Tight Laces and Looser Rules

One week later.

Kieran sat cross-legged on his bed, back propped against a small tower of Euphorica-branded throw pillows, one hand absentmindedly resting on the boning of his corset. It was digging in again—more today than usual—and it hadn’t loosened all week. Celeste had made it clear: if he was going to “pass” effortlessly, then his waist needed to do more than just look the part when shapewear was peeled off. She'd called it "the foundation of silhouette." Kieran called it insane.

The worst part? He had started getting used to it. The tightness. The squeeze. The constant restriction of his breath, the limited range of motion. He still hated it, of course, but something about the pressure now felt... familiar. He caught himself adjusting it absentmindedly earlier that day, tightening it even before Celeste reminded him. That pissed him off the most.

The week had been nothing short of brutal.

The vocal training had shifted into high gear. No longer were they using some basic online videos or generic vocal coaches. Celeste had gotten her hands on a custom Euphorica-designed AI vocal software—top of the line, probably black-budget funded by Vivienne herself—and it was ruthless. It recorded every inflection, every breath, every masculine trace, then played it back with red-marked analysis: pitch drops, chest resonance, clipped vowels. The worst part? It let him hear it all in side-by-side playback. Him versus Kiara. His own voice, flattened, compared against an algorithmically-perfected version of "her." Every time he missed the mark, the AI would gently say, “Let’s try that again, Kiara.” It was infuriating.

But effective.

His speech had changed. Slightly. Softened. His tongue moved differently now when forming certain vowels. He felt it, even when asking Siri to play music. Celeste noticed too. She’d made him sing scales, do dramatic readings, practice fake phone calls to banks and salons just to test him under pressure. He’d pass, barely. She’d nod. “Better,” she’d say. “But still not perfect.”

Then there were the fashion seminars. Not lectures—actual seminars. Hosted by Celeste herself, of course, and attended only by Kieran. They covered everything from silhouette and fabric behavior to seasonal color theory. Celeste would hold up two identical-looking satin dresses and ask, “Which one reads softer on camera, and why?” Kieran had to guess. Sometimes he got it right. Most times he didn’t. She’d sigh and explain, going on about light diffusion, texture, flow, the importance of certain cuts to suggest volume or hide a hip dip.

He didn't care.

But he pretended to. And that was becoming a skill.

The makeup refinement lessons had gone from light concealer and lipstick to full editorial glam. And of course, Audra was now the teacher. Euphorica’s favorite beauty guru—unforgiving, high-strung, and photogenically perfect. She taught him to contour his face to suggest higher cheekbones. “Not draw,” she emphasized. “Suggest.” The eyeshadow blending alone took forty-five minutes. Audra wouldn’t let him leave until he could do a full look without smudging eyeliner once.

Kieran wasn’t bad at it anymore. That scared him. He knew what brushes to use. Knew which mascara curled best without clumping. Knew the difference between matte and dewy finish foundations, and which to wear with what outfit.

That made him angry. He wasn’t supposed to know these things.

Each night, though, he did whatever he wanted.

He’d get back to his room, toss the corset on the floor, lock the door, and open his browser. Same habits as always. Porn. But now, with the hair extensions, the lashes, the lips, the face, the subtle curves built by the shapewear—he didn’t look like himself anymore. He looked like a girl. He looked like Kiara. That wasn’t supposed to matter. It was just the surface, right?

Until one night, he’d looked at himself in the mirror while jerking off—and felt sick. Like some weird mental disconnect. So now? He avoided his own reflection when he got off. Didn’t even want to catch a glimpse. Not because it turned him off, but because it didn’t and that was worse.

And the pills? He’d been skipping them. Who even cared about vitamin D or iron or whatever the hell Celeste packed in that designer pill planner? He felt fine. Better than fine. Normal. Skipping them didn’t change anything.

He hadn’t been tucking for days, either. Shapewear did enough, and the dresses he wore in the penthouse weren’t revealing. Why go through the pain of tape, pressure, awkward readjustments? It was overkill. Just like everything else they insisted on.

Still, his movements had changed. He noticed it when he stood up too fast and one of his hips cocked naturally—trained, really. Or when he crossed his legs on instinct and realized it was the Kiara way, not his usual slouch. His walk was quieter now, more intentional. His hand gestures more refined. His voice less flat.

He was changing, even if he didn’t care to admit it.

And Celeste had started keeping a tighter leash—literally. The corset stayed on every hour he was awake. “It’s how you’ll earn your shape,” she said, like she was prepping him for some medieval ball. His lungs disagreed. So did his ribs.

It was all too much.

But he kept playing along. When they watched, he played Kiara perfectly. When they weren’t, he was Kieran again—flawed, annoyed, stiff, irritated. The problem was... the difference between the two was shrinking.

And that?

That scared him more than anything.

The bathroom mirror still glistened with steam as Kieran stepped out, towel around his chest, wet footprints trailing behind him. His skin still hummed from the heat of the water—just enough to open the pores like Audra had taught him during one of her merciless tutorials.

