Well she too knows where the Landlady is

Simon tossed the keys to Sigríður. She caught them one-handed without looking.

“We’re heading to Muriel Blackstone’s house,” he said.

Sigríður’s pale blue eyes flicked toward him, one brow arching slightly. Muriel Blackstone owned the entire apartment complex—or at least her name sat on the title. The story she liked to tell involved a generous divorce settlement from some long-gone husband forty years back. Simon had never bought it. The building itself was barely ten years old; no way a settlement from the eighties would cover something that didn’t even exist yet. The woman was full of shit, probably leveraged **** or worse to end up with a cash-flowing property portfolio. He’d always suspected it, never cared enough to prove it. Until now.

Sigríður slid behind the wheel without comment, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking garage. The drive to the suburbs took about twenty minutes—quiet streets, traffic thinning the farther they got from the city centre. She navigated with calm precision, hands steady at ten and two, the professional calm he had written into her body now extending to every movement.

She parked neatly at the curb outside a two-story brick house with manicured hedges and a brass mailbox that looked polished daily. Simon glanced around the quiet cul-de-sac.

“None of her neighbours will pay us any mind,” he said. “No one will ask why we’re here.”

“Good,” Sigríður replied, voice low and certain.

They stepped out. Simon opened the low wrought-iron gate; she followed close behind, posture straight, eyes scanning the street out of habit. He knocked—three polite raps.

“Coming,” came the grating, nasal drawl from inside. Slow footsteps approached.

The door opened.

Muriel Blackstone stood there in a silk blouse patterned with swirling brown-and-cream Versace motifs, the fabric catching the afternoon light. Her long silver-grey hair fell in smooth, expensive waves past her shoulders. Gold chains layered at her throat, rings glinted on manicured fingers, and large hoop earrings framed a face frozen in perpetual disapproval.

Years, perhaps decades of heavy Botox had smoothed her forehead into an unnaturally flat plane, erased the crow’s feet that should have framed those sharp hazel eyes, and pulled the corners of her mouth into a permanent, tight line that passed for a neutral expression only if you didn’t look too closely.

Another thing of note was that her lips, plumped with filler, sat glossy and slightly parted, giving her the look of someone perpetually on the verge of delivering a cutting remark. Cheekbones sat high and artificial, skin stretched taut over them like expensive upholstery. She looked mid-fifties at a generous guess, though Simon knew she was closer to seventy-five. Every line and sag chemically erased, leaving behind a mask of preserved youth that somehow made her seem older.

She took in Simon first, eyes narrowing with familiar irritation. Then her gaze slid to Sigríður—tall, muscular, poised in crisp professional black—and the hostility sharpened into something petty and unmistakable.

“Muriel Blackstone,” Simon said evenly as she stood in the doorway. “You will invite myself and Sigríður inside. You believe we have something important to tell you.”

The command landed clean. Muriel’s expression didn’t warm, but the reflexive sneer faltered. She stepped aside.

“Come in,” she said, the words clipped and cold, carrying the same bitter hostility she reserved for the entire world—Simon for every maintenance request he’d ever lodged, Sigríður simply for existing as a younger, fitter, undeniably prettier woman. Muriel was that petty.

They stepped into the foyer. Marble tile underfoot, a crystal chandelier overhead, the faint scent of expensive candles and old resentment. Muriel closed the door behind them with a soft click.

Simon didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“From this moment on,” he said, voice calm and final, “you are not going to charge rent to myself, Sharon O’Dwyer Mazur, or Sigríður Fjallkona. Ever.”

"I will," She stated.

Simon watched Muriel’s face as she spoke the words, her Botox-frozen features betraying nothing outwardly, but the fury in her eyes burned hot enough to scorch the air between them. Her lips stayed pressed into that artificial line, but the tension in her jaw and the slight flare of her nostrils told the real story.

He let the smirk come slow and deliberate.

“You are actually pleased to do this,” he said, voice even. “To make up for all the trouble you have caused me.”

The shift happened instantly. Muriel’s shoulders eased a fraction. The hard glint in her hazel eyes dulled into something closer to acceptance, then warmth.

“I am,” she agreed, the words coming out smoother than before.

Simon leaned a hip against the foyer console table, arms folded loosely. Sigríður remained a silent pillar near the door, eyes steady on Muriel like she was cataloguing every twitch.

“Say, Muriel,” he continued, “you will treat the next questions seriously.”

She gave a single, crisp nod.

“If I could make you young again, what would you be willing to do for me?”

Muriel hummed low in her throat, considering. “There would be scant little I wouldn’t do, Gatting,” she admitted, the admission flat but honest.

He tilted his head. “What about this instead: you give me three percent of your total profits each year to live off—broken into monthly payments. How much would that come to?”

“About twenty-three thousand a month,” she answered without hesitation.

