Dinner Down to Size, Chapters 1-10

Author’s Note: This story is written by NiceGent42; you can find the original work on his DeviantArt. This is simply an edited version, commissioned by him, cross-posted to my website!

Chapter One

The lighting in the executive restroom was clinical and unforgiving, exactly how Sabrina Halloway preferred it. She stood on a custom wooden riser she had installed beneath the vanity, allowing her four foot eleven frame to meet the mirror at a commanding height.

She adjusted the lapels of her bespoke charcoal pinstripe blazer. It was a masterpiece of Italian tailoring, costing more than most of her employees earned in a quarter. The shoulder pads were reinforced with internal structured mesh to create a formidable, sharp silhouette that defied her natural daintiness. Beneath the blazer, her silk bold blue blouse draped over a high-end padded bra. It was a sophisticated piece of engineering designed to take her almost non-existent bust and transform it into a generous and firm C-cup. She leaned into the mirror, checking the cleavage. It provided the curves and presence of a fully developed, sexually appealing woman, a necessary distraction to hide the deep insecurities she felt regarding her diminutive frame.

Her makeup was a weapon of its own. She had spent an hour on the contouring, using deep bronzers to carve out high, predatory cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it could cut glass. A bold, Power Red lipstick defined her mouth, lending her an air of maturity. Between the makeup and the artificial curves, she looked every bit the twenty-five-year-old titan of industry others perceived her as.

She stepped off the riser and her feet landed with a sharp, lethal sound. She wore a pair of glossy black Christian Louboutin pumps, the iconic red-lacquered soles flashing with every movement. The five-inch stilettos were a strategic choice; they naturally caused her back to arch and her chest to push forward, dramatically enhancing the curve of her legs and the lift of her rear end at the same time.

"Perfect," she whispered to her reflection.

She exited the restroom and headed toward the executive wing. As she approached the boardroom, the massive glass sliding doors detected her presence. They hissed open with silent, pneumatic precision, retreating as if they were afraid to stand in her way.

Inside, Julian Vance, the CEO, sat at the head of the table. A broad shouldered man standing just over six foot two, who rounded it to the next inch to further boost his image of old-money stability. To his right stood Elena Thorne. Elena was naturally tall for a woman, at five foot ten, and stood as a statuesque contrast to her boss. Today she was dressed in a high-waisted, tight pencil skirt and a silk blouse that emphasized her long, elegant lines. She stood in three-inch heels that put her eye-to-eye with the CEO of Aegis Strategic Logistics.

"Good morning, Sabrina," Elena said, her voice smooth, "I've laid out the preliminary Singapore reports for you."

Sabrina stopped dead. The clicking of her red-soled heels ceased. She turned her head slowly, looking up at her assistant from beneath her blunt-cut bangs.

"It is Director Halloway, Elena. We have discussed this," Sabrina said, her voice dropping into a dangerous register, "The fact that you handle my scheduling does not grant you the privilege of using my given name. You are my assistant manager, not my sorority sister. Correct yourself."

Elena’s emerald eyes flickered before she bowed her head slightly. "Of course. My apologies, Director Halloway."

"See that it doesn't happen again," Sabrina snapped. She turned to the table. "The Singapore congestion is not a variable, Julian. It is an excuse for people who do not know how to lean on a port authority."

Sabrina said this referring to a specific logistics bottleneck the company’s leader had mentioned in an email before the meeting. She tossed a leather-bound folder onto the table in front of her assistant manager, expecting her to open it to take meeting minutes like she had been told to do so many times in the past. As she moved to the front of the room, she hit the first obstacle of her day.

The Jurong Terminal expansion maps were stored in heavy rolls on a shelf nearly seven feet off the ground. Sabrina stopped at the base of the shelving unit. She reached up as far as she could, her back arching and her five-inch heels straining, but her fingertips were still nearly two feet short of the shelf. Even on her tiptoes, she looked like a child reaching for a cookie jar.

She felt Julian’s eyes on her back. The silence in the room stretched. She hated this, the moment where her expensive tailoring and high heels were proven insufficient against the simple reality of a high shelf.

"Elena," Sabrina barked, her voice sharp to cover her embarrassment. She did not turn around. "The physical maps. Now. My arms are not six feet long and I am not paying you to stand there looking like a decorative pillar."

Elena Thorne stepped forward. Not saying a word, just moving to assist her height-challenged supervisor. She moved easily with the effortless grace she had learned from years learning ballet as a child. The dark haired young woman’s tall frame made it easy to reach up to what was needed. Her long, slender arm extended easily, her fingers closing around the heavy map rolls. Elena didn't even have to stand on her toes; she simply plucked the maps from the shelf as if they were feathers.

"Thank you, Elena," Julian murmured.

"She is a giraffe, Julian. She is tall, slow, and occupies too much oxygen," Sabrina dismissed, trying to reclaim the room's attention as she scurried to the map board, "She is here to reach the high shelves and stay out of the way of the actual thinking. The poor woman is of great help, but has several limitations."

