Dressing for the Crown

The morning sun rose slowly, casting a delicate golden light through the sheer white curtains of Kiara’s—no, Kieran’s—bedroom. The silence was profound, almost reverent, like the calm before a ceremony. It wasn’t just another morning. It was _the _morning.

Kieran’s eyes opened gradually, the air cool against his exposed shoulders. He lay still for a few seconds, breathing in the quiet, the stillness, the importance of the moment pressing down on him like a weight he’d been carrying in silence for days.

The sheets rustled as he slowly sat up, the fabric of the satin nightgown clinging slightly to his skin. The sensation reminded him that, even in sleep, he hadn’t really escaped Kiara. She followed him into his dreams. But today… today was her day.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, toes brushing the soft carpet. His feet instinctively searched for his heels—not sneakers, not slippers—because this was what mornings looked like now. He took a moment to steady himself, letting his back straighten with practiced grace.

A glance in the mirror showed a pale reflection—eyes still tired, lips still bare, hair tousled—but even through that early-morning fog, he could still see her. Kiara. He was becoming her.

He padded across the room and into the bathroom, flipping on the vanity lights. They cast a bright, unforgiving glow on his face. He leaned over the sink and began brushing his teeth in slow, mechanical motions. His arms felt heavy, as if the weight of yesterday hadn’t yet left them.

The dress rehearsal from the day before echoed through his muscles and mind. His calves were still a little tight from standing in heels all day, his core slightly sore from holding himself upright under the firm compression of shapewear. His voice, although mostly recovered, still felt tender from hours of perfecting pitch, cadence, tone.

He remembered the way Celeste had circled him like a sculptor with a chisel, making endless tweaks: “Tuck the elbow in more. Chin slightly higher. Don’t smile too fast—pause and let the silence do some of the work.”

Her words were etched into his mind. Every time he adjusted his walk or checked his posture, it was her voice he heard. There was a flicker of resentment at the memory—but he caught it, crushed it, and buried it. That kind of emotion didn’t belong today. Not now.

He spit out the toothpaste and rinsed his mouth, gripping the edge of the counter. _Don’t slouch. Smile softer. Breathe like Kiara would. _Even here, alone, the mask had to stay on.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It rushed over him in a warm cascade, washing away the last traces of sleep but not the pressure. That lingered, heavy and real.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Why am I doing this?

The answer came in a thousand voices—Celeste’s critiques, Vivienne’s expectations, the board’s scrutiny—but beneath all that noise was something deeper. Something quieter. His father.

Jean Laurent.

A man of vision, of power, of undeniable presence. Kieran had admired him from afar and up close, had watched him lead rooms full of powerful people with elegance and decisiveness. He remembered being a kid, watching his dad conduct meetings, hearing the respectful silence that followed every statement.

That was legacy.

That was what was at stake.

Vivienne had made it clear—there was no path forward unless the board believed in Kiara. Not Kieran, not some theoretical heir. A real woman. A Laurent. One who could command a room, sell a vision, and preserve everything their father had built.

Kieran pressed his palms against the shower wall, the water tracing slow paths down his arms. He was doing this for the man who had believed in greatness, who had built something worth fighting for. Even if the method was unorthodox. Even if it hurt. Even if it meant wearing lipstick and stilettos and being addressed as Miss Laurent.

He clenched his jaw.

“I won’t let it fall apart,” he whispered to himself, the voice almost lost in the hiss of the water. “I won’t let him down.”

And there it was—resolve. Like steel forged in discomfort and silence.

He turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his chest without thinking, the way Celeste had taught him. It held the weight of routine now, like brushing his hair or checking for lipstick smudges.

He stood for a moment, towel-clad and dripping slightly, staring into the mirror as it slowly defogged. The reflection that returned his gaze wasn’t a boy. Not anymore.

She wasn’t complete—not yet. But she was getting there.

And today, she had to be perfect.

The mirror stared back at him, large and unblinking, as he stood in the center of his bedroom wrapped in nothing but a towel. The air was cool against his freshly showered skin, goosebumps racing across his arms as the gravity of the day settled around him like a cloak. His reflection was lean, angular, still faintly masculine beneath the polish—but less so than even a week ago. And that mattered. Every little change mattered.

The garment rack beside the wardrobe had been prepared by Celeste the night before, its surface draped in black and ivory, sheer and opaque textures hung in a meticulous, logical sequence. No ceremony was too small today. Everything had to be deliberate, flawless.

He took a slow breath, grounding himself.

First: the underwear.

He moved to the vanity where the delicate black lace bra and matching panties waited. The material was soft, stretchy, and impossibly lightweight. Not training garments. These were real—adult, confident, sexy in a restrained, tasteful way.

He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the panties. His hands trembled slightly, not from nerves, but from the sheer enormity of what this day meant. Gently, he tucked himself away—an act that had once felt foreign but now carried the rhythm of second nature. He adjusted the fit carefully, smoothing the lace over his hips and standing to check for any bulge. Nothing. Perfectly flat.

