Piece of Cake

The first thing Kieran noticed was the ache in his head—a dull, fizzy throb right behind his eyes that pulsed with every beat of his heart. The second thing was the tightness across his chest.

He groaned softly as he stirred beneath the blankets, blinking groggily at the early morning light that spilled across his comforter in pale ribbons. The room was still, quiet in the way bedrooms only were in the first few minutes after waking. For once, no footsteps from Celeste, no knock at the door, no voice calling him out of bed with instructions.

Just… silence.

His eyes fluttered open, and after a second, he dragged his hand across his face, fingers catching on the dried remnants of yesterday’s foundation and smudged eyeliner. The feeling was unfamiliar—his skin felt slightly tacky, his lashes stiff. He’d fallen asleep in his makeup.

Again.

He pushed himself up slowly, letting the covers fall away from his body. That’s when he saw it—everything still on him. The black lace bra, its straps slightly askew on his shoulders. The adhesive silicone inserts still clinging dutifully to his chest, making it look full even though he was now slouched and slumped, messy and unkempt. His stockings still hugged his legs, slightly twisted now, one thigh-high line drifting inward as if trying to run away.

His panties, however, were gone. He couldn’t remember taking them off.

The heels were still on. He didn't feel the pain of sleeping in them. At least, not yet.

He stared at his feet for a second—pointed, dainty, legs bent at the knees in a vaguely feminine sprawl—and then, like a jolt, the memory flickered to life.

Last night.

His hand. The video. That slow, **** edge of pleasure he hadn’t allowed himself all week. The climax that had hit him like a wave crashing hard and fast before he could even steady himself. The afterglow.

His body went still as he remembered how he'd looked in the mirror afterward. The flushed cheeks. The glossy lips still painted from earlier. The way the bra lifted his chest just so. A whole body sculpted into femininity—and still flushed with pleasure from his touch.

He swallowed, throat dry.

But then—slowly—he remembered something else. Something that stirred deeper than lust or shame.

He did it.

Kiara did it.

He’d walked into that boardroom in heels, in a skirt, in full face, and come out with the Euphorica board’s vote of confidence. CEO. CEO.

He fell back into the pillows for a moment, letting the enormity of it wash over him.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

The aftereffects of the drinks, the makeup, the week of training—it all pressed in around him like fog. But through it, a sense of… certainty started to emerge.

Maybe not pride. Not yet. But something close.

Because for all the training, the makeup, the annoying shapewear, the absurd voice lessons and the way Celeste would snap at the smallest misstep—he’d pulled it off.

No wardrobe malfunction. No awkward voice cracks. No moments of visible panic.

Just Kiara Laurent. CEO.

He rolled onto his side, one hand resting gently on his hip, and stared at the far wall as the thoughts tumbled through his head. All week, he’d been told how impossible this was. How much work he needed. How fragile the illusion was.

But it wasn’t fragile, was it?

He fooled them.

All of them.

And sure, it was hard—no doubt about that—but it wasn’t some mystical act only a goddess could pull off. It was just… following rules. Staying focused. Remembering which hand to gesture with. How to sit. How to smile.

He could do that.

He had done that.

Celeste’s voice echoed in his mind for a second—stern, clipped, always chasing perfection: “Again. Walk it again. Shoulders back. Don’t let your hands hang like that.” He rolled his eyes.

And Vivienne, always cool, always elegant, talking to him like he was a junior executive in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation: “You must be deliberate with every word. You must always know your angle. CEOs don’t panic. They control the room.”

Kieran groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Okay, enough,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow.

Because yeah—he got it. They were trying to protect the company. The family. Maybe even him.

But he was starting to think… maybe they were overreacting. All this stress, all this pressure, all this training—and for what?

He'd nailed it.

He sat up again, more fully this time, feet swinging around the edge of the bed. One heel clunked on the hardwood as it landed. He didn’t even flinch. Just rubbed the arch of his foot absentmindedly, then looked down at himself again.

Bra still on. Stockings still high on his thighs. The adhesive forms still sticking stubbornly in place.

He sighed.

This whole Kiara thing? It wasn’t fun at all. It wasn’t him. But it also… wasn’t the apocalypse. Yes, it was weird to wear all this girly shit, but it was an means to an ends.

The world didn’t end when he crossed his legs like a girl and tilted his head and said something. He remembered saying stuff to the board. Remembered how natural it had sounded. How proud Vivienne had looked.

So maybe they could all chill out a little.

He stood, stretching slowly, his silhouette tall and slender in the morning light. Even like this—in the aftermath of a drunken night, in makeup smudged with sleep and lashes askew—he looked… passable. Convincing.

Kiara was still there, under the surface. But he wasn’t going to let her scare him anymore.

He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back the way Celeste always reminded him to, and whispered to the empty room:

“I got this.”

