A scent in the wind

A scent in the wind (rough draft v1)

As you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, you're taken aback by how your reflection has subtly changed. Your skin is visibly softer, and a luminous quality seems to emanate from your pores. You look at the salon-grade lotion, shampoo and body wash Miss Isabelle had generously provided. The elegant bottles boast about their hydrating qualities and essential oils.

Taking a deep breath, you catch a whiff of the fragrance—the aroma is rich, almost intoxicating, but decidedly feminine. A slight pang of discomfort flutters in your stomach, yet you also feel a sort of draw towards the scent.

Throughout the day, you notice that people seem to be responding to you differently. Maybe it's your imagination, but there's an awareness, a kind of magnetism that you can't exactly pinpoint. In a lecture, a fellow classmate leans in closer than usual to ask for a pen. He hesitates, his nose twitching subtly.

"Nice perfume," he mutters, seemingly confused.

You mumble a thanks, your mind racing. You hadn't worn any perfume; it was just the shampoo and body wash.

When you return home, the comfort of routine and the familiar smile of Miss Isabelle greet you. As you chat about your day over an exquisitely prepared dinner, you're distracted by a buzz from your phone. It's a reminder, one you had set weeks ago:

"Time to start job-hunting. Money won't last forever."

A knot tightens in your stomach. College itself is already so overwhelming; adding a job hunt on top feels unbearable. Miss Isabelle seems to sense your sudden discomfort.

"Is everything alright?" she asks.

"I need to find a job," you admit, hesitantly. "But I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet. My budget was optimistic, to say the least."

She leans back, appraising you with those enigmatic eyes. "Would you like some help with that? I might have a few ideas that could suit you."

Grateful, you agree. "If your sure it won't be a bother, that would be great, actually. Thank you."

As you drift into another restful sleep, lulled by the subtle scents of your new skincare routine, Miss Isabelle retreats to her study once more. This time, she doesn't hesitate; the hidden drawer slides open, revealing a collection of files. Some full of plans in different states of completion the others full of sensitive documents, contacts, and resources owed her. It was time to start calling in a few small markers for her pet project, so far the small investment of time and materials had yielded results that warranted more investment. He was trusting her and following her lead already.

She starts sifting through the listings, her eyes scanning for opportunities that align with her—no, your—evolving interests. A receptionist at a high-end fashion store. An assistant at a beauty salon. A clerk in a 'marital aid' store, the only one in the area that targeted a more elegant crowd. A production assistant on an all female talk show or that fashion show. Jobs that are not just feminine but would subtly reinforce a different set of gender expectations even in a man.

"His immersion will be gradual, almost imperceptible, a little nudge her and there." she murmurs to herself, a hidden excitement tingling in her voice. "But inevitably, he will find himself in a new world, molded not just by his circumstances but by his environment, he will find everything slightly tilted in favor of the direction I want, with careful planing I'll make it feel like the universe is conspiring to tell him this is his destiny."

She compiles a list, satisfied with the options that could both meet your immediate needs and serve her long-term plans. "I'll present these to him in the morning," she thinks, her finger hovering over the 'save' button.

And as her finger presses down, sealing another layer into the intricate plan she’s weaving, she can't help but smile.

"Sleep well," she whispers to the quiet room, as if sending the words through the walls and into your dreams. "Tomorrow is a new day."

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