As Elena reached up to clip the five-foot-wide map to the high molding of the boardroom wall, her tall presence boosted by her heels, she completely eclipsed the blonde Director of her department. Sabrina shoved her aside with a sharp elbow the moment the map was secure, or at least the shove with her elbow had her employee know it was time to move.

"Careful, Thorne. You are blocking the light. Why don't you go find that vintage scotch Mr. Vance likes? Consider it a warm-up for the Sterling Gala tomorrow."

Julian smiled at Elena with a look of genuine appreciation that Sabrina completely missed. "That would be great, Elena. Thank you." Julian’s smile lingered on Elena for a second longer than necessary before he turned his attention back to the table.

Sabrina, however, remained vibrating with a restless, sharp energy. She turned away from the Jurong maps, her Louboutins clicking with renewed dominance as she returned to her seat. "Moving on," Sabrina said, her voice cutting through the brief moment of professional warmth, "Accounting. I assume you are all listening."

The 360-degree camera in the center of the mahogany table hummed, its green light indicating the live conference feed to the remote offices. A crackling, disembodied voice responded from the ceiling speakers.

"We are clear, Director Halloway. We have the Singapore berth overheads pulled up, but we are concerned about the public relations side of the separate Sterling acquisition. The community outreach for the Sterling projects hasn't been this sensitive in years, and Mr. Sterling himself has been . . . difficult. He is very protective of his reputation, especially given his status as the owner and benefactor of Blackwood Academy."

Julian Vance leaned forward, his broad shoulders casting a shadow across the table. "Which brings us to the charity gala tomorrow night. The Singapore project is our operational priority, but the Sterling merger is our reputational one. This gala is a mandatory event. Mr. Sterling is old-school; he values corporate synergy and the kind of rigid discipline he enforces at Blackwood. He has set a specific theme for this event communicated via the memo sent to all executives this morning to ensure his partners are actually paying attention to his directives. If we show up looking like we didn't read his memo, it looks like we won't listen to his shipping mandates, either."

Julian looked directly at Sabrina. "Director, have you reviewed the memo's thematic requirements?"

Sabrina rolled her eyes, her blunt bangs swaying. "Julian, please. I have handled billionaires before. They want results, not a fashion show. I am sure whatever little theme Mr. Sterling has dreamed up is just a way for him to feel in control while we finalize the merger. I don't have time to read memos about dress codes and party favors while I'm fixing the Jurong bottleneck. Elena, for all her shortcomings, is more than capable of handling such details."

"This billionaire wants both," Julian countered, his voice firm, "The memo isn't a suggestion; it’s a test of compliance. Elena, you’ve been handling the gala correspondence. Are we set?"

Elena, who had just set the vintage scotch beside Julian, paused. She looked at Sabrina’s back, her expression a mask of perfect, icy compliance.

"The Director has entrusted the entire execution of the theme to me, Mr. Vance," Elena said, her voice smooth, "She felt that her time was better spent on the logistics papers than on reading Mr. Sterling's specific requirements. I have assured her that I will handle every detail of her wardrobe to match the theme perfectly."

Sabrina waved a dismissive hand, not even looking back at her assistant. "Exactly. That is what I have Thorne for. Elena knows I need to look like I'm in charge. Just make sure my car is ready by six tomorrow, Thorne. And make sure the outfit is pressed; I don't want to see a single wrinkle."

"Of course, Director," Elena replied, her emerald eyes catching the light with a glint of hidden intent, "I will ensure that every detail of your appearance tomorrow night is exactly what Mr. Sterling's memo calls for."

Julian nodded, satisfied. "Good. If the Director is confident in delegating the details, so am I. Meeting adjourned."

As the conference call disconnected with a digital chirp and the board members logged off, Sabrina felt a surge of triumph. She had dominated the meeting and Julian was clearly impressed by her maps. She had successfully offloaded the "minor" work of reading the client's memo to her assistant, never realizing she had just signed off on her own fall.

She did not notice the way Elena’s eyes lingered on the red soles of the Louboutins one last time before the glass doors hissed shut. Elena wasn't just coordinating a theme; she was coordinating the total erasure of the arrogant and abusive "Director Halloway."

Chapter Two

The sun dipped behind the skyscrapers of the city, casting long, needle-like shadows across the open-plan floor of Aegis Strategic Logistics. The glass sliding doors to the executive wing hissed shut as the last of the junior analysts headed for the elevators, leaving the floor in a heavy, expectant silence.

In her cubicle, Elena Thorne stared at her dual monitors. On the left was the original PDF from the Sterling Foundation.

Official Correspondence: The Sterling Foundation Re: Annual Charity Gala – "The Future of Our Youth"

Dress Code: Strict Black Tie. Mandate: Mr. Sterling expects all guests to reflect professional decorum. Any deviation from dignified formal wear will be viewed as a lack of respect for the children we serve.

Elena shifted her gaze to the right monitor. She had drafted a "Special Directorate Directive" that framed the "Child-to-CEO" theme as a secret, high-level test for the acquisition partners. She hit 'Print' just as the heavy oak door of the corner office swung open.

