Paved With Good Intentions

Evan couldn't stop thinking about Stacy. That, in itself, was disturbing. Not because of the simmering arousal that he felt whenever she was on his mind. And not because he had suddenly begun to like her. And especially not because years of resentment had vanished overnight. Stacy was still Stacy. Sharp-tongued. Frustrating. Capable of weaponizing a look better than most people could weaponize a knife.

No.

What disturbed him was everything else. The maid outfit. The pain every time she insulted him. The way reality itself seemed determined to shove her into his lap whenever they occupied the same room for longer than five minutes.

He'd drunk the second potion because he couldn't stand watching her disappear, even though he could barely stand to be in the same room as her. And now she was back. Mentally, anyway. And somehow her situation had become even worse.

Much worse.

Part of Evan wanted to stop. Just stop. Leave things alone. Accept that magic apparently had rules beyond human understanding and that every attempt he'd made to fix things had only made them spiral further out of control.

First potion: Wife.

Second potion: Property.

At this rate, a third potion might turn her into a decorative throw pillow.

Another part of him couldn't accept that. Because whether Stacy hated him or not, whether she'd ever forgive him or not, she was suffering. And watching somebody suffer while doing nothing had never been something Evan was particularly good at.

At the very least, he needed answers. Neither of them seemed capable of leaving the house. That much had already been established. He couldn't escape. She couldn't escape. Reality itself had apparently become invested in keeping them together.

But could they leave together? Was there some condition they needed to fulfil? Some magical requirement? Some quest objective? Bake a pie? Share their feelings? Dust enough shelves? Who the hell knew anymore?

And what exactly were they to one another now? The pictures on the wall suggested ownership. The binder suggested ownership. The universe seemed alarmingly committed to ownership.

But maybe it wasn't literal. Maybe it was roleplay. Maybe this reality had simply developed an extremely questionable sense of humour.

Hopefully.

Desperately hopefully.

Evan stood and made his way upstairs. The master bedroom door sat partially open. As he passed, he glanced inside. Stacy sat perched on the large king-sized bed. Head bowed. Completely absorbed. The Master Manual rested open in her lap. She was actually reading it. Studying it.

He'd tossed the order out in frustration.

Go study the manual and figure out what to do with me.

Apparently magic took sarcasm very seriously.

A small pang of guilt struck him. Poor Stacy. She looked miserable. And somehow incredibly focused. Like a student cramming for an exam she hated with every fibre of her being.

Maybe he should intervene. Maybe he should walk into that bedroom and demand that she stops studying, that she ignores him, that she pretends that things were back to how they had been before the first potion.

Would it help? Or would it hurt? It seemed that every time he intervened, it seemed to make things worse for Stacy. She'd told him to leave things alone, so maybe he should. At least for now.

Evan quietly continued onward, heart feeling heavier than it had been before he started up the stairs.

The home office sat at the end of the hall. Stepping inside felt strange. At first glance, it was familiar. Same shelves. Same desk. Same leather chair.

Yet every trace of his father had vanished. No framed diplomas. No signed baseball. No family photograph. No evidence that David Mercer had ever existed within these walls.

Reality had erased him with frightening efficiency.

Evan swallowed. The idea that his father could vanish from the house, perhaps from his life, was horrifying.

Ignoring the desk, he moved toward the filing cabinet near the window. His father had always kept important documents there. Taxes. Insurance. Medical records. Practical adult things Evan had spent nineteen years pretending didn't exist. Maybe there would be something useful. A clue. An explanation. Instructions entitled So Your Ex-Stepmother Is Now Legally Your Property: A Beginner's Guide.

One drawer slid open. Nothing. Bank statements. Utility bills. Receipts.

Another drawer. More paperwork. Completely mundane.

Then his eyes landed on a folder near the back.

STACY

Evan frowned. That felt ominous.

Pulling the folder free, he returned to the desk and sat down.

The first few pages were ordinary enough. Vaccination records. Dental appointments. Prescription information. Birth certificate. Physical examinations. Nothing unusual. Nothing alarming.

Then he reached the final section.

Certificate of Ownership.

"What?"

Evan stared.

Blink.

Blink again.

Still there.

Certificate.

Ownership.

Stacy.

No surname.

No middle name.

Just Stacy.

Age.

Height.

Weight.

Measurements.

An identification number.

Auction house information.

And beneath that:

Owner: Evan Mercer

His stomach lurched. No. Absolutely not. This had to be some elaborate joke. Some bizarre magical misunderstanding.

Hands trembling slightly, Evan continued reading. Legal terminology filled most of the page. Dense paragraphs. Definitions. Clauses. Conditions.

Yet the meaning was unmistakable. Approximately one year earlier, according to this reality, Evan Mercer had attended an auction. And purchased Stacy.

Purchased.

Not married. Not dated.

Bought.

She was property. Owned. His chest tightened.

"Oh my God."

Suddenly the maid outfit made sense. The photographs. The manual. The obedience. The pain. Everything fit together.

He'd wanted to restore her life. Restore her agency. Restore Stacy. Instead he'd transformed her into an asset. A possession. An object.

An object that cried. And argued. And insulted him.

Painfully.

Evan wanted to close the folder. Run back down the hall. Tell her it wasn't real. Tell her he'd fix it. Tell her she'd be free.

But even as the thoughts formed, another part of him already knew that he couldn't promise that. Because every promise he'd made so far had ended badly.

Slowly, he flipped to the next document.

Owner's Bill of Rights

"Oh, that's not a good title."

His eyes skimmed the page. Then widened. Then widened more. Stacy wasn't considered a citizen. She wasn't legally recognized as a person. She was categorized as a protected domestic asset. An owned individual. An investment. An extension of the household. The owner possessed final authority over education. Employment. Residence. Daily activities. Clothing. Lifestyle. Health. Everything. Every decision. Every aspect. Every detail.

Evan felt vaguely ill. But then he found another section.

Relinquishment of Ownership.

Hope flickered, only to die seconds later. Conditions applied.

Many conditions.

Terrible conditions.

Without an owner, a dependent asset entered state reassignment programs. Mandatory labour assignments. Restricted autonomy. Shortened life expectancy. Penalties. Reconditioning. Institutional housing. It read less like emancipation and more like abandonment.

If he released Stacy...

Her life would become significantly worse. The document practically screamed it. To protect her, he had to keep her. He had to remain her owner.

Against her wishes.

Against his wishes.

Against common sense.

Against morality.

Against everything.

The folder closed. Silence settled over the office. For several seconds Evan simply sat there, staring at nothing. The weight settled onto his shoulders gradually.

Heavy.

Oppressive.

Inescapable.

He finally understood the shape of the burden he'd created. Stacy hated him. And she had every right to. Because now he knew exactly what would keep her safe. And it was the one thing she would never willingly accept.

Ownership.

Protection.

Care.

Control.

A cage built out of good intentions.