What Makes You Happy...

The last few days had been… enlightening. Or maybe just affirming.

Liam’s words had stuck with you ever since that night on the couch. The things that made you happy—makeup, dresses, heels, the way men looked at you and wanted you—it was all so natural now. It felt right. Not in the way that meant forever, not in the way that defined you permanently, but in the way that made you fulfilled in the moment. And wasn’t that what mattered?

You’d spent too much time fighting this curse, trying to resist the way it had reshaped your mind, your desires, your everything. But now? Maybe there wasn’t anything to fight. Maybe the smartest thing—the thing that would let you get through this without breaking—was to lean into it, to enjoy it, to take what happiness you could from it and run with it.

Liam had been right. What was worse than being cursed? Being miserable and cursed. And you weren’t miserable, not really.

Not when you could wake up and look in the mirror, run a brush through your long, silky hair, and enjoy the sight of yourself. Not when you could pull on a lacy bra and matching panties and feel cute and sexy. Not when you could pick an outfit that hugged your body in all the right ways and love how it looked on you. Not when you could slip on lipstick, mascara, a touch of highlight, and admire the way your features glowed.

And not when men wanted you, and you wanted them.

That thought had lingered in your mind the last night, when you and Liam had found yourselves tangled up in your usual arrangement.

Except this time, it had been different.

Because this time, when you slid down onto your knees between his legs, it hadn’t been out of necessity. It wasn’t just to get him off so you could get off too. It wasn’t just an unspoken exchange.

It was because you wanted to.

Because you wanted to see Liam come undone beneath you, wanted to hear the shaky breath he let out when your mouth wrapped around him, wanted to watch his hand tighten into a fist against the couch as you worked him over with slow, deliberate strokes of your tongue.

And god, it had been fun.

You liked the power of it, the control. The way his hips had twitched beneath your hands, the way he barely stifled a groan when you hollowed your cheeks around him. It had been intoxicating, the heat pooling low in your stomach as you realized just how much you enjoyed making him fall apart like that.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine. You knew Liam deep down enjoyed a blowjob more than a handjob, but in that moment he was pushing his guilty conscience to the side.

But you’d spent the last few days messaging Damian Kane. And he had been messaging you too.

And the message from the unknown number was simple.

2/7.

A reminder. A declaration. Proof that what happened counted.

You had stared at it for a long moment, the number seeming far more intimate than it should have. But then, another message, from someone more...special.

You looked good tonight.

A thrill had shot through you, waking you up instantly. He had been thinking about you. _Damian Kane _had been thinking about you.

And you had definitely been thinking about him. So you had messaged him back. And he had responded.

And then you had kept responding.

Three days later, you were still texting him. Still feeling the rush every time his name lit up your phone screen. The conversations weren’t just about business or surface-level pleasantries—no, Damian talked to you like you belonged to him. Like you were actually his girl.

And the most dangerous part?

You liked it.

The way he spoke to you, the way he treated you—it made you feel wanted in a way you had never experienced before. You weren’t just a one-night stand to him. You weren’t just some conquest.

To Damian, you were his.

And the thought of being his girl—even unofficially, even temporarily—made something warm bloom in your chest.

Would you regret it later? Would you look back on this when you were a guy again and feel horrified that you had let yourself fall so easily into the role of someone’s girlfriend?

Maybe. But right now? Right now, it made you happy.

So you had let it happen.

You had played into it, teasing him back, giving him the answers he wanted, reveling in the knowledge that someone as powerful and untouchable as Damian Kane wanted you in a way that was deeper than just sex.

And it felt good.

But Damian wasn’t the only one you’d been keeping in touch with.

Tyler—the groomsman from the wedding.

Your conversations with him had been different from Damian. While Damian had been commanding and possessive, Tyler was charming. He flirted effortlessly, never in a way that felt demanding, but in a way that made you want to flirt back. He was fun, easy to talk to, and ridiculously cute.

And when you messaged him? That made you happy too. So you entertained it.

You let yourself have fun, just like Liam had told you to. You let yourself enjoy it. Because at the end of the day, the worst thing about being cursed wasn’t the physical transformation. It was the idea of being miserable through it all.

And right now? You weren’t miserable. You were happy.

And that was all that mattered.

And the moment Damian’s lips crashed against yours, you melted.

His kiss was firm, possessive, demanding. The kind of kiss that told you exactly where you stood with him—not as an equal, not as a conquest, but as his. His girl, his plaything, his property.

And god, did it feel good.

The luxurious suite was dimly lit, the golden glow of the city skyline spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, Toronto hummed with life—cars rushing past, lights flickering from buildings high above—but in here? The world had shrunk to just the two of you.

