How Fortunate

Evan sank deeper into the office chair and stared at the ceiling.

Hours. It had been hours. Hours of searching. Hours of reading. Hours of hoping that somewhere, somehow, there would be an answer that didn't end with Stacy being trapped in a role she hated. And what had it amounted to?

Nothing.

The internet had been useless. Every search result assumed ownership was normal. Every forum discussion treated it as an everyday part of life. Questions like How much autonomy should a dependent asset have? and How do I help my property adjust to a new household? filled pages and pages of results. No outrage. No ethical debates. No activists. No movements.

Nothing.

Just ordinary people discussing ordinary problems. Which was horrifying.

He'd texted his friends about finding a way to free her from her indenturement. Most of them had assumed he was joking. A few had asked if they could borrow her for the weekend. One had asked if she cooked.

But nobody thought it was strange. Nobody thought it was wrong.

Even worse had been his father. A man who, according to Evan's memories, had divorced Evan's mother and married Stacy, doting on her, treating her like she was the love of his life.

According to this new reality? David Mercer had never lived in this house. Never married Stacy. Never divorced anyone. And, for some inexplicable reason, every text message had used the same word.

Sir.

His own father called him sir.

That alone was enough to make Evan want to scream into a pillow. But instead, he'd simply put his phone down and sat.

And thought.

And worried.

Because Stacy was upstairs, studying. Actually studying. He could hear it! Pages turning, occasional muttering, phrases repeated, then repeated again, then a frustrated groan, then silence, then another page and it would start over.

The Master Manual. A stupid binder. A cursed binder. A binder he'd accidentally ordered her to study. And now she couldn't stop.

Evan rubbed his eyes. Part of him wanted to march upstairs, grab the thing, and throw it into the fireplace. Burn it. Destroy it. Scatter the ashes. But experience suggested that decisive action only made things worse.

Potion one made her his wife.

Potion two had turned her into property.

At this rate, intervention number three might turn Stacy into an antique lamp.

No. No more big swings. No more heroics. No more attempts at fixing reality. For once, maybe the best thing he could do was nothing.

Well...

Maybe not exactly nothing. Maybe instead of Evan working alone on a solution, screwing everything up, maybe Stacy could be part of it. She had her mind back, after all. Maybe she could help him figure things out. Just as soon as she was done her studying.

And so Evan leaned back in the chair that should have belonged to his father and waited. The house remained quiet. Not the quiet of a horror movie about to give a jump scare. Not the quiet of worried anticipation. Comfortably quiet.

Sunlight had shifted during the afternoon, painting golden rectangles across the office floor. Dust drifted lazily through the beams. The leather chair embraced him in a way that almost felt insulting, a betrayal of the man whose life had been stolen, rewritten by the actions of an impulsive young man.

And yet still comfortable. Like the universe wanted him relaxed while his life collapsed around him. Maybe it was the magic's influence, but while he waited, Evan felt more and more at peace. Eventually exhaustion caught up with him.

Eyes closed.

Thoughts drifted.

And somewhere between despair and sleep, the world changed.

Sunshine. Warm. Bright. Perfect.

Evan stepped out of a gleaming black Chevy Bel Air and admired the neatly trimmed lawn in front of a modest bungalow. Everything looked pristine. Freshly cut grass. White picket fence. Flower beds. Blue sky. Birds chirping. Peace.

He glanced down. A suit and tie. Polished shoes. On his head was a fedora. In his hand, a briefcase.

He smiled. Of course. This felt right. Comfortable. Familiar.

Satisfied that all was right with the world, Evan walked up the path and opened the front door.

"Honey, I'm home!"

His hat settled neatly onto a hook. Briefcase placed beneath it. Immediately footsteps approached. Around the corner appeared Stacy. Blue polka-dot dress. White apron. Red lipstick. Perfect curls. High heels clicking softly against the hardwood.

She was smiling that loving, warm smile that he loved. The one that could light up an entire city block.

"Oh, welcome home, dear."

God. How he loved her.

She reached him and rose onto her toes. A kiss. Sweet. Gentle. Comforting.

"How was work?" she asked.

"Long day."

"Well then, you sit down and relax. I'll get you a drink."

She took his hand and led him toward the living room. Everything felt cosy. Inviting.

Home.

Evan settled into an armchair. His wife disappeared into the kitchen. Another figure appeared.

Stacy.

Again.

Only this Stacy wore black and white. Frills. Apron. Stockings. A maid outfit. She carried a feather duster. She smiled politely.

How lovely she was. How fortunate he was. How much he loved her.

"Good evening, sir," Maid Stacy said with a small curtsey.

Wife Stacy returned moments later carrying a beer.

"Would you two like some privacy?" Maid Stacy asked.

Wife Stacy laughed.

"Oh goodness, no. Stay. I still have dishes to finish."

"Very good, ma'am."

Maid Stacy resumed tidying. Dusting. Straightening. Cleaning.

All the while, Evan sipped his beer, watching. It was perfect. Then footsteps thundered down the stairs.

"Evan, baby!"

A third Stacy bounded into the room. Platform heels. Tiny skirt. Pink top. Twin tails in her hair. Energy. Enthusiasm. Pure excitement. She practically bounced.

How she brought so much joy to his life. How fortunate he was. How much he loved her.

"Wanna go upstairs and have some fun?" she giggled.

Evan laughed.

"Later, babe."

Party Stacy pouted. Then smiled. Then plopped onto his lap on the couch. Wife Stacy settled on the opposite side, leaning over to kiss his cheek. Party Stacy wrapped one arm around his neck, while slid her free hand down his chest and began to unbuckle his belt. Maid Stacy moved in front of the other three and bent over to retrieve a cushion from the floor.

Evan watched the scene unfold all around him. His three Stacys. All different, but all beautiful. Attentive. Happy. Completely and utterly devoted.

He leaned back, smiling. How had he gotten so lucky? Yes, he deserved all the attention, all the affection, but what had he done to earn it? It must have been something good, because his life was pretty close to perfect.

"Evan?"

The voice cut through everything. The house flickered. Colours blurred.

"Evan?"

His eyes snapped open. The office ceiling greeted him. The leather chair. The filing cabinet. The afternoon sun. A thin line of drool had escaped the corner of his mouth.

Mortified, Evan wiped it away.

What the hell had that been? A dream. Obviously. Just a dream. A really weird dream. A deeply concerning dream. One he definitely didn't want to think about too much.

Then he heard it again. Soft. Gentle. Tentative.

"Evan?"

Stacy.

Real Stacy.

Not Wife Stacy.

Not Maid Stacy.

Not... whatever the third one had been.

Just Stacy.

"Can we talk?"

Evan sat upright. For a moment he simply stared toward the office doorway. The voice had sounded different. Quieter. Less angry. Less sharp. Still Stacy. But tired. Exhausted. Like someone who had spent hours studying for an exam she never wanted to take, knowing full well that she would fail no matter how hard she worked at it.

Slowly, he stood.

"Yeah," he answered, using a voice loud enough that she could hear him no matter where she was in the house. "Yeah. I think it's probably time."