Next, the bra.

He held it up by its straps. The cups looked expectantly full, their curves hollow and waiting. He wasn’t surprised by how natural it felt to slip the bra on now, clasping it behind his back with only a small wince of effort. The unfilled cups sagged against his chest slightly, a quiet reminder of the transformation still to come.

He reached into the small drawer where Celeste had placed the C-cup silicone inserts—the adhesive pair, for serious outings. He peeled the protective layer from the back and carefully aligned one breast at a time, pressing each insert into the center of the corresponding cup, smoothing the edges, securing the adhesive until the weight sat naturally on his chest.

The effect was immediate.

Weight. Mass. Presence.

His posture instinctively shifted to accommodate the new center of gravity. His shoulders pulled back. His spine lengthened. His reflection now stared back with rounded fullness, the silhouette unmistakably feminine. He adjusted the straps just slightly, making sure the cups molded to the inserts seamlessly.

The shapewear came next. Celeste had said it was vital—not only for looks, but for Kiara’s feel. The compression of the high-waisted garment wrapped tightly around his midsection, cinching his waist, sculpting a subtle curve between his ribs and hips. It pushed in just enough to be snug, not suffocating.

With the shapewear, his figure took on a different geometry. His once-boyish hips were now unmistakably womanly, rounding out his silhouette beneath the bra.

The black pencil skirt followed.

He stepped into it slowly, mindful not to snag the delicate hosiery that would come next. He zipped it up along the side, smoothing the fabric across his hips. The waistband hugged just beneath the lowest edge of the shapewear, a precise alignment that emphasized the curvature Celeste had so painstakingly designed.

Next, the stockings.

He sat once again, rolling each sheer black leg up carefully. One at a time, like silk being drawn across his skin. The subtle sheen of the nylon caught the light with each movement. He adjusted them to just above the thigh and attached them to the clips on his garter belt—hidden beneath the pencil skirt, but still essential.

And then the turtleneck.

It was simple—white, form-fitting, and sophisticated. He stepped into it and pulled it down gently, taking care not to disturb the fresh breast inserts. The high neckline covered his collarbone and chest fully, leaving no hint of skin or cleavage visible—exactly as intended. A perfect silhouette, no distractions. Elegance without exposure.

The fabric clung to the slope of his shoulders and arms, tightened at the waist, then disappeared seamlessly into the waistband of the pencil skirt. The visual effect was stunning. Sleek, sharp, feminine, corporate. Powerful.

The heels were already at the foot of the mirror. Black, pointed-toe stilettos—nothing too flashy, but still tall enough to give him lift and presence. He stepped into them carefully, rising to his full height, now taller, slimmer, and ever more Kiara.

And finally, the earrings.

Small diamond studs. Understated, tasteful, quietly expensive. He fastened them into his pierced lobes—done just over a week ago in what now felt like a different lifetime.

He took a step back and looked at himself in the full-length mirror.

The figure that stared back wasn’t a boy. It wasn’t even Kieran. It was Kiara Laurent—heir apparent, poised professional, feminine and composed.

The layers of discomfort, the hesitation, the fear—they were still there, but buried deeper than before. All that showed now was control. And in that control, a flicker of pride.

He tilted his head, watching the earrings catch the light.

Was this… passable? Yes.

Was this beautiful? Almost.

Was it Kiara? Getting closer.

He turned his body slightly, practicing the angle he’d use when entering the boardroom. Left foot forward. Soft shoulders. Chin up. Eyes bright. That’s how Celeste had taught him to own space.

His thoughts buzzed as the moments inched closer. The outfit was just the shell. Now came the rest—makeup, voice, and most importantly: presence.

Vivienne and Celeste would be waiting soon. They'd see this. They’d assess. And he’d have to hold everything—every gesture, every breath—like Kiara would.

Like she would.

He took a breath.

Then another.

This wasn’t just a costume anymore. This was a role. A responsibility. A legacy.

And he had to carry it like he was born to.

The mirror stood before her again, but this time, Kiara was ready. She could feel the weight of her name, the legacy that had been passed down, and all the expectations that came with it. Kieran was no more—not in this moment. The mirror reflected Kiara Laurent, and Kiara would face the world with everything she had.

The morning was still young, the daylight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow in the room. Kiara's reflection was striking—her body, adorned in the perfect outfit, but her face? That was the last challenge, the final piece of the puzzle. She had learned from Celeste, practiced countless times, but this was different. This was real.

She sat down at the vanity, staring at the array of makeup tools spread out before her. Each item had a purpose, each brush had a technique to perfect. Her hands felt steady as she picked up the first product: primer.

The primer was light and hydrating, a smooth layer of clear gel that she applied gently to her face with her fingers, working it into her skin in circular motions. It softened her complexion and made it feel fresh. The smoothness allowed for a better foundation to hold, giving her a flawless base. She closed her eyes as she massaged it in, taking a deep breath.