Sabrina Halloway marched out, her red-soled Louboutins snapping against the floor. She was already shrug-loading herself into a silk trench coat. "Thorne, I’m out. If Singapore calls, tell them I’m unavailable until I’ve had a martini."

"Director," Elena said, standing up and towering over her. "I’ve finalized the strategy for the Sterling Gala. Julian and the 'normal' guests, myself included, will be following the standard Black Tie memo. But for leadership, I’ve secured the 'Child-to-CEO' memo on the gala theme."

Sabrina stopped, snatching the paper. "Child-to-CEO? Speak clearly."

"Because you aren't a 'normal' guest, Director," Elena said, her voice a low purr, "The standard Black Tie is for the rank-and-file. But Mr. Sterling wants his potential merger partners to demonstrate the full cycle of growth of those who succeed, or some such nonsense."

Sabrina began to read the falsified brief, her blue eyes scanning the corporate jargon about "disruptive aesthetics" and "narrative evolution." She smirked. "Child-to-CEO. It’s a total power play to see if we will follow his insane directives. Julian was insistent on us following this man's insanity, I guess, but I can't imagine him following through himself." Sabrina still used her superior’s first name while she insisted others address her more professionally.

"Exactly," Elena said, "I know how busy you are, and you did ask me to handle things. So I used your measurements to prepare something for you back at my place. My house in the suburbs is actually much closer to the gala venue than your penthouse."

Sabrina paused, considering the commute.

"More importantly, Director," Elena added with a helpful smile, "I’ll be driving us both to the gala and back to my place afterward. You won't need to worry about driving or an Uber. You can fully participate in the charity's champagne toasts and celebrate the merger without having to keep a clear head for the logistics. I'll be your designated driver for the entire evening."

Sabrina felt the rush of being pampered while making a high-stakes move. To her, it sounded like the giraffe was finally earning her paycheck. Ultimate executive perk: a personal driver and a secret wardrobe. "Closer to the venue and I can actually enjoy the bar? That's efficient, Thorne. I like it."

"It’s about making sure you can focus entirely on 'our client' and the networking," Elena promised, her emerald eyes glinting.

Sabrina tapped the paper against her chin. "Fine. I’ll drive to your house at six tomorrow. But Thorne," she jabbed a finger toward Elena’s chest, "This pivot better be flawless. I don't want you screwing things up."

"Oh, ma’am, you always succeed at what you do. I have no doubt tomorrow will be the same," Elena promised.

Sabrina tucked the falsified memo into her designer bag, her mind already racing with images of Julian’s face when she unveiled herself actually following the eccentric millionaire request, showing she was a true team player. "Good. Have your guest room ready, I'm not going to change in your bathroom. I need my space if I have to slum it by getting ready at your place. I expect a high level of service if I’m venturing into the suburbs."

"Everything will be prepared, Sabrina," Elena replied, her voice a model of icy professional grace.

Sabrina turned a glare to the taller woman, “We talked about this. Just because I'm going to use our place to get changed doesn’t mean we are friends.” she said before moving toward the elevator, the sharp clack-clack-clack of her heels echoing through the empty executive wing. Elena watched her go, the green light of the computer monitors reflecting in her eyes like a predator in the tall grass. “My mistake, Director Halloway,” she said to herself. Reaching out and hitting 'Delete' on the file she had just printed. There was no "Child-to-CEO" on any server at Aegis. There was only the lie Sabrina was now carrying home in her purse.

"Tomorrow, the world will meet little Rina," Elena whispered to the empty office. "This giraffe stops reaching things for you."

Chapter Three

The drive to Elena’s home the following evening was a blur of irritation for Sabrina. Her GPS struggled with the winding, tree-lined roads of the suburbs, a far cry from the predictable grid of the city's financial district. When she finally pulled her sleek sedan into Elena’s driveway just past six o'clock, she felt like she had traveled to a different century.

She didn't knock. She simply pushed the door open, as if asking to enter or waiting for the door to be answered was beneath her, Sabrina’s five-inch heels clicking aggressively against the hardwood floor of the foyer. She looked frayed; her normally pristine blonde hair was slightly wind-blown, and her bold red lipstick had faded after a day of shouting at logistics managers. She was also a bit agitated after slamming back one espresso after another.

"Finally," Sabrina groaned, dropping her heavy designer handbag onto the kitchen island with a thud that echoed through the quiet house. "Thorne! Tell me that champagne is open or at least you have something stronger. If I have to look at another throughput chart before I get a drink, I’m going to fire someone."

Elena walked calmly into the kitchen from the hallway, still adjusting a heavy silver earring. She had a sour expression on her face at the fact that her boss had barged into her home, without so much as a single knock.The fact the shorter woman then was yelling about a drink, like she was her servant, didn't help her mood.