Damian pressed you against the wall near the suite’s entrance, his body firm against yours. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours with the kind of raw dominance that had your knees threatening to give out. You clung to his broad shoulders, fingers twisting into the rich fabric of his black button-down. He smelled incredible—expensive cologne, clean and masculine, mixed with the faintest trace of whiskey from dinner.

You hadn’t planned for the night to end here. Or maybe you had.

After all, you were the one who had made this date happen. Again.

“Another date?” Liam had asked, giving you a skeptical look from across the living room.

You kept your expression neutral, your tone casual. “Yeah. You know… trial stuff.”

Liam narrowed his eyes slightly. “Didn’t you just see him the other night?”

You shrugged, looking down at your drink. “We didn’t, uh… _seal the deal _last time.” You lifted a shoulder, forcing a light chuckle. “So I figured, might as well go for the second of seven tonight, right?”

A beat of silence stretched between you. Liam didn’t say anything. Didn’t accuse you of lying.

But you knew you were.

Because the truth was? You had already sealed the deal. The moment your phone had buzzed with that cryptic text after that night with Damian, you had known you were in the clear for the trial.

And yet, here you were, going back for more.

Liam gave you a long, assessing look before finally sighing, leaning back against the couch. “Well… if that’s what you have to do.”

He didn’t sound convinced. But he didn’t question you either.

And that? That was worse than if he had.

Because Liam trusted you. He wasn’t the type to push when you didn’t want to talk. He just wanted you to be happy.

And you were happy. You just… didn’t know what to do with that.

You had agonized over what to wear for tonight. It had to be perfect. Not just sexy—elegant, classy, the kind of thing a woman on a date with a powerful CEO would wear. So, piece by piece, you had put together the perfect ensemble.

Lingerie first.

A sheer black lace bra, delicate and feminine, hugging the soft swell of your breasts with just enough structure to lift and shape. Matching lace panties, high-cut at the hips, hugging your curves with sinful precision. You had slipped into a pair of sheer black thigh-high stockings, the silky fabric gliding up your legs before fastening into dainty garter straps hidden beneath your dress.

Then came the dress—a deep midnight blue satin slip dress, luxurious and form-fitting, the fabric molding to every curve. The neckline plunged just enough to tease, while the high slit up one side revealed tantalizing glimpses of your stocking-clad thigh as you walked.

You had draped a lightweight beige trench coat over your shoulders for warmth, adding an air of effortless chic.

Your heels? Black stiletto pumps—classic, sleek, making your legs look impossibly long.

And your makeup? Flawless. A luminous, glowy base. Soft, smoky eyes with a touch of shimmer. Defined brows, winged eyeliner, and deep berry-red lipstick—bold but sophisticated. Your hair cascaded down your back in soft waves, effortlessly polished.

You had looked in the mirror before leaving and thought, Damn.

You looked like the kind of woman a man like Damian Kane would claim.

And claimed, he had.

Damian’s hands were no longer just on your face—they had wandered. One of them slid down your side, fingers tracing the silky fabric of your dress, toying with the slit at your thigh. The other gripped your waist, holding you firmly in place.

You let out a soft, breathless moan against his lips as he pressed his body harder against yours, trapping you between him and the wall. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his smirk dark and knowing.

“You’ve been waiting for this all night, haven’t you?” His voice was a low rumble, sending heat straight through you.

You swallowed, your breath shaky. “Maybe.”

His fingers slipped beneath the slit of your dress, finding the garter strap fastening your stocking to your thigh. He smirked. “Of course you’re wearing these.”

You flushed as he ran a teasing finger along the edge of the lace. Then, with practiced ease, he pulled the strap, letting it snap lightly against your skin. You let out a tiny gasp, and he chuckled, pleased.

“Take this off,” he murmured, his fingers hooking into the straps of your dress.

You obeyed without thinking, the silky material slipping off your shoulders and pooling at your feet. Now, you stood in nothing but your lingerie, stockings, and heels, your body on full display under the dim glow of the city lights. Damian devoured the sight of you with his gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough with approval.

You shivered as his hands roamed over your curves, tracing the delicate lace of your bra, the soft swell of your hips. Then, without warning, he grabbed your thighs and lifted you.

You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as he carried you effortlessly across the room.

The world spun as he lowered you onto the massive bed, caging you beneath him. His body was heat and strength above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your throat. “Letting me take control.”

You whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Y-Yeah.”

His teeth scraped lightly against your skin, sending a shudder through you. “That’s my girl.”

His girl.

Your breath hitched. The words should have made you panic. Should have made you feel trapped.

But instead? They made you ache.

And god help you… you liked it.