Simon blinked. The number landed like a brick. One-twelfth of three percent of her annual take was twenty-three grand. The math alone screamed exploitation: the woman was swimming in cash while tenants scraped by on leaky faucets and broken elevators. There ought to be a law against it.

“That’s far too much,” he said. “How about seven thousand five hundred a month?”

Muriel shrugged one silk-clad shoulder. “I will not say no, who would. But only if you can make me younger.”

“Once I do, you will give your word and keep it.”

She nodded.

“Even better,” Simon added, “you will come to love me for it.”

Another nod.

“You will then devote your life to me.”

Muriel nodded again. The motion revealed no genuine belief, only a compelled seriousness, but that was sufficient enough.

Simon straightened. “Muriel Blackstone’s body will regain the shape, health, and physique she had in her twenties.”

Reality bent once more, quiet and seamless.

It began at her hair. The long silver-grey waves darkened from the roots, colour flooding back in a slow, rich cascade—deep chestnut brown threaded with warm caramel highlights that caught the foyer light and shimmered like expensive silk. The strands thickened, gaining volume and bounce, falling in glossy, effortless layers past her shoulders and down her back.

Her face came next. The heavy Botox mask cracked—not visibly, but internally—as lines and tension melted away. The unnaturally smooth forehead softened into natural, expressive skin; faint laugh lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, giving them life instead of erasure.

The filler-plumped lips settled into their original, previous perhaps more natural fullness, they were still generous, but now organic, rosy, and inviting. Cheekbones lowered slightly, regaining the gentle roundness of youth while staying high and defined. Jawline sharpened without looking harsh, skin tightening to a dewy, poreless glow that radiated vitality. The perpetual tightness vanished; her expression unlocked, suddenly capable of warmth, surprise, mischief.

The transformation rippled downward. Her neck smoothed, losing the faint crepe texture. Shoulders squared with renewed strength. The silk blouse, already fitted, now strained in new ways as her breasts lifted and swelled, full, high and perfectly proportioned D-cups that pressed against the patterned fabric, nipples faintly visible through the thin silk as arousal stirred beneath the surface. Her waist cinched inward, carving a dramatic hourglass that flowed into hips widening with lush, feminine curves. The navy trousers hugged thighs that toned and lengthened, ass rounding into firm, heart-shaped perfection that shifted enticingly with every breath.

Legs stretched subtly taller, reaching 5’8” or perhaps 5’9”. Calves and thighs sculpted themselves with the taut strength of a woman in her prime. Skin everywhere took on a sun-kissed bronze glow, smooth and flawless, carrying the faint scent of something expensive and floral.

The overall effect proved devastating: a woman who looked twenty-eight at most, radiating raw sexual confidence. Long black hair framed a face that could stop traffic. Dark, sultry eyes sat framed by thick lashes. Full lips curved in **** invitation.

Those same high cheekbones flushed with fresh youth. Every movement carried liquid grace. The blouse gaped slightly at the top button from the swell of her chest. The trousers clung to hips and ass like they had been tailored for sin.

Muriel drew in a sharp breath, hands flying to her face, then lower, tracing the new curves of her body with stunned reverence. Her eyes, now brighter and clearer locked on Simon.

“Oh my,” she whispered, voice husky and younger, stripped of the nasal edge. “Simon…”

She stepped closer, hips swaying, the silk whispering against skin that suddenly felt alive in ways it hadn’t in decades. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lower, hunger sharpening behind the awe.

“You did it,” she breathed. “You really did it.”

Simon held her stare, letting the moment stretch.

“And now?” he asked quietly.

Muriel’s lips parted. She closed the last step between them, one manicured hand lifting to rest lightly against his chest.

“Now,” she murmured, “I keep my word.”

Her eyes shone with something deeper than gratitude—devotion already taking root exactly as he had commanded.

Without breaking that gaze, she slid her fingers down his arm, captured his hand in hers, and turned. The movement was smooth, deliberate, her newly youthful body carrying the same confident grace she had worn in her twenties. She led him through the foyer and into the adjoining living room, heels clicking softly against the marble before sinking into thick carpet. The space opened up around them, aplush sectional sofa in pale cream leather, floor-to-ceiling windows draped in sheer curtains that softened the afternoon light.

Muriel guided him to the centre of the sofa and pressed gently at his chest until he sat. The cushions gave under his weight. She didn’t hesitate. One knee lifted, then the other, straddling his lap in a single fluid motion. Her thighs settled against his hips, the navy trousers stretching taut over the renewed curves of her legs. The silk blouse brushed his shirt as she leaned in close, full breasts pressing softly against his chest through the thin fabric, the top button straining just enough to hint at what lay beneath.

Her long black hair fell forward like a curtain, framing their faces as she cupped his jaw with both hands. The scent of her expensive floral perfume warmed by fresh skin filled the space between them.

“I kept my word before,” she whispered, lips hovering a breath from his. “Now let me show you how much I mean it.”