Breakfast and (tentative) plans

You make your way to the kitchen on those four-inch heels, the pencil skirt forcing each step into a measured glide. The corset keeps your spine ramrod straight, your shoulders back, your chin lifted. By the time you reach the open-plan kitchen, you've stopped thinking about each individual step and started simply... moving.

"Good morning, Chloe. Breakfast station is prepped. Eggs, avocado, sourdough, and I've brewed your usual oat milk latte."

HAVEN has set everything out on the marble island—sliced avocado fanned on a small plate, two eggs already scrambled and steaming, thick sourdough toast with a pot of honey beside it. The latte sits in a delicate ceramic cup with a heart drawn in the foam.

You sit on one of the high stools at the island, crossing your legs at the ankle the way the pencil skirt demands. You reach for the latte, and you notice it.

Your fingers curl around the cup handle with your pinky slightly extended—not deliberately, not as an affectation, just... naturally. The way you lift it to your lips, both hands cradling the ceramic, your elbows tucked close to your body. You take a sip and set it down with a soft clink, dabbing at the corner of your mouth with a napkin to protect the crimson gloss.

When did I start doing that?

You pick up the fork. You cut the avocado into neat, small pieces rather than mashing it. You bring each bite to your lips with your wrist angled, fingers delicate on the silver handle. You chew with your mouth closed, small bites, taking your time. The corset makes large meals uncomfortable anyway—you're grateful for the modest portion.

You reach for the honey, and your hand moves in a fluid arc, wrist rotating, fingers spreading the honey across the toast with a precision that feels entirely automatic. You're not thinking about any of this. Your body is simply... doing it.

These aren't Chloe's mannerisms. These are just... how someone in this outfit moves.

But you know that's not entirely true. You've watched enough people to understand body language, and what you're seeing in the reflection of the stainless steel toaster is a woman eating breakfast. Not a man in a costume. A woman.

You finish the eggs, dab your lips again, and push the plate aside. The latte is warm in your hands. The morning light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the gloss on your nails, the gold chain at your throat, the sheen of the stockings where your crossed ankles overlap.

And then the decision arrives, not as a dramatic revelation but as something quiet and practical, like clicking a puzzle piece into place.

I need a job. I need Wi-Fi to apply for jobs. I need LUXE sessions to keep Wi-Fi. I can't get my clothes back. I can't access the guest room. I have fifty-five dollars.

You pull your phone from the structured black handbag and open the browser. The Wi-Fi hums along, fast and reliable. You navigate to the Larkspur Hollow community board, then to Indeed, then to the local library's job postings page.

If I apply as Riley Bennett, male, recent psychology graduate—and someone calls me back—what happens when I show up looking like this?

The answer is obvious. They'd be confused. Suspicious. You'd explain, and it would be awkward and humiliating and probably end the interview before it starts.

But if I apply as... whoever I am right now...

You look at the toaster's reflection again. The woman with the sharp eyeliner and the power outfit and the smooth chignon. She looks employable. She looks like someone who could walk into an office or a café or a boutique and be taken seriously.

You have a psychology degree. You understand people. You can read a room. You can do this.

You open a new document and start drafting a résumé. The name field stays blank for a moment. Then you type: Chloe Ellison.

It's not identity theft if it's your own cousin's name and she's not using it, you rationalize. It's just... practical. A temporary arrangement.

Your crimson lips curve slightly as you type. Your posture is perfect. Your heels are crossed at the ankle beneath the island. And somewhere in the back of your mind, that husky feminine voice from earlier echoes: I wore this for you.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: "Hi! This is Priya from Skyward Airlines following up on claim #4471928. We're still locating your baggage. Current status: IN TRANSIT. Expected resolution: 3-5 business days. Please call if you have questions!"

Three to five business days. You've heard that before. You set the phone down and return to the résumé.