In the vaulted ceilinged suburban space, Elena’s tall frame, even currently without footwear, was eye-catching. She was dressed in a floor-length midnight-black silk slim cut fitted gown that pooled slightly at her bare feet. The fabric was heavy and matte, draped with a precision that emphasized the long, athletic line of her torso and the steady, dancer-trained poise of her shoulders. Her raven-black hair pulled back into a mirror-shine chignon updo at the nape of her neck, so tight and perfect it seemed sculpted from obsidian.

Elena had already done her makeup for the event, mostly, going with a shadowed dark look for eyeshadow with a silver highlight, her lashes elongated from mascara, her expression one of annoyance, but no open hospitality. "Sabrina, welcome to my home," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Why don’t you come in and make yourself at home"

Sabrina’s blue eyes narrowed into a sharp glare. The use of her first name again, the lack of a ‘ma'am’ or ‘Director’ hit her from the complete lack of respect. "I don’t appreciate the snark, and you know the proper way to address me, Thorne," she snapped, her voice trembling with the irritation of being ignored and the fact that Elena hadn't even reached for the bottle yet.

Elena didn't flinch. She simply finished securing her earring and finally reached for a crystal flute of a vintage Krug that she had been actually saving for a special occasion; she figured the beginning of the fall of the vertically challenged witch was good as any, knowing her boss was terrible at holding her liquor. Sabrina often ended up getting tipsy off a single glass of wine, from Elena’s experience. "My mistake, Director Halloway. Here, drink. It seems like you’ve had a long day.” Internally, she continued, ‘And tonight’s plans require you to be a bit more . . . pliable.’

Sabrina snatched the glass, taking a long, desperate gulp. The alcohol hit her stomach like a warm wave, its only other contents for the day being coffee. For a moment, her eyes darted over Elena’s gown with a flicker of unbridled jealousy. The giraffe was barefoot, yet she easily towered over Sabrina and was dressed to catch everyone’s eye with the formfitting attire. Elena looked good, really good, and Sabrina hated her for it.

"Good. It's about time I was the one being looked after," Sabrina snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite as she took another gulp of her drink instead of sipping it. "Now, show me this guest room. I want to see the wardrobe. I'm not here to waste time."

"It is upstairs," Elena replied, a small, dark smile touching her lips, "I’ve laid everything out. But remember the strategy; you’re doing more than anyone else to prove that you’re the most dedicated team member.”

Elena turned and led the way up the stairs, her movement fluid and silent, her silk gown whispering against the wood. Sabrina followed, her heavy breathing more audible than her footsteps as they reached the carpeted landing.

They stopped at the door at the end of the hall. Elena paused for a second, her hand on the brass knob, before pushing it open.

"In here, Sabrina. Sorry about the state of it," Elena said, amusing her that simply using her first name could push her buttons. "The room is still set up from when my sister and her niece lived with me a few years ago. I just didn't have the heart to change it. And honestly, with the hours we’ve been working at Aegis, I haven't really had the time."

Sabrina stepped inside and stopped, her nose wrinkling as she took in the dusty rose walls and the white-spindled furniture. The room felt like a claustrophobic explosion of childhood nostalgia. White eyelet lace curtains hung at the windows, but the most jarring detail was directly above the bed's headboard: a series of crayon drawings rendered directly onto the rose-colored paint. A house, a yellow sun, and lopsided stick figures were forever etched into the wall in waxy blue and red, a child's permanent mark on the space.

Sabrina’s gaze lingered on the scribbles over the bed, then shifted to the center of the room, where Elena had placed a triptych of full-length mirrors. They looked sharp and cold against the floral rug. On the white quilted bedspread, right next to the crayon drawings, sat the simple, heavy box containing the strategy wardrobe.

"It’s fine, Thorne; I’m not here for the decor. I’m sure your family enjoyed it," Sabrina said. The alcohol and the coffee were making her pulse jump a little. She took a long, desperate gulp of the Krug, finishing the glass off, as her eyes darted back to the stick figures on the wall.

"Of course," Elena replied, her dark smile not reaching her eyes. She moved behind Sabrina, her tall, barefoot frame looming over the smaller woman in the amber light.

"Whatever. Let’s just get on with it," Sabrina muttered, not really catching what the dark haired woman said.

"Shoes off first," Elena commanded.

Sabrina hesitated, then kicked off the glossy black Louboutins, her bare feet settling onto the plush cream rug. Not only did the five-inch boost make her appear more mature and intimidating, she had heard the sharp footwear described as ‘come-fuck-me-pumps’ before. They made her feel sexy and confident, which was not the case when her eyes barely reached the silver highlight on Elena’s chest.

Elena stepped into the room, coming up right behind her. “Here, let me help. Arms up," Elena said sweetly.

Turning in place, Sabrina craned her neck to look up at the pillar of a girl standing all too close to her. “I’m perfectly able to do this on my own. Back off!” Sabrina snapped, though the bravado was undercut by a slight sway. The Krug was a heavy hitter on an empty stomach, and the plushness of the rug made her feel like she was standing on a cloud rather than solid ground.

Elena did as she was told and backed off, giving the smaller woman space.

