Chapter 8

The Slack channel is already exploding when I pull into the parking garage at 7:45 a.m.

GO LIVE in 75. All teams on standby. A string of rocket emojis from Jenna in design. A GIF of a cat wearing a hard hat from Marcus in sales. The energy is electric, even through a phone screen. I can feel it in my chest—a clean, sharp adrenaline that isn't anxiety. It's readiness. Madison's body knows this feeling. Thrives on it.

I'm wearing the power blazer dress today. Black, tailored, a single button at the waist. The blush lace balconette underneath—because Madison always wears the good lingerie on launch days, a private armor beneath the professional one. The gold bangle slides into place on my wrist without thought. A spritz of Jo Malone at my throat. In the mirror, Madison Brooks looks back at me—blonde hair in a sleek ponytail, nude lip, eyes bright with anticipation.

I've got this.

The words are hers. The confidence is mine.

---

The office is a controlled chaos when I arrive.

The open-plan space hums with pre-launch energy. Someone has ordered bagels; the smell of toasted everything-bagel seasoning mixes with the usual office scent of coffee and electronics. The standing desks are all occupied. Someone's phone is playing a pump-up playlist—something with a heavy bass line. The launch dashboard is projected on the big screen, the countdown timer ticking down from forty-three minutes.

Caroline is already at her desk. She looks up as I pass, her asymmetrical bob swinging with the motion. She's dressed in her usual monochrome—black tailored trousers, a grey silk shell, the silver ring she never takes off. Her laptop is open to the launch assets she designed: the hero image, the social graphics, the email header. All of it clean, minimalist, exactly what the brand needed.

"Madison." Her voice is low and measured, the way it always is. "Final assets are approved. I pushed the last revisions at six this morning."

"Six a.m.? Did you sleep?"

"Sleep is for people without client pitches." The corner of her mouth twitches—the closest Caroline gets to a smile before noon. "Speaking of which. Mine is in two weeks. If you have any spare luck after this launch, send it my way."

"You don't need luck. Your work is incredible."

"I know." She says it without arrogance—just fact. "But the client is a nightmare. They want 'edgy but accessible.' That's not a design brief, that's a hostage note."

I laugh. Madison's laugh—bright, surprised. "You'll figure it out. You always do."

Caroline nods, her attention already back on her screen. She's not one for extended conversation. But the professional respect between us—between Madison and Caroline—is genuine. They've been through launches together before. They trust each other's competence.

I settle at my desk. The countdown timer reads thirty-one minutes. The Slack notifications are a steady pulse—questions from the dev team, confirmations from the copywriter, a last-minute typo caught by QA. I field them all with Madison's practiced efficiency. The body knows how to do this. The fingers type the right responses without my conscious direction. The voice that comes out of my mouth when I answer a quick call from Rachel in product is bright and confident.

Let's make it happen.

---

The launch goes live at 9:00 a.m. sharp.

The dashboard numbers start climbing immediately. Page views. Click-throughs. The first sales pinging in before the email campaign even finishes sending. By 9:15, we've already hit the morning target. By 9:30, we've doubled it.

The office erupts.

Rachel actually whoops—a sound I've never heard her make. Marcus high-fives everyone within arm's reach. Jenna is crying, actual tears, mascara running down her cheeks. Caroline doesn't cry—she never does—but she takes off her silver ring and puts it back on, a small, private ritual I've seen her do exactly twice before. Both times after major wins.

I stand in the middle of the chaos, the dashboard glowing green behind me, and let the satisfaction wash over me. It's a warm, steady pulse behind my sternum—not the electric jolt of the first days in this body, but something deeper. Quieter. More solid.

I did this. In her body. With her skills. And no one will ever know.

Caroline appears at my elbow. Her expression is as cool as ever, but there's a warmth in her dark eyes that wasn't there before. "Nice work, Brooks."

"You too, Foster."

She almost smiles again. Then her phone buzzes, and she glances at the screen, and the warmth vanishes. "Client. I have to take this." She's already walking toward the conference room, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice slipping into its professional register. The door closes behind her.

The launch celebration swirls around me. Bagels. Champagne someone produced from a desk drawer. A group selfie that Jenna insists I be in. I stand in the middle of it all—Madison Brooks, marketing coordinator, the woman of the hour—and no one sees anything but her. No one will ever see anything but her.

---

The call comes at 3 p.m.

I'm at my desk, still riding the post-launch high, reviewing the final analytics. My phone buzzes. The screen says Mom.

The word still carries a small, cold weight. Not because I don't know who she is—Madison's memories supply everything, the decades of history, the push-pull of love and resentment. But because the word doesn't belong to me. I'm not her daughter. I'm the stranger who stole her daughter's body.

I swipe to answer. "Hey, Mom."