Then, finally, he padded barefoot toward the bathroom to wash off the night, shake the last of the haze from his mind, and start preparing for whatever ridiculous thing they had lined up next.

Because if last night proved anything…

It’s that maybe—just maybe—this whole thing wasn’t as impossible as they made it out to be.

He flicked on the light. The brightness was harsh for a second—his mascara-smeared reflection blinking back at him like a raccoon in designer lingerie—but he didn’t wince. He just chuckled.

"Damn, I look like the end of a night out," he muttered with a crooked grin.

The smudged eyeliner had bled into his under-eyes, giving him a smoky, slightly dramatic look even though he hadn't intended it. His lips were faintly stained, the color clinging like a memory. His skin bore the faint sheen of makeup left behind, clinging stubbornly in the creases.

But none of it bothered him.

He bent over the sink, grabbed his toothbrush, and went about his routine without hesitation. The motions were almost automatic now—tilt the chin, careful not to let the bristles mess with his lips, even though the lipstick was half-gone anyway. A week ago, he would’ve just scrubbed like a caveman. Now? His strokes were lighter, more mindful. Practiced, but not overly conscious.

Rinse. Spit. Pat dry—no harsh rubbing anymore.

“You’re not sanding down drywall, Kiara. Your face is your business card.”

He smirked to himself in the mirror. "My face is worth millions now, apparently."

The shower was next. He peeled off what remained of last night’s appearance—starting with the bra and silicone inserts, dropping them gently onto the counter with a soft thud.

He stepped in and let the hot water pound against his shoulders, tilting his head back with a long sigh. There wasn’t much to think about anymore—not really. No rehearsing mantras, no stressing over voice tone or walking technique. He’d done it. Proved it.

All that panic, all that tightrope walking? Overblown.

He lathered up slowly, massaging shampoo through his hair, careful as ever not to ruin the soft waves Celeste had trained into him. The bubbles slid down his back, and the scent of rose and citrus filled the air—Celeste's doing, of course.

He let her win that one. Whatever.

Even shaving his legs under the spray felt routine now. Not fun, not exactly—but not weird either. Just another checkbox on the morning list.

He closed his eyes and let it soak into his hair, his face, his neck—washing away not just the physical remnants of the day before but something deeper, too. The Kiara smile. The Kiara poise. The impossible balancing act of confidence and charm. He let it melt down the drain in suds and shimmer.

When he finally stepped out, he dried himself with long, firm presses of the towel, patting his chest, legs, arms. The silicone inserts were gone now, and his chest was back to its natural flatness. It was suddenly such a relief.

In the bedroom, the clothes for the day were quickly picked out. A soft knit skirt, a fitted but stretchy top, and a fresh pair of black stockings. No turtlenecks, no dramatic flair—just something comfortable that still fit the Kiara look enough to satisfy his dementors.

He slid the panties on first, tucking with a practiced motion he no longer needed to think twice about. No tape today. He didn’t need the full production, just the silhouette. The panties held him snug enough anyway, and the smoothness of the material reminded him how far he'd come.

The skirt slid up over his hips easily, hugging in all the right places. The top followed—a soft grey scoop-neck, not too tight, not too loose. He wasn’t performing for anyone but himself. He adjusted it at the hem, tugging it into place until it sat just right.

The stockings took a moment longer, one leg balanced against the edge of the bed, then the other. A small wrinkle formed just above his knee, and without even thinking, he reached down and smoothed it out—gentle, practiced, elegant.

Funny how those little gestures had become second nature.

Even the way he sat at the vanity—ankles tucked beneath the chair, knees together, elbows in—was subtly trained. Not ****, not fake… just part of him now. Or part of Kiara, maybe. The line was starting to blur.

Makeup was next.

He didn’t go all out. Just some foundation, a hint of blush, a bit of highlighter on his cheekbones. The mascara took a little longer—he blinked into the wand, careful to catch each lash just right. A soft nude gloss for his lips, dabbed on with his ring finger.

Nothing dramatic. Just enough to look polished. Kiara-lite, he joked to himself.

He gave the mirror one last look. No nerves. No stress. He even tilted his head and gave a half-smile, watching the way it changed his whole face.

Still him. But refined.

He stood and slipped on a pair of casual block heels—low, comfortable, still chic enough that Celeste wouldn’t chew him out. They gave just the right shape to his calves, even under the skirt. He gave himself a final once-over.

Yeah. He looked good.

Better than good. He looked in control.

And honestly?

He was.

He swung the door open and walked toward the kitchen, his heels clicking lightly on the floor. No stumbles. No second-guessing.

Because if the board meeting proved anything, it was that this wasn’t nearly as hard as they’d made it out to be. Celeste could relax with the constant critiques. Vivienne could chill with the ominous business talk.

He’d shown them all.

The girl they created? She could handle herself just fine.

And the boy underneath?

He was still here, smirking quietly behind the gloss.