Operation: Modesty

Morning had begun with clarity so sharp it was almost distracting. Every thought in Stacy's mind lined up neatly, as if someone had tidied the inside of her skull while she slept. Problems untangled themselves before she had to wrestle with them. Plans arranged themselves into orderly sequences, step one, step two, step three, each outcome branching logically into the next. Focus came easily, almost eagerly, like a well-trained dog returning the moment it was called.

Ordinarily she would have loved it.

Instead, the feeling made her furious.

Anger simmered under her skin as she adjusted the incline on the treadmill, the machine humming beneath her feet while the gym's mirrored wall bounced her reflection back at her. Long strides carried her forward in a steady rhythm, breath controlled, pulse elevated but comfortable. Strength pulsed through her legs, and the strange mental sharpness only made the workout feel easier. The routine she'd been following all year, carefully planned, tracked, adjusted, played out in her head like a checklist.

All of it felt too good. Too easy. Too clear. That sleep had done something extraordinary to her body and mind. A single night had left her more rested than any vacation, more focused than after three cups of coffee and a perfect night's rest combined.

And she hated every second of it.

Because she knew exactly how she'd achieved it.

"Stupid fucking Evan," she muttered under her breath as her pace increased.

A tiny pulse stirred low in her abdomen.

Not pain. Not exactly pleasure either. Just a soft, irritatingly arousing little tickle between her legs.

The treadmill's belt kept moving beneath her shoes while her jaw tightened.

There it was again.

Every single time.

Thought of Evan.

Tickle.

Bloody Evan.

Tickle.

Fucking stupid asshole dickhead shit-for-brains Evan.

Tickle.

The worst part wasn't even the sensation itself. It was the memory tied to it; the way she had woken that morning wrapped in his arms, warm and safe and held so firmly it had felt as though the world outside the bed simply didn't exist.

That should have been horrifying. Instead, it had planted something inside her. A seed of need.

The recollection of his body pressed against her back, the solid warmth of him, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal against the thin lace she'd been **** to wear, should have made her recoil. Yet part of her had stayed still on purpose. Pretending to sleep. Letting it happen. Wanting it to happen.

The thought made her teeth grind as she stepped off the treadmill.

Nearby, the weights clinked together where someone re-racked a barbell. Pop music drifted through the gym's speakers while the faint smell of rubber flooring and disinfectant hung in the air. Sweat cooled across the back of her neck as she grabbed a towel and wiped her face.

Leg day came next.

Squats. Lunges. Extensions. Each movement burned in a satisfying way, muscles stretching and tightening under her skin. Strength flowed easily through her body, the improved rest making every rep feel smoother than usual. Even the mental counting felt effortless.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Across the room a young man wandered past the stretching area, tall and skinny with messy brown hair that refused to lie flat. His gaze lingered a moment too long.

The look was unmistakable. He was checking her out.

Normally, the attention might have been flattering. Today it made her scowl. Something about the messy hair and lanky posture reminded her just a little too much of...

Evan.

Tickle.

Stacy's glare sharpened until the young man quickly looked away and kept walking.

"Yeah," she muttered darkly, stretching her hamstrings against the mat. "Keep it moving."

A shower followed quickly after. Hot water cascaded over her shoulders, washing away the sweat from the workout while steam filled the tiled stall. Muscles loosened under the heat, leaving her body relaxed and humming with that same irritating sense of well-being.

Temptation flickered briefly. The memory of the morning surfaced again: the warmth of Evan's arms, the pressure of him behind her, and for a fleeting moment the idea of reaching down, finding relief with her fingers, slipped into her mind.

Her hands tightened on the soap bottle.

Absolutely not.

Masturbating to that?

To what had been done to her?

Perverse.

And besides... it was Evan.

Tickle.

No matter what the world believed, no matter what bizarre magical rewriting had apparently happened overnight, he was not her husband. He was still her stupid idiot stepson. End of story.

Clean and dressed soon after, Stacy stepped back out into the parking lot and slid behind the wheel of her car. The drive to the mall passed in a blur of traffic lights and half-formed thoughts, the afternoon sun flashing across the windshield while she gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly.

Control. That was the key. Control over herself. Control over the situation. Control over the way Evan looked at her. Which meant one obvious solution.

If the magic wanted her to be some sort of fantasy wife, some seductive, desirable woman for him to drool over, then she'd simply remove the temptation.

No temptation, no problem.

The mall's wide corridors bustled with shoppers as she stepped inside. Store after store passed beneath the bright overhead lights while she moved with purpose, arms steadily filling with bags.

Khaki pants. Loose and practical. Long-sleeved blouses with high collars and buttons that climbed almost to the throat. Thick sweaters, soft, warm, and deliberately shapeless. Anything that hid curves rather than emphasizing them.

Footwear followed the same philosophy. Flats. Sensible shoes. Absolutely no heels.

Even the underwear section received careful scrutiny. The silky displays of lace and satin barely earned a glance as she marched straight toward the most unassuming options available.

Cotton. Full coverage. The sort of underwear she would once have jokingly called granny panties.

Perfect.

By the time she returned to the car, the trunk was filled with shopping bags.

A small, practical part of her brain briefly wondered what her finances looked like now that reality had apparently rewritten itself around her. Perhaps her bank accounts had changed too. Maybe the world now believed she'd been married to Evan for years.

The thought was unpleasant.

She dismissed it.

That problem could wait.

The house stood quiet when she stepped inside, the late afternoon light stretching long shadows across the floor. Bags rustled as she carried them upstairs to the bedroom, arms full and determination still humming inside her chest.

"Alright," she muttered.

The bags landed on the bed. One by one, she began pulling out the contents. And froze.

The first blouse she lifted was not the modest high-collared piece she remembered choosing. This one clung tightly through the waist, plunging into a neckline that dipped low enough to display an impressive amount of cleavage.

A second item emerged from another bag. Skin-tight booty-shorts.

Another. High heels.

Another. A short skirt.

More followed. Lace. Silk. Straps.

Every single piece more revealing than the last.

Stacy's heartbeat thudded in her ears as she dug faster, tearing through the bags in growing disbelief. None of it matched what she'd bought. Not a single item. Underwear appeared last.

Delicate, lacy, and unmistakably lingerie. Her hands trembled slightly as she held one piece up between her fingers. The bedroom felt very quiet as she felt the softness of the fabric.

For a long moment she simply stared at the pile covering the bed. Then the truth settled in. The magic hadn't just rewritten her life. It was actively fighting her.

The lingerie dropped back onto the mattress. Rage surged up from deep in her chest as her fists clenched at her sides.

"Fucking Evan!"

The familiar little tickle sparked instantly between her legs.