Cause for Celebration

The soft click of the front door closing behind her signaled the end of a day that had felt both eternal and fleeting. Kiara Laurent—no, Kieran—stood in the quiet entryway of the penthouse they call home, the weight of the day's events pressing gently against his shoulders. The familiar scent of lavender and vanilla wafted through the air, a comforting reminder of home.

From the living room, a sudden rustle and the patter of footsteps broke the silence. Celeste appeared, her eyes wide with anticipation.

"Did you get it?" she asked, her voice tinged with excitement.

A radiant smile spread across Kieran's face, his eyes sparkling. "Yeah! I did!" he exclaimed, his voice lilting with joy.

Celeste let out a delighted squeal and rushed forward, enveloping Kieran in a tight embrace. The hug was warm, grounding, and filled with a shared sense of accomplishment. For a moment, the pressures of the past week melted away, replaced by the simple comfort of familial love.

As they pulled apart, Kieran's thoughts drifted to the rare hug he had received from his mother earlier that day. Vivienne, always composed and reserved, had embraced him with a tenderness that spoke volumes. It was a fleeting moment, but one that had etched itself into his memory.

Suddenly, Vivienne appeared beside them, her presence commanding yet gentle. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around both Kieran and Celeste, pulling them into a group hug. It was a rare display of affection, a silent acknowledgment of the significance of the day's events.

"You were magnificent today," Vivienne whispered, her voice filled with pride.

Kieran felt a surge of emotion rise within him. The journey to this point had been arduous, filled with self-doubt and relentless training. But in this moment, surrounded by his family, he felt a sense of validation. The performance had been convincing enough; the past week had been worth it.

As they stood there, entwined in a familial embrace, the significance of the moment settled over them. This was more than just a personal victory; it was a testament to their collective resilience and determination. The stakes had been high, but together, they had risen to the challenge.

Vivienne gently pulled back, her eyes meeting Kieran's. "Now, go change," she said with a soft smile. "We have to celebrate this day."

Kieran nodded, a newfound confidence in his step as he made his way to his room. The click-clack of his heels echoed through the hallway, a rhythmic reminder of the transformation he had undergone. His movements were graceful, deliberate—a testament to the countless hours of training and self-discovery.

As he entered his room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The reflection staring back was poised, elegant, and undeniably Kiara. Yet, beneath the surface, Kieran remained, stronger and more self-assured than ever before.

He took a deep breath, the mantra echoing in his mind:

My name is Kiara Laurent. I am confident, graceful, and poised. I speak with kindness, move with purpose, and dress with elegance. I know what I want, and I know how to get it.

With a final glance in the mirror, Kieran smiled—a genuine, radiant smile that bridged the gap between who he was and who he had become. The journey was far from over, but for the first time, he felt ready to embrace whatever lay ahead.

He turned away from the mirror, the soft rustle of fabric accompanying his movements as he got ready to change into something more comfortable. The celebration awaited, and with it, the next chapter of his remarkable journey.

Kieran stepped into the quiet calm of his bedroom, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The celebration was just beginning in the living room, but he needed a moment alone to breathe—to peel off the weight of the day, literally and figuratively.

He reached down to the back zipper of the black pencil skirt and tugged. The fabric, stiff with structure but softened from wear, slipped slightly as he pulled it past his hips. It dropped to the floor in a neat pool, leaving him in nothing but the smooth beige shapewear, his matching lace panties, and the jet-black stockings clinging high against his thighs. A small shiver ran up his spine as the cool air hit his legs, still warmed from the tension and adrenaline of the boardroom.

Next came the fitted turtleneck, which he carefully peeled off over his head, wary not to smudge his makeup just yet. His arms slid out, leaving him in only his underlayers and heels—a strangely **** yet confident state.

The black bra clung dutifully to his chest, filled perfectly by the adhesive silicone inserts Celeste had stuck into his routine. They gave him a defined C-cup silhouette, full and round, and as he moved, he could feel their slight weight swaying with his body. It was surreal—how foreign they were and yet how accustomed he’d become to their presence. Like they belonged. Like he belonged.

He turned slightly, catching a glimpse of himself in the long mirror against the wall.

The sight stopped him cold.

Lace bra, shapewear cinching his waist, soft stockings glimmering faintly in the low bedroom light. Hair curled and pinned just right, lips still painted a demure mauve, the shape of his eyes bold and captivating under the liner and subtle smokey shadow Celeste had guided him through. His cheekbones were glowing faintly from blush and highlighter. His skin was smooth, dewy. His lashes were longer than he remembered them being.