Sabrina didn’t so much as start to remove her blazer before reaching into the box and pulling out the dress. It was a floor-length A-line gown with a bodice of smooth, light coral matte silk and a rounded neckline. The skirt was a massive, airy cloud of ombre tulle, starting at a soft coral at the waist and fading into a warm, deep pink toward the floor-length hem. A thick pink satin sash was draped across the middle, designed to be tied into a generous bow.

Sabrina held the layers of tulle up, her face twisting in a sneer. “I am not wearing this,” she stated firmly.

Elena didn't argue. On her way out of the room, she shook her head. reaching down and picking up her boss's shoes, carrying them with her. "I was told to take care of the clothing for the night," Elena said over her shoulder, "If you were more involved, then getting something you didn’t like could have been avoided."

Sabrina narrowed her eyes, sinking onto the edge of the bed as a wave of dizziness hit her. She gripped the white quilt, her head spinning from the champagne. "It also could have been avoided if you were competent, Thorne!"

Elena stopped and straightened her back, standing at her full height. She turned slightly to look at the woman huddled on the child's bed. "I will call Julian Vance right now and let him know that you will be ignoring the memo," she said, her voice flat. She paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "Unless you have decided to not go?"

"Wait," Sabrina bit out, her voice sharp enough to cut through the heavy silence of the room. The mention of Julian Vance was the only thing capable of piercing her champagne haze. If Elena made that call, Sabrina’s career at Aegis would be over before the gala even started. She had an inkling of an idea that her incompetent giraffe might have selected the dress that looked more like something a child would wear to be a flower girl on purpose to get her to back down and not go at all.

Elena stopped at the open doorway, her hand still holding the Louboutins by their stiletto heels, her tall frame nearly filling the entryway. She didn't turn back yet. "Yes, Director?"

"I’m on to you, Thorne. You aren’t going to sabotage my career; I’m not backing out of the charity gala at the last minute. I didn't say I wasn't going," Sabrina sternly said, her fingers clutching the tulle dress a little too tightly. She looked at the coral bodice, hating the softness of the fabric. However, the thought of Julian smugly taking her place was worse. "I just said I don't like it. But if that's what the memo says, I'm not giving Julian the satisfaction of taking my lead."

Elena turned then, her expression unreadable in the soft amber light of the nursery. She didn't return the shoes; she simply stood her ground, watching with a clinical detachment. "Then we're wasting time. Put the dress on the bed and get out of the suit. We still have to do your hair and remove your make up." She let out a short, tired breath and glanced at her own reflection in the triptych mirror. The tall woman felt like she was on the cusp of triumph, but it could be blown away by a stray gust of wind. "I still need to finish getting ready myself. I'll leave you to change." She stepped further into the room, but only to pick up the discarded crystal flute from the dresser. "I'll get you another drink while you get started."

She moved toward the door, leaving it wide open, a subtle reminder this was her house and her bitch of a boss only got true privacy if she allowed it.

"And Thorne?" Sabrina called out, her voice ringing with a fresh wave of irritation at the lack of hospitality. "Bring my purse up. I left it on the kitchen island. I need my phone."

Not answering at first, having just stepped into the hallway, Elena with her back still to the room finally answered. "Of course," she said smoothly, her voice trailing off as she descended the stairs.

Downstairs, Elena moved with a small rush, wanting to take care of things . . . The next stage of her plan that had kept evolving over the last few hours. She found the designer handbag exactly where her bitch of a boss had slammed it down. Not bothering to bring it to the stairs, she put down the glass before taking the expensive purse with her to her living room. Opening her coat closet, she tucked it deep inside, sliding it behind a heavy winter coat where it was completely out of sight, adding the expensive footwear from her boss in the same place.

After a quick dash back to the kitchen, she refilled the flute with the vintage Krug. Resisting the urge to down it herself, instead Elena made her way back up the stairs.

When the homeowner re-entered the nursery, she found Sabrina had only managed to remove her pinstripe blazer. The Director was sitting on the edge of the bed, the coral and pink tulle dress pooled beside her. In her hand, Sabrina held one of the pink sequined ballet flats that had been selected for what Elena thought was pure cuteness. The blonde woman was staring at the small, flat shoe, her eyes glazed and mesmerized as she traced the line of the thin fake jeweled strap to its buckle with her thumb.

Not sure what her boss was doing, Elena stood there in the doorway for a few heart beats, observing the scene. "Here," she said, stepping forward to offer the glass. "We have some time before we need to leave for the gala, but not all night."

Sabrina snapped her head up, the trance breaking as she snatched the glass. Her eyes darted around Elena's empty hands. "Where is my purse? I told you it was on the counter."

Elena tilted her head slightly, her expression one of mild, helpful confusion. "Your purse? I didn't see it, Sabrina.” She once more used her first name to irate and distract her from thinking too much about the excuse. “The counter was empty when I went down."

"Don't be a moron, Thorne, I put it right there when I came in," Sabrina said, her voice rising as she took a deep, thirsty gulp of the fresh champagne.