He gave himself a once-over in the mirror, his wet hair clinging to his temples, shoulders bare, skin dewy and flushed from the shower. His jaw was smooth, plucked, and moisturized to a glow. The faintest arch still clung to his brows from their reshaping mid-week. He hated that he could see the subtle shadow of femininity taking shape in his face. Nothing overt, nothing dramatic—but it was there. And he hated how… symmetrical it looked.

Today was the day. Kiara Laurent’s first day as Euphorica Industries’ CEO.

And even though he still didn’t take it that seriously, even though he still thought his mom and Celeste were being absolutely unhinged about every little thing—there was a weird little itch in his stomach as he stared at himself. A tiny buzz. Not nerves. Not even excitement. Just… readiness. Like he was standing at the edge of a stage and someone had just drawn the curtain.

He dropped the towel and padded over to the vanity Celeste had made him set up in the bedroom. His undergarments were already laid out—Celeste’s doing, obviously. She was meticulous about the order of everything, and God help him if he didn’t follow it exactly.

Panties first—delicate black lace, high cut to keep the silhouette smooth under clothing. Then shapewear: the kind that came up to his ribs and down past his thighs. Unforgiving. Suffocating. But Celeste swore by it. Kieran gritted his teeth and pulled it on, hopping awkwardly into place and giving the tight fabric a firm tug.

Then came the bra. He went with the one that took adhesive silicone inserts—the weighty ones, more realistic than the lighter non-adhesive ones. He secured them carefully, checking from the side to make sure there was at least fullness if someone caught the right angle. Barely. But enough.

“Need help with the corset?” Celeste’s voice chirped from the doorway, startling him.

He gave a curt nod, trying to keep his irritation buried. He didn’t have the energy to argue this morning.

She came in, her steps quick and efficient, already dressed in a crisp white blouse and leather pants that made her look like she ran a fashion empire. She took one look at his current state—underwear and bra, silicone cleavage and all—and nodded approvingly.

“You remembered the adhesive inserts. Good.” She circled him like a hawk, then held out the black corset. “Arms up.”

He complied, and she started lacing him in, tugging the cords tighter and tighter as she worked her way down. Kieran grunted softly as his waist was cinched inwards, the pressure pushing the inserts slightly higher on his chest.

“You’ll thank me for this silhouette,” Celeste muttered. “Trust me. Boardroom domination starts with a snatched waist.”

“Oh yeah,” Kieran said dryly. “Because that’s what makes someone a CEO.”

Celeste shot him a look in the mirror. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Next came the outfit: a sharply tailored black pantsuit with high-waisted trousers and a double-breasted blazer. The pants were slim but forgiving; the blazer hugged the waist, flaring slightly at the hips to give just the right hourglass illusion. Underneath, a silk blush blouse with a modest v-neck and a soft tie at the neck. Feminine. Elegant. CEO-worthy.

He stepped into sleek nude heels—not too tall, just enough lift to subtly adjust posture and gait. He still stumbled sometimes if he didn’t focus, but he’d gotten better. All week, he’d walked up and down the hallway like a pageant contestant under Celeste’s hawk-eye.

At the vanity, he began his makeup routine.

Primer. Light foundation with a dewy finish—his skin tone had been perfectly matched by Audra on day three of training. A soft peach blush just on the apples of the cheeks, a touch of bronzer under the jaw to soften its natural sharpness.

Eyes were the trickiest. But thanks to Audra’s brutal drills, he could now flick eyeliner on with reasonable confidence. He went with a soft brown wing and a champagne shimmer on the lids. Mascara. Brow gel. Lip liner in a muted rose and a glossy balm over it.

Hair was last: his natural dark brown locks were blown out into a soft, shoulder-length wave. He brushed them carefully, tucked one side behind the ear, and gave the other a little volume for drama.

Done.

Kiara Laurent stared back from the mirror.

Not flawless. Not model-perfect. But unmistakably her.

He turned his head left. Then right. The silhouette was smooth. No visible bumps, no edges. If someone didn’t know what to look for… they wouldn’t look twice.

Which was kind of the point, wasn’t it?

He knew what he was supposed to care about. Posture. Pacing. Pitch. But it was hard to give a damn when he still believed—deep in his chest—that none of this really mattered. His mother and Celeste were so obsessed with optics, with poise, with this insane idea of performance—but Kieran?

He still believed all it took to run a company was being the smartest person in the room. And he was.

That’s why he didn’t care about skipping the pills, or slacking off when no one was watching. That’s why he didn’t flinch when he stopped tucking. Because in his mind, none of that really mattered.

Not in the long run.

And yet… he had noticed some things. Small changes. He didn’t flinch anymore when he saw his reflection in the morning. His voice naturally came out a little higher now without thinking. His walk had adjusted. And when he sat—legs crossed, spine upright—it was no longer entirely a conscious choice.

Kiara Laurent wasn’t just a look anymore. She was starting to bleed through the seams.

Kieran shut the drawer, stood up, and smoothed down his blazer. “Time to go to work,” he muttered to himself.

His heels clicked confidently down the hall as he headed toward the front door—shoulders back, chin high, lip gloss catching the morning light.

And for now, at least, no one would suspect that Kiara Laurent, poised new CEO of Euphorica Industries, was anyone but exactly who she appeared to be.