"My name is Kiara Laurent," she whispered under her breath as she worked, the mantra coming to her naturally.

Next came the foundation. Kiara reached for the bottle, a full-coverage liquid that would give her face a porcelain finish. She pumped a small amount onto the back of her hand and picked up a foundation brush. The bristles were soft and fluffy, ideal for blending the product seamlessly. She dabbed it across her forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin, before starting to blend. The foundation covered imperfections with ease, evening out her skin tone and blurring any redness. She worked it into her neck as well, making sure there were no visible lines.

"I am confident, graceful, and poised." The words flowed through her mind as she moved the brush, her movements deliberate, controlled.

Once the foundation was in place, Kiara switched to her concealer. A small tube of creamy, full-coverage product. Her under-eyes were slightly dark, a faint reminder of the exhaustion she’d been carrying mentally. She applied the concealer in a triangular shape under each eye, tapping gently with her ring finger to blend. Her skin seemed to drink it up, brightening her face. She dotted a small amount on her chin and around her nose, areas that needed a little extra care.

"I speak with kindness, move with purpose, and dress with elegance." She said the words slowly, feeling their weight each time, the repetition grounding her in the role she was becoming.

Now came the setting powder. She dabbed a fluffy brush into the powder and tapped off the excess, lightly sweeping it over her face to lock in the foundation and concealer. It mattified her complexion, giving it a soft, velvety finish. The weight on her face from the makeup was beginning to feel like part of her—Kiara felt like she could hold her own now, her face as perfect as she could make it.

"I know what I want, and I know how to get it." The mantra echoed in her mind, louder now, more certain.

Kiara reached for her brow pencil next. The shape of her brows had always been a small point of frustration for her. Kieran's brows were thick and wild, not quite fitting the soft, polished look that Kiara needed. But today, she wouldn’t let that stop her. She picked up the pencil and began to fill in the sparse spots, drawing along her natural arch with soft, short strokes. Her brows took shape, perfectly sculpted to match the elegant aura she was trying to embody.

"My name is Kiara Laurent." The words slipped out again, this time louder than before.

Next was eyeshadow. Kiara chose a soft, neutral palette, shades of beige and brown. She swiped a light taupe color across her eyelids with a flat shadow brush, blending it into the crease to create subtle depth. Then, she added a touch of shimmer—just a hint—on the center of her lids for a little sparkle that would catch the light. The soft hues reflected her inner desire to keep things polished, professional, but also feminine. She wanted to appear both warm and approachable, like she belonged in this space.

Her eyes were almost ready. She picked up her eyeliner—a black gel pencil—and carefully lined her upper lash line. The precision was key, making sure the line was thin but defined. She added just the faintest wing at the outer corners, the tiniest flick that added definition without being overpowering. Her eyes began to appear larger, more expressive—ready to command attention in the boardroom.

"I am confident, graceful, and poised."

The words reverberated through her, filling her mind, pushing her forward.

She reached for the mascara next, carefully coating her lashes with the black formula. She took her time, ensuring there were no clumps, only defined lashes that fanned out beautifully. Her eyes now framed with definition, her gaze was striking, intense, and filled with purpose. This was her power.

The last step for her eyes was the highlighter. Kiara tapped the product onto the tops of her cheekbones with her fingertips, just enough to catch the light, adding a subtle glow to her face. It wasn’t overdone—just enough to make her look fresh, radiant, and full of life.

Finally, the lips. Kiara selected a soft nude lip liner to outline her lips, filling them in slightly to enhance their natural shape. She then applied a creamy nude lipstick, smooth and hydrating, finishing off with a slight gloss to give her lips a fuller, more defined look.

She sat back for a moment and observed the full effect. The reflection staring back at her was undeniably feminine, undeniably professional, but still, underneath all the makeup and polish, there was the faintest trace of Kieran.

"I know what I want, and I know how to get it."

Her voice, when she spoke the mantra now, sounded just a little different. Softer. More like Kiara. She felt the words roll off her tongue with confidence as she repeated them to herself one last time.

"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."

She stood up from the vanity, her legs suddenly feeling wobbly from the weight of the heels, the weight of the day. She took one more look at herself in the mirror, running her hands down the smooth, polished surface of her outfit. The girl in the reflection looked strong—stronger than she felt inside. Her heart was racing, her palms sweaty, but she was ready. She had to be.

Kiara **** a smile. A perfect, radiant smile that would make anyone believe she was the confident, poised heiress she had been trained to be.

And with a deep breath, she spoke again, louder this time.

"My name is Kiara Laurent."

Then, in the Kiara voice, she added, "I am confident, graceful, and poised."

Her smile lingered. The girl in the mirror, the woman Kiara was becoming, nodded back at her. The expression in her eyes—determined, purposeful—was everything she needed to be in that moment.

She turned, taking one last glance at the room behind her before stepping out. Every movement felt purposeful, every step deliberate as she made her way to her family.