"I'm sure you thought you did," Elena replied calmly, her voice like silk, "But it wasn't there. Are you sure you didn't leave it in the car? Or perhaps you're just feeling the effects of the day. I'm sure we can both look for it before we go, Sabrina.” With a final, lingering look at the blonde woman perched on the edge of the child-sized bed, she stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut. The silence was necessary; there was no desire to hear the inevitable screech of outrage when the bottom of that wardrobe box was finally reached.

Tucked beneath the layers of pink tulle was a pair of white girls panties fit for a ten year old, complete with a pink elastic band. To go with it, a white cotton camisole, intended to be used instead of the bust-enhancing bra that normally changed the appearance of the flat-chested woman into a solid B cup. The thought of that garment brought back the memory of how she learned that little truth: a personal errand to a high-end boutique, a task Sabrina had been "too busy" to handle herself. The clerk had laid out the order for inspection: a collection of “magic bras” molded foam inserts and industrial-strength, padded architecture. Standing in that shop, the truth had become clear: the diminutive woman didn't actually have a feminine silhouette; she simply bought one and buckled it on every morning.

A heavy silver necklace was fastened around a throat that needed no help projecting elegance, the cold metal a perfect anchor for the night ahead. Elena stepped into four-inch stiletto sandals, which provided the familiar increase of height at a towering six-foot-two. It made it harder to find a romantic partner, with how so many men preferred to be taller than their partners. And yet, wearing heels always drew their eye, and the world always looked better to her from a height her boss could never achieve. After a final sweep of blush across the cheekbones, and just the right amount of lip gloss, she was ready.

Twenty minutes of absolute silence from the nursery eventually prompted her return. The door swung open to a scene of total, drunken surrender. Instead of a transformed executive ready for a gala, the figure on the bed was sprawled out in a deep sleep, seemingly trying to take up as much space as her diminutive form could, all while passed out. One hand was still curled around the now emptied glass. No more progress had been made; only the pinstripe blazer had been removed, leaving Sabrina half-armored and vulnerable against the backdrop of watercolor bunnies and waxy crayon drawings. The tiny witch was out cold, her head resting right next to the very dress she had sworn she wouldn't wear.

Chapter Four

Elena stood in the doorway of the nursery, her tall, silken silhouette framed by the hallway light. Watching Sabrina sprawled across the child’s bed, she felt a surge of cold inspiration. The "Director" was gone, replaced by a vulnerable, drunken woman who had handed over all her leverage the moment she closed her eyes. Elena turned, moving silently back to her own bathroom to retrieve a pack of heavy-duty makeup remover wipes.

Returning to the room, she loomed over the bed like a predator over a sleeping bird. She didn't use a gentle touch; she reached down and gripped Sabrina’s shoulder, giving her a firm, punishing shake that sent the empty champagne glass tumbling onto the rug. "Wake up, Sabrina!" Elena’s voice was sharp.

Sabrina’s eyes flew open, blinking rapidly against the amber light of the nursery. For a moment, she looked utterly lost, her head leaden and the room tilting. Then she saw the silhouette of black silk and cold silver hanging over her.

Seeing her boss’s mascara-covered eyes flutter as she awoke, Elena tried to restrain her inclination to smirk. "I can't believe you’re taking a nap instead of getting ready, acting like a child just because you’re throwing a tantrum over a dress," Elena snapped. "You’ve put us twenty minutes behind schedule with this little stunt."

"I . . . I wasn't . . . " Sabrina tried to scramble up, but a mix of things–the champagne, being woken up from a nap that wasn’t long enough to scrub her mind of the weariness of the long work day, along with the lack of a real meal–turned her limbs to jelly. The realization that she had actually passed out when she had only intended to close her eyes for a moment as she thought about how she would say ‘Fuck it!’ to the memo, and what the giraffe got her to wear because of it, sent a wave of hot shame through her. “I only closed my eyes for a minute, Thorne. Back off." Being in Elena’s house didn’t help things, and Sabrina knew there was no getting out of the immature dress code for the evening. Not when doing so could cost her a well paying job, and ruin the efforts she had been making to be seen as the one responsible for the company’s recent success.

"You had your chance to do this yourself," Elena countered. She sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Before Sabrina could find her footing, a cold, wet cloth was pressed hard against her face.

"Stop!" Sabrina tried to jerk away, but Elena’s hand clamped onto her jaw with a strength that was impossible to fight in her current state.

Elena didn't just wipe; she scrubbed. She acknowledged the sheer effort Sabrina put into her mask, starting with the heavy contouring, the dark bronzer and light highlights Sabrina used to artificially sharpen her jawline and create the illusion of high cheekbones. The wipe came away thick with beige and brown streaks of foundation, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath. Next, with a second disposable cloth like the first, went the brow filler that gave Sabrina her permanent look of stern authority, followed by the layers of eyeshadow and heavy mascara that made her eyes look larger and more attractive. The Power Red lipstick was erased entirely. In minutes, the mask Sabrina spent hours constructing was gone, leaving her heart shaped face appearing much softer and more juvenile.

