Things Get Real

The chandelier’s light sparkled across the gleaming floors of the Laurent penthouse, casting a soft golden hue across the space as Kiara sat quietly on the edge of the living room sofa, her legs crossed at the ankle just as she’d been trained. Her silk wide-leg trousers—a muted lavender shade—grazed the floor, draping elegantly over pointed ivory heels. The trousers cinched high at her waist, paired with a creamy blouse in whisper-thin chiffon, delicate mother-of-pearl buttons trailing down the front. Her long hair had been softly curled that morning and was tucked behind one ear, revealing a dainty stud of rose quartz. A soft floral perfume lingered subtly around her, a touch that once felt ridiculous but now drifted around her almost unconsciously.

The makeup she wore was polished but understated: luminous skin, a blush that bloomed naturally across her high cheekbones, and lips painted with a dewy mauve tint. Her eyes shimmered with a touch of champagne-colored shadow and subtle liner—just enough to emphasize their shape without tipping into drama. Her movements were delicate now by instinct. She never stomped, she glided. She never slouched, she poised. Every little correction Celeste had trained into her was now second nature, almost invisible even to herself.

Across from her, Celeste lounged gracefully in a slim-cut black dress with a high slit that revealed toned legs crossed confidently over one another. The neckline was square, structured, almost architectural, revealing her collarbones and the slightest hint of cleavage without ever feeling vulgar. She wore gold accessories—thin, deliberate, expensive—and her ponytail was sleek as always, not a strand out of place. Celeste wasn’t just feminine—she was commanding.

Vivienne, sitting at the head of the conversation with a glass of white wine in one hand, wore a tailored ivory pantsuit, sharp and powerful. Her blouse was silk, tucked perfectly, and a long gold pendant rested between her breasts. She exuded effortless control. Her makeup was more defined than her daughters’: sculpted cheekbones, a strong berry lip, and eyeliner that declared authority. She didn't need to say much to dominate a room—her presence was enough.

Kiara’s eyes drifted down to her own hands in her lap. Her nails were shaped into a soft almond, painted a glossy rose-beige. She could remember a time—barely a few weeks ago—when the idea of walking into a room like this in full feminine dress and pretending to be someone else would’ve made her want to scream. And now? Now it was just… her life.

Still, the emotional fallout of the last few days clung to her like a fog she couldn’t shake. That night of **** frustration had melted into days of emotional rawness. The pills she’d gulped down without thinking—thinking they were just vitamins and nutritional support—had clearly done something. She felt soft in a way she didn’t understand. Her skin was sensitive. Her thoughts? Muddled. Sensual. Overwhelming. Sometimes she cried in the bathroom and couldn’t even explain why.

And now this.

Vivienne cleared her throat and leaned forward, folding her hands with a small but decisive smile. “Isabelle Chastain has confirmed she wants Euphorica to join forces with Maison de Lune,” she said. “Their launch into North America will be tied directly to our expansion into France. Think: cross-branded collections, global reach, runway collaborations.”

Kiara nodded slowly, forcing the perfect little smile she had mastered. “That’s… exciting.”

Celeste smirked. “Exciting is one word for it.”

Vivienne continued. “Isabelle is traditional. French couture blood, very into symbolism and storytelling. She wants the partnership to debut with a campaign called Femmes Who Lead. You’ll be the face.”

Kiara swallowed. “Me?”

“Of course,” Vivienne said as if it were obvious. “You’re our CEO. Our heiress. And Isabelle loves the idea of celebrating women who lead with both power and sensuality.”

There was a pause. Kiara shifted slightly. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Celeste pulled out her phone and tapped it a few times, then turned the screen toward her sister. “It means photo shoots. Press junkets. Editorial spreads where you’re styled in... romantic, feminine ways. Symbolism. You, on the arm of a strong man, showing the world you're desired, complete, admired—but still in control.”

Kiara blinked. Her stomach fluttered with something she didn’t know how to name.

“She wants you to look like a woman who’s in command of herself and her sexuality,” Vivienne said gently. “That means we can’t just play pretend anymore. No hiding behind neutral outfits or vague messaging. You need to be Kiara. Fully.”

“We’ll need to get your lashes redone,” Celeste said suddenly, tapping a manicured finger against her glass. “And your extensions are due for a touch-up. You’re starting to show a little root.”