And... God, he looked sexy.

Not in a costume-y, exaggerated way. In a real way. A way that stirred something unfamiliar and confusing deep inside.

He blinked rapidly, shaking off the thought. “Get a grip,” he muttered, clearing his throat. The voice that came out was still soft, still her voice. Trained and tuned.

He turned from the mirror, as if breaking eye contact with himself might reset him.

Focusing now, he tugged at the shapewear to slip it off. It didn’t cooperate. It clung tightly to his skin, molded to his shape from hours of wear. He bent, twisted, tugged at the waistband—but it rolled slightly and snapped back. He gritted his teeth and tried again. “Seriously?” he mumbled. A small grunt of annoyance escaped him, followed by a sigh.

“I’ll just leave it on,” he muttered, throwing his hands up. The idea of struggling any further with it just to relax seemed counterproductive. Besides, it wasn’t that uncomfortable anymore—not after a day in it.

He padded barefoot over to the wardrobe, the carpet muffling the quiet grace of his steps. He needed something soft, presentable, and something that wouldn’t clash with the black stockings still wrapped around his legs.

His fingers skimmed over the hangers until they paused on a long, cream-colored knit sweater. The neckline was high and modest, perfect to hide the silicone inserts without showing his lack of cleavage. He pulled it off the hanger and carefully slipped it over his head. It fell to his upper thighs, loose and warm and… pretty. The soft wool blended elegantly with the black of his stockings.

For the bottoms, he chose a simple black knit skirt—more casual than the pencil skirt, but still sharp and put together. It hugged the shapewear slightly, but not uncomfortably, and gave a polished silhouette.

He glanced down at the discarded heels for a moment.

If Celeste walked in and saw him barefoot in stockings, he’d never hear the end of it.

With a small sigh, he bent down and slid the familiar black stilettos back on. As his heels lifted into them, the posture shift immediately hit him. His hips tilted, his spine straightened. His gait changed instinctively.

He’d spent the past week learning how to move this way. How to walk with a sway that was controlled, elegant, purposeful. Not exaggerated—but unmistakably feminine. Even now, his posture reflected those lessons. The way he held his chin. The relaxed bend of his wrists. The slight swing of his hips as he took a step.

He took one last glance in the mirror before leaving the room. The reflection still caught him off guard. A young woman, beautiful and poised, staring back with wide, intelligent eyes. But beneath it, the tension hummed—because he wasn’t her. Not really.

Or maybe he was now.

He pushed the thought down as he exited the bedroom.

The sound of his heels rejoined the room like punctuation. Click. Click. Click.

Back in the living room, Celeste looked up instantly, her eyes lighting up when she saw him.

“There she is!” she said brightly, clapping her hands once. “Much better. That outfit’s adorable.”

Vivienne, seated with a glass of something bubbly already in hand, gave her signature approving nod. “Perfect.”

Kieran felt the warmth rise in his cheeks—but he didn’t shy away from the compliments. Not anymore. He stepped further in, feeling the air in the room shift with his presence. Not Kieran.

Kiara.

Every trained movement, every practiced expression and gentle gesture was still there in his body. The soft crossing of his legs as he sat. The careful way he adjusted the hem of his skirt. The perfectly measured smile that graced his lips when his mother raised her glass to him.

The performance hadn’t ended with the boardroom.

And the scary part was… he wasn’t sure it felt like a performance anymore.

Not right now.

Not when everyone in the room looked at her—Kiara Laurent—with admiration.

And not when, for the first time, he was starting to believe it might just be possible.

The living room of the Laurent penthouse was bathed in the soft gold of the early evening, warm shadows stretching across polished floors and high ceilings. The sharp click of ice cubes meeting glass echoed from the kitchen bar, followed by the rhythmic stir of a cocktail spoon. Celeste worked with a precision that matched her aesthetic sensibilities. The shaker rattled in her hands before she poured the vibrant liquid into two curved martini glasses.

“For us,” she said with a smirk, handing one to her sibling, who was now sitting quietly on the velvet couch, legs modestly crossed and hands resting delicately in his lap, without even realizing how feminine his posture had become.

Vivienne was meanwhile already nursing a glass of dark red wine. She raised it with a small smile, that composed CEO expression never quite leaving her. “To Kiara,” she said simply, her voice ringing like crystal.

