Marked

Practical.

That was what she needed to be now. Not emotional. Not reactive. Not what she'd been in bed the night before, or that morning for that matter.

Practical.

The deal with Evan had settled into place more easily than she would have expected, considering everything. He would watch her. Call her out when she crossed a line. Keep things from slipping too far, too fast. In return, she would play her part. Smile when she needed to. Cook. Host. Pretend.

For one night, she would be exactly what this twisted version of reality expected her to be: Evan's wife, charming and composed, effortlessly put together. She would impress his professor. Entertain his classmates. Make the whole thing look seamless.

The thought made her stomach turn.

But it would be worth it. It had to be. Because the alternative, the slow, creeping loss of control she'd been feeling, was worse. Much worse.

Standing alone in the kitchen, the quiet pressing in around her, Stacy wrapped her arms loosely around herself and let out a slow breath. The house still felt unfamiliar in moments like this, even though she knew every inch of it. Not physically. That, at least, hadn't changed. Everything else had.

The fact was, she couldn't trust herself anymore. That was the part that kept circling back, no matter how hard she tried to move past it. Making breakfast without realizing it was one thing, slipping into some strange autopilot that pushed her toward him, toward routines she hadn't consciously chosen. But waking up like that, curled against him. Touching him. Wanting to keep touching him.

That hadn't just been autopilot.

That had been something deeper. Something that had felt right in the moment, even as part of her, an increasingly smaller part of her, screamed that it wasn't. That was what scared her. A line crossed, with her questioning the line's validity the entire time.

"I won't let that happen again," she murmured under her breath, the words quiet but firm.

Whether she believed them or not was another matter. Because the truth sat heavier than anything else: she needed Evan.

For whatever reason, he could still see the line clearly. Still push back. Still recognize when something wasn't right. Maybe it was because he hadn't taken the potion. Maybe it was something else. Didn't matter. Right now, he was the only stable point in a situation that was anything but stable.

And if relying on him, on Evan, was what it took to hold onto herself a little longer, then she would do it. Even if it meant hating every second of it.

Her gaze drifted toward the empty hallway, and another thought surfaced, quieter but heavier.

David.

The name alone made something in her chest tighten. Her husband. Her real husband. Before all of this. Before everything had been rewritten.

He'd been steady in a way she hadn't appreciated enough at the time. Patient. Kind in ways that didn't feel **** or performative. He'd known how to get through to her, even when she didn't make it easy. A faint, bitter smile touched her lips.

God, she'd made it hard.

And he'd stayed anyway.

But that version of him wasn't here anymore. Not really. Now, when he looked at her, there was distance. Not hostility. Not even discomfort, exactly. Just absence. Like whatever part of him had once seen her as something more had been quietly erased.

Rewritten.

He looked at her the way a father might look at a daughter-in-law. Polite. Familiar. Removed. That hurt more than anger would have.

He hadn't even come home the night before. Said he was staying with a friend. Giving them space. A humourless breath slipped out.

Space.

The word felt almost cruel.

Who was this friend? Just a friend? Or something more? In this new version of the world, was David already moving on? Already building something else with someone who wasn’t her?

Stacy swallowed, blinking away tears quickly as her vision threatened to blur.

No.

Not again.

She dragged in a steady breath, forcing the emotion back down before it could take hold. Crying wasn't helping. All it did was make her feel smaller.

"We're not doing that, either," she muttered, more firmly this time.

Forward. Whatever that meant. Whatever that looked like.

Evan had already left by the time she circled back to the present. She'd watched him drive away from the front window, the luxury sedan pulling cleanly out of the driveway like it belonged to him.

Which, apparently, it did.

Another quiet shift in the world she couldn't quite get used to.

Left alone, Stacy moved on autopilot again, but this time it was familiar. Safe. Cleaning dishes. Scraping leftovers into the compost. Loading the dishwasher. Wiping down the counters until they shone a little too clean. Control, in small things. It helped.

A little.

Only once the kitchen was back in order did her attention turn inward again.

Sweatpants. Oversized t-shirt. The intention had been to be comfortable. Neutral. After the shock of waking up cuddled up to a naked and erect Evan, all she wanted to be was covered.

Fingers brushed against the fabric as she glanced down, and a flicker of annoyance passed through her.

The shirt: black, soft, worn just enough to be comfortable. But not, in any way, her own. Another side effect of the potion's magic. Instead of letting her cover herself with something familiar, something that would make her feel safe, it had tricked her, distracted her just enough so that she grabbed something of his.

Something belonging to Evan.

Just like Stacy herself, according to many observers.

A memory surfaced, brief, sharp. The look on his face earlier, that moment of confusion when he'd clocked what she was wearing.

And with it came that now-familiar pulse, a throb of arousal. Quick. Intrusive. A flicker of heat low in her body that had nothing to do with anything she actually felt. Stacy closed her eyes for a second, exhaling sharply.

"Fucking magic."