Kiara gave a small, perfect nod. Her nails—soft rose-beige and shaped into gentle almonds—rested delicately in her lap. No reaction. Just obedience. The performance was seamless.

Vivienne crossed her legs, the silky drape of her ivory pantsuit catching the light. “Isabelle will expect a polished presentation. Not just for the camera, but for the meetings. The dinners. The press. Every angle of you needs to read one thing: woman.”

Still, Kiara didn’t flinch. She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t protest. She wanted to. But she knew better. Vivienne didn’t negotiate.

Celeste leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice smooth as lacquer. “We’ll have Marina come in tomorrow to re-bond the lashes. I’ll schedule your hair appointment too—maybe go just a shade deeper with the lowlights to make it pop under studio lighting.”

“Don’t forget the brows,” Vivienne added. “They’ve grown in too much. She needs reshaping before the test shoot.”

Celeste nodded. “And we’ll up the vitamin dosage.”

Kiara’s stomach twisted—but her smile didn’t flicker.

She knew what those pills did. She knew that now, even if no one had outright admitted it. They made her skin feel thinner somehow, more reactive. Her emotions were on a hair-trigger, her skin prickled with arousal half the time, and the rest of her just... felt too much. Too raw. Too soft. And most humiliating of all—none of it showed. On the outside, she looked perfect.

Celeste sat back and tilted her head. “We should talk about your inserts.”

Kiara didn’t answer. She couldn’t. This was the part that made her skin crawl. Being discussed like a mannequin, an object to adjust and refine. But she held her smile.

“They’ll be fine for the first few shoots,” Celeste said lightly. “High neckline, some subtle shaping underneath, nothing too exposed. But if Isabelle wants something more... intimate, we’ll need to rethink.”

Vivienne was blunt. “You’ll need cleavage. Realistic curves. If the press is going to document you in swimwear or evening gowns, silicone won’t cut it.”

Kiara blinked, lips parting slightly.

Celeste tapped her phone screen. “There are better prosthetics we could try. Molded forms with adhesive backing. Seamless, natural movement. Or…”

Vivienne sipped her wine. “We begin prepping for something more permanent. A surgical option, if we reach that point.”

Kiara’s hand twitched in her lap. She wanted to object. To scream. To throw her wineglass into the marble fireplace. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Celeste raised a brow. “Later,” she said. “We’ll decide if and when the partnership requires it.”

Later that night, after Vivienne had retreated to her study, Celeste lingered.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said softly.

Kiara glanced at her. “There’s nothing to say.”

Celeste studied her for a long moment. “You’ve been crying more.”

Kiara held her breath. “I haven’t.”

“You have. You think I don’t notice, but I do. Your eyes stay glassy after rehearsals. You fidget. You fold in on yourself.”

Kiara looked away, swallowing thickly.

“It’s just the vitamins,” she said, voice carefully modulated.

Celeste didn’t argue. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just settling in.”

That line hit harder than it should have.

Kiara stood quietly, smoothing her blouse, her wide-leg trousers swishing as she moved. She didn’t stomp. She glided. Even now.

Even when all she wanted to do was run.

Later, alone—Kieran again—he stood in front of the vanity. He stared at himself—at her. The image in the mirror was soft, poised, absurdly feminine. And undeniably convincing.

He hated how easy it was now.

His fingers hovered over the edge of the vanity drawer. The black box sat inside. "For You, Sis."

He hadn’t opened it again since that night. He knew what was inside. His body had begged for it more than once, especially when he lay in bed—aching, locked, frustrated, overwhelmed. The vitamins only made it worse. Or better. He didn’t know anymore.

This isn’t me, he told himself.

This isn’t who I am.

But he still cried sometimes. Quietly. Not from sadness—from the tension. From the need.

And worst of all? He was starting to think about it during the day. Not the crying. The… other stuff.

The weight of the cage between his legs. The click of heels on marble floors. The attention. The glances from men during meetings. That look of admiration—and control.

He hated himself for how that made him feel.

He rubbed at his eyes, not even bothering with a tissue.

He wanted to scream. To claw his way out.

But what would he even be clawing back into? There was no place for Kieran in Euphorica. Not anymore. Only Kiara.

In bed, he curled under the sheets and shut his eyes. His body—smooth, perfumed, caged—didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore. His thighs pressed together instinctively. His chest shifted softly with every breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood naked in front of a mirror and not seen a woman.

He felt himself drifting, full of anger, shame, and something else far more dangerous.

Desire.