"Look at you," Elena remarked, her voice dropping into a clinical, terrifyingly calm tone.

Sabrina’s pale face turned a shade closer to red as she felt shame from having her makeup forcibly removed. She had always hated how young she looked, and spent a great amount of effort and money to look what she thought of as appealing to men and to the world. It gave her more respect when those she met didn't assume she wasn't even in her twenties yet. Her own mother told her when she gets older she will be thankful for the youthful visage; right now, however, she was a director for a multi million dollar company and she needed every advantage she could.

The thing was, her assistant manager didn't stop at the face. Elena stood up and hauled Sabrina to her feet. Sabrina stumbled, her bare toes sinking into the plush rug. Without her five-inch heels, and from what she saw of the woman in her own heels now, the height difference was devastating; her head barely reached the silver necklace resting against Elena’s chest. Elena loomed over her like a pillar of obsidian.

"I can do it myself! Let go!" Sabrina kicked her feet, her movements clumsy and weak as Elena began unbuttoning her blouse, each of the mother of pearl buttons coming undone in short order.

"You’ve proven you can't be trusted," Elena said, her voice dripping with a fake, motherly concern. She peeled the silk blouse that she didn't even want to think about the cost of off Sabrina's shoulders, and tossed it onto the quilt. Then, with a speed that made Sabrina’s head swim, she reached for the clasp of the pinstripe trousers, sliding them down until the Director stood shivering in her heavy, industrial-strength shapewear.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Sabrina shrieked.

Circling the disoriented woman, Elena moved behind her. “Something I wouldn't need to do if you did what you were supposed to. Maybe I have overstepped.”

”DAMN RIGHT YOU HAVE, THORNE!” Sabrina shook from both anger and shame, trying to cover the cups of her bra; she had no notion the woman already knew the truth of her true shame. She felt the taller woman's breath on her neck as Elena’s fingers found the hooks of the bra. Sabrina didn’t even turn; she just glanced over her shoulder, the indignity being too much to bear.

“I'm truly sorry, Miss Halloway, I’m just doing my best to help. Tonight is important; your success is, by extension, my success.”

Still holding herself, Sabrina nodded; the woman had been a good right hand to her for years. She just liked to cut her down to size from her own jealousy and did not want her to get any big ideas, but it was good to hear that she had resolved to hitch their careers together. ”You have put in a lot of work, Thorne. That is appreciated. I’m just out of sorts. If tonight goes well, with any accolades that come my way, I will make sure others know of your contributions. Now, what's next?” She still didn’t want to turn around, when doing so would risk Elena catching a glimpse of her shame.

“This is next.” Elena was surprised at the offer to give her credit, minor as it was. Her fingers moved to the clasp of the bra. Click.

The tension of the garment snapped. The heavy, foam-filled architecture fell away, slipping through the shocked twenty-something young woman’s fingers. Sabrina instinctively crossed her arms over her actual chest, her face burning with a deep, agonizing humiliation. It was her greatest secret. Without the padding, she was flat; almost non-existent. It always made her feel like less of a woman, and now the girl who won the genetic lottery with her model good looks and height that she saw how others looked at her for, that normally only enraged her, became an even greater case of shame as she felt exposed.

Elena didn't look away. Instead, she reached into the wardrobe box and pulled out the thin white cotton camisole, the tiny pink satin bow catching the light. She thrust it forward, tucking it into the smaller woman’s fingers. As Sabrina clutched her chest, it was clear how much of nothing was being covered.

"Children this age don't need bras," Elena said, her eyes locking onto Sabrina's with a cold, superior glint. "And neither do you."

The words felt like a physical blow, hurting Sabrina's feelings more than any corporate insult ever could. She clutched the cheap cotton to her chest, her bottom lip trembling as her vulnerability was laid bare.

"How... how old am I supposed to look for this?" Sabrina asked tentatively, her voice a defeated whisper, taking the garment as a lifeline to try and cover herself.

Elena stepped back, tapping her chin as she surveyed the bare-faced woman. "I was thinking of a childish tween. Maybe thirteen," she mused. She leaned in closer, studying the flat chest and the pale, unpainted skin. "But looking at you now . . . Without the make-up and the padding? Honestly, Sabrina, you are cute. I’m thinking ten fits much better."

Elena didn't wait for a response to her assessment of Sabrina's "age." She reached back into the wardrobe box and pulled out the final piece of the undergarment set, a pair of white cotton panties with a pale pink elastic waistband. They were tiny and unadorned, the kind of thing sold in a multi-pack for a grade schooler. She tossed them onto the white quilt, where they landed starkly against the dark wool of the discarded blazer.

"The waist cincher goes too," Elena commanded, turning her back on the humiliated woman to walk toward the dresser, "I expect the base layer to be done by the time I have the hair ties ready."

Sabrina stood frozen in the center of the room, clutching the loose camisole to her chest. She looked down at the tiny white garment on the bed and her face twisted in a sneer. The bra was one thing; her flat chest was a strategic problem to be solved, but this felt invasive.