The reaction wasn't hers. She knew that. It was artificial. Inserted. Triggered by nothing more than a thought. And yet it was becoming easier to expect. Easier to absorb without reacting to it.

That didn't mean she accepted it. Didn't mean she believed it. But it was there. And ignoring it didn't make it go away.

A shot of arousal never hurt anyone, she told herself.

Even if the reason behind it did.

A glance at the clock pulled her forward again.

Groceries.

If she was going to pull off tonight, if she was going to sell it, she needed to be prepared. Making a meal worth serving to people she needed to impress would take more than what she had in the kitchen. So a run to the supermarket was on her plate, no matter what the magic was trying to do to her.

The bedroom felt different now, stepping into it alone. Too quiet. Too shared. Too full of something she didn't want to name. Closet doors slid open. Pink leggings. A fresh pair of panties. Wedge heels. A light crop top, something breathable for the warmer weather the forecast promised.

Normal choices. Reasonable ones. She was alone now, so it was time for her to take some control back, time to dress herself in her own clothes. Sure, the magic had changed the nature of her marital relationship, but that didn't mean she had to mark herself as his every time she went out.

She changed quickly, movements efficient, practiced. Sweatpants dropped. Shirt lifted. The black fabric of Evan's Kiss t-shirt slid over her head, the scent of his body filling her lungs just for a moment. For a moment, she hesitated, fingers lingering on it before setting it aside. Something about the shirt felt grounding.

No.

That was artificial. A fabrication of a magical **** trying to manipulate her with manufactured feelings. She tossed the shirt toward the chair where she had originally pulled it that morning, letting it slip out of her mind.

The rest of the outfit came together without much thought. A fresh pair of panties and bra first. Then her pink leggings hugging her body, showing off the physique she'd worked so hard at. Fabric adjusted. Waistband straightened. Then she sat on the bed as she buckled on her wedge shoes.

A glance in the mirror before she pulled on her crop top. Even with all the stress of her new life, she was still beautiful. Her eyes drifted away from the mirror as she made her way toward where she'd left her top, walking toward the bed, thinking of what she had to buy at the store. She was so caught up in her shopping list that she didn't notice her feet turning toward the chair, her hand reaching for Evan's shirt, and her arms pulling it back over her head, tying it beneath her breasts.

And when she turned to leave, the scent of her former stepson in her nostrils, she felt oddly comforted.

---

The grocery store was busy, but not overwhelming. Stacy moved through it efficiently, grabbing a cart, steering it down familiar aisles with practiced ease. This part of her life hadn't changed. Lists. Habits. Routine.

Except...

Something kept interrupting. A new thought. Small at first. Then persistent.

Will Evan like this?

The first time, she ignored it. The second time, she pushed it aside. By the third, it was harder to dismiss.

Each time the thought surfaced, that same quick pulse of arousal followed, subtle, insistent, tying the idea to something physical whether she liked it or not.

"I don't care what he likes," she muttered under her breath, grabbing a box of pasta a little harder than necessary.

But the feeling didn't go away. If anything, the resistance seemed to make it worse. More frequent. More intrusive. Until somewhere between the produce section and the dairy aisle, the shift happened without her quite noticing.

Her choices changed. Adjusted. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just... enough. By the time she reached the checkout, the cart was full of things she couldn't quite justify but couldn't deny either.

Things he would like.

The realization of what had happened felt like a weight in her stomach, but she didn't fight it anymore. She just didn't have the energy. The magic was powerful and persistent. It was wearing her down piece by piece.

Payment went through. Bags filled. Routine carried her forward again. Out into the parking lot.

The sun was warm, settling comfortably against her skin as she loaded the groceries into the hatchback. A small, absent thought surfaced: at least she'd dressed appropriately for the weather. No need to overheat.

The hatch clicked shut. Keys shifted in her hand. And then...

Something felt off.

Her gaze dropped.

The black fabric.

The shirt.

Evan's shirt.

"No."

The word came out quiet, disbelieving. She wasn't wearing the crop top she'd picked out. Which meant everyone had seen her. Walking around like that, in Evan's clothes.

Marked.

Claimed.

Like she belonged to him.

Heat flooded her face, sharp and immediate. Humiliation twisted in her chest. And underneath it, threading through it in a way that made her want to scream, came that same familiar throb.

Arousal.

Because of him. Because she thought of him. Because she was wearing his shirt.

"Dammit."

The word came out sharper this time. Anger flared, hot and directionless. At the magic. At herself. At him. At everything.

But there was nowhere to put it.

Nowhere for it to go.

So she swallowed it down, forcing it back into something manageable, something contained. Losing control here wouldn't help. Wouldn't fix anything. And in a few hours, she had a house full of people to impress. A role to play. A version of herself to become, whether she liked it or not.

Stacy took a slow breath, steadying herself as she reached for the driver's door. Whatever was left of her old life, she wasn't ready to let it go.

But standing in the parking lot in her stepson's t-shirt, she wondered if it was already too late.