Celeste extended her glass to clink against her mother's. “To our newest CEO.” She turned to her sibling with a mischievous glint. “And to the prettiest little professional in the building today.”

Kieran hesitated only a beat before raising his glass. His fingers curled around the stem of the martini glass with more grace than he was even aware of, his wrist subtly bent, nails glinting with the soft coat of neutral polish Celeste had insisted on earlier. “To...all of us,” he said with a soft, girlish lilt to his voice, almost without thinking. The clink of glass echoed, and then silence settled for a breath.

He took a sip. Sweet, a little tart. It wasn’t bad.

“Wait,” he said after a second, blinking at Celeste. “Why didn’t you just get my Michelob Ultra from the fridge?”

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Because girls who drink beer get judged. Like, harshly. Especially in this world, you have to think about everything—how you speak, how you sit, and how you drink.”

Kieran gave a dry laugh and looked down at his cocktail. “So the beer’s for...what?”

“Just for any guests that might want some.” Celeste winked.

Vivienne chuckled into her wine glass, but there was something approving in her eyes.

Kieran leaned back on the couch, exhaling for what felt like the first time all day. It was the first moment where he wasn’t standing perfectly straight, wasn’t trying to remember his training, wasn’t walking heel-to-toe with invisible books balanced on his head. The pressure had lifted. He was home. He had done it. He had pulled it off.

As his mother and sister fell into a rhythm, chatting about the specifics of the board meeting—Clarence’s sharp questions, Marjorie’s dissecting tone, the surprising vote count—Kieran let the hum of their voices wash over him. He didn’t need to be “on” right now.

Yet, his posture still carried the remnants of the weeklong transformation—legs kept close together, chin tilted slightly, shoulders back. He ran a hand through his carefully brushed-out hair and caught the faint scent of rosewater. His nails were smooth. His skin had a polished feel.

And even now, in his soft voice and graceful gestures, it was like Kiara hadn’t fully left the building.

He looked down at the glass in his hand. The way he held it. The way his wrists were angled. The way his knees were kept demurely pressed. It was all second nature now. He hadn’t meant to sit like this. Hadn’t meant to speak the way he did. But it was happening anyway.

It was...oddly okay.

Not comfortable, not exactly. But doable.

“I’m still kinda stunned we pulled it off,” Celeste said, setting her glass down. “Sounds like you belonged there, Kiara.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean Kieran.”

She smirked. “Nope.”

Vivienne gave her a look, but her voice was gentle. “She’s right. What you did was no small feat. You took command of that room, even when they tried to rattle you. Jean would’ve been proud.”

Kieran looked away at the mention of his father. Something swelled in his chest—grief, pride, exhaustion. Maybe all of it. He nodded once, biting his lip gently. “I hope so.”

“Alright, what’s for dinner?” Celeste asked, glancing between them. “Do we celebrate with fancy sushi? I can call that omakase place downtown.”

Vivienne made a face. “No fancy fish today. I want something real.”

“Chinese?” Kieran offered, his voice rising slightly in the sentence like a question, unintentionally adding a hint of girlish melody to it. He didn’t even notice. “Like from our usual spot?”

“Perfect,” Vivienne said.

“Yes,” Celeste agreed. “Kung Pao and lo mein. That’s all I need right now.”

Kieran smiled. It felt natural. That Chinese place had been their go-to for years, even back when their father would call in the orders himself, always adding a surprise dish to the order just to keep it interesting. Nothing fancy, nothing five-star, just damn good food from a tiny, tucked-away shop.

As the conversation shifted to what they’d order, he found himself speaking more freely, a little more like Kieran—though the lilt and mannerisms of Kiara still coated everything he said. His hand would flick when he gestured. His tone had softness. His smile was more practiced than real. The way he tilted his head, the softness in his expressions—it was all still there.

But beneath all of that, he was there too.

Somewhere between the cocktails, the compliments, and the quiet of his own thoughts, Kieran started to feel something he hadn’t felt all week.

Relief.

Not the kind of relief that made you collapse in exhaustion. But the kind that made you believe—maybe, just maybe, this was survivable. That he could actually get through this. That it wouldn’t break him.

He reached for his glass again, raising it slowly. Celeste caught the movement and grinned.

“To fake boobs and kung pao chicken,” she said, holding up hers.

Kieran laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Vivienne smirked. “I’ll drink to that.”

Glasses clinked again.

And for the first time in a long, strange week… Kieran didn’t feel like he was drowning.