"Madison." Diane's voice is polished, warm in a way that feels practiced. "I heard about the launch. Congratulations. Your father mentioned the numbers were impressive."

"Thanks. It went really well. We doubled the target by nine-thirty."

"That's wonderful. I always knew you had it in you." A pause. Ice clinking in a glass—Chardonnay, the same as always. "Of course, you know what this means. With numbers like that, you could leverage this into something better. A Fortune 500 wouldn't turn you away now."

The inherited resentment rises—a slow, familiar heat in my chest. Madison's years of this conversation stored in every synapse. The congratulations that always pivot to critique. The success that's never quite enough.

"I'm happy where I am, Mom. The startup is doing great work."

"I'm sure it is. But you're twenty-four. You should be thinking about your future. Your career trajectory. Your..." She pauses again. More ice. "Your personal life. Are you still seeing that girl?"

The heat sharpens. "Her name is Jordan. And yes, I'm still seeing her. I'm going to keep seeing her."

"There's no need to be defensive. I'm just asking. Margaret Atwood's son is still single, you know. Very successful. Very handsome."

"I don't care if he's the prince of England. I'm in love with Jordan."

The word hangs in the air. Love. I mean it. Through Madison's heart, through my own growing attachment—I mean it. Jordan is the person I come home to. The person who held me after the dinner with Diane, who made me tea, who told me I was incredible. She deserves to be defended.

Diane sighs. The sound is practiced, weary. "We'll talk about this another time. I have a showing at four. Congratulations again on the launch. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, Mom."

The line goes dead. I set the phone down. My heart is beating faster than it should be—Madison's body responding to the familiar stress, the adrenaline of another fight with Diane. The guilt hum is there, a quiet undercurrent. She doesn't know she's arguing with a stranger. She thinks she's proud of her daughter.

But so is my own irritation. The way she can't just say congratulations and stop. The way every achievement is a stepping stone to something she considers better. The way she won't even say Jordan's name.

The guilt and the irritation sit side by side in my chest. Neither cancels the other.

---

The suite is quiet when I get home.

I change out of the power blazer dress and into Madison's softest loungewear—a cream cashmere sweater, grey joggers. I pour a glass of wine—a Napa Cabernet, the same one Diane served at dinner, the one I've developed a taste for. I sit on the velvet chaise in the sitting area and watch the evening light fade outside the window.

And then, without meaning to, I count the days.

It's been over a week since I returned to the male body. Since I willed myself back into that cage—the heaviness, the grayness, the air that tastes like nothing. The body on the couch. My body. Still breathing, still comatose, still waiting.

I haven't thought about it. That's the truth. I haven't wanted to think about it. Madison's body is my home now. The male body is a distant, unpleasant memory—a cage I escaped, a key I threw away.

But it's still there. In the apartment. The dead lamp. The pizza box. The screensaver bouncing against the dark. And Him—the boy who wanted this. Still breathing. Still waiting. Neglected.

The unease is a cold, quiet thing. Different from the guilt hum. The guilt hum is about deception—Jordan doesn't know, Ava doesn't know, Diane doesn't know. This is about abandonment. I left that body. I left him. And the worst part—the part that sits in my chest like a stone—is that I don't want to go back.

I don't want to feel the heaviness again. I don't want to taste the stale air. I don't want to look at the blocky shoulders and rough hands and the jaw that needs shaving and know that it's mine. That it used to be me.

The male body is a cage. Madison's body is home. But the cage still exists. And somewhere in it, a small, distant ember is still burning. Waiting for me to return.

I don't want to.

The unease layers over the guilt—a second note in the chord. The guilt hums: you're deceiving everyone. The unease whispers: you're neglecting yourself. Both are true. Both are me.

I take a sip of wine. The Cabernet is warm and familiar on my tongue. Outside the window, the Brooks Estate is dark and quiet. The gold bangle glints on my wrist—Jordan's gift, worn every day, never taken off. The body is soft and smooth and mine.

And somewhere across the city, in a small apartment with a dead lamp, a body I used to live in breathes shallowly on a sagging couch. Waiting.

I'll go back. Eventually. Not tonight.

But soon. I have to.

The thought is a stone in my chest. Cold. Heavy. Immovable.

I set the wine glass down. The light outside the window has faded completely now. The suite is dark except for the soft glow of the fairy lights I strung up last month—Jordan's idea, a piece of her studio brought into my space. I lie back on the chaise and close my eyes.

The guilt hums. The unease hums. And underneath both, the quiet, steady satisfaction of a successful day. A launch that went perfectly. A colleague who respects me. A mother who—in her own broken way—is proud.

The body is my home. The life is my life. But the cage still exists. And I'm not sure what it means that I don't want to go back.