"Absolutely not," Sabrina said, her voice regaining a flicker of its usual fire, "I am not wearing those. No one is going to be looking at my underwear! The waist cincher, fine. But an outfit shouldn't change who I am, Thorne. My underwear is personal, and nobody is going to see it. It doesn't affect the 'silhouette.’ Or whatever nonsense that has popped into your odd mind."

Elena stopped. She let out a long, heavy sigh. Her perfect plan was so close to working, yet Sabrina wasn’t actually a child. Elena could only snap at her so much for being difficult or incompetent for the time being, when she didn’t want to upset the delicate balance of the situation.

She turned around, rubbing her temples with one hand, half feigning exhaustion. "And what if you bend over to pick up a dropped fork?" Elena asked, her voice strained, "What if you lean down to greet a child for a photo op? Mr. Sterling is eccentric, Sabrina. He is obsessed with this image of innocence. Are you willing to risk not triggering the man because he catches a flash of black lace or sees the line of a thong? Because I prepared for our . . . for your success, despite his demands."

Elena turned away again, leaning heavily against the dresser. She stared into the mirror, shaking her head and mumbling something low and dejected under her breath.

Sabrina narrowed her eyes, the guilt and the fear of blowing the deal warring with her pride. "Speak up, Thorne! Stop muttering."

Elena turned her head slightly, looking over her shoulder with wide, wounded eyes. "Nothing. Sorry, Miss Halloway," she said softly. "I just really didn't want to fail after you promised to let others know I contributed. I put so much work into the details . . . I just thought we were on the same page about doing whatever it takes."

The guilt trip landed perfectly. Sabrina felt a pang of annoyance, but also a trap. She had vaguely promised credit, though it was mostly to shut Elena up and keep her from being an annoyance; she couldn't afford to have her assistant sulking or, worse, sabotaging the night because she felt unappreciated.

"Fine," Sabrina huffed, rolling her eyes, "If it means that much to you, I'll wear the damn cotton. Just stop moping."

She didn't reach for the waist cincher immediately. Instead, she clutched the white cotton camisole tight against her chest, her arms crossed to hold the flimsy fabric in place. The air in the room felt biting against her exposed skin, and standing there half-naked was agonizing, especially when she made the mistake of glancing at Elena.

The slightly older, and much more mature appearing woman stood tall against the dresser, her arms crossed. The heavy midnight-black silk of Elena's gown plunged at the neckline, showcasing the swell of full, heavy breasts and a deep shadow of cleavage that Sabrina could never achieve without foam and wire. Elena looked like a real and beautiful woman and Sabrina hated her for it no matter how much she consoled herself with her career's success compared to her.

Sabrina looked down at what she was hiding behind the bundle of cotton in her hands. There was no swell. There was barely a mound. Her skin was pale and her nipples were puffy at best, sitting on a flat plane of skin that hardly saw the light of the sun, like a girl who had only just started puberty. The industrial-strength bra had been the only thing keeping that secret, and now the secret was out.

Burning with a mix of envy and deep, physical shame, she jerked the white cotton camisole over her head. It slid down, shapeless and loose, hiding the pathetic reality of her chest but doing nothing to enhance it. It was a relief to be covered, but the fabric felt like a surrender.

With her chest hidden, she turned her back on Elena, her fingers fumbling with the heavy hooks of the cincher. It wasn’t there to make her look like she was skinnier; the whole point was to give her petite frame more of an hourglass shape.

As the compression released, she felt herself expand slightly, losing the artificial curves she had curated for years. She stepped out of the waist trainer, then hooked her thumbs into the sides of her own silk thong, a scrap of expensive Italian lace that she wore for herself that made her feel sexy, telling herself it made her more desirable. She slid it down, kicking it aside.

Elena turned back around just as the lace hit the floor, her eyes sweeping over Sabrina’s naked lower half. She paused, her eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise.

"Well," Elena said, a slow, unreadable smile spreading across her lips, "You really did prepare for tonight! You’re completely hairless down there. It’s perfect."

Sabrina felt a flush of defensive heat crawl up her neck. She hated the way she was being looked at, all clinical and amused, but the implication that she had done this for a child's outfit stung her pride. "It’s laser, Thorne," Sabrina informed her, trying to reclaim some shred of adult superiority as she stood there exposed, "It costs two thousand dollars a session. I don't do 'maintenance;' I do permanence. It’s cleaner and, let’s be honest, men prefer it."

Elena nodded slowly, her expression shifting to a mock-impressed approval. "No, I'm . . . impressed. It shows a level of dedication to your image I hadn't accounted for. I'm a bit jealous."

Sabrina relaxed her shoulders slightly, preening under the compliment despite her nakedness. She clung to the idea that her body was an expensive luxury item, not a child's blank slate. "Of course you are," Sabrina muttered, "It feels better."

"It certainly helps us tonight," Elena continued smoothly, picking up the white cotton panties from the bed and handing them to her. “These cotton panties will sit perfectly flat against your skin. No risk of hair being pulled with the cotton underwear instead of what you normally wear