded like mine.

I wanted to say "Amber," the name given to me by my first master; I wanted to say "Zhou Yu," the name I had chosen for myself; I wanted to say "Mother," for that was what I still was, no matter what the gods had planned. But I said nothing. The absence of speech was more honest than any answer I could have given.

The woman smiled, the way a blade smiles before it cuts. "They are waiting for you," she said. "Will you come of your own will?"

I nodded, not because I agreed, but because there was no point in refusing.

The air in the corridor tasted of cold metal, but at least it was air. My first steps were unsteady, but I kept my back straight and my head high, as I had always done before the executioner's block. The woman glided beside me, her feet never touching the ground.

At the end of the corridor was a door—a simple rectangle, incongruous in this place. The woman gestured, and it opened with a sound like water pouring from a great height. Beyond was a chamber of mirrors, each reflecting a different version of myself: a scarred mercenary, a young woman, a slave, a mother, a corpse. I picked the reflection that seemed the most real, the one in which my eyes were neither proud nor broken, and stepped into the room.

The woman did not follow. As the door closed behind me, her voice echoed through the chamber, flat and omnipresent: "You will write your own story now, Zhou Yu. The gods are merely readers."

I laughed, a bitter, rasping sound, and looked at my hands again. They trembled, but the skin was flawless. I flexed my fingers, and for a brief moment, imagined that the strength in them was enough to strangle a god.

I sat at the table in the center of the room.

On its surface was a book bound in pale leather and a selection of writing implements. I opened the book, and glanced at its first page which was empty except for some words in my own writing: Dear Reader, It has been twenty years since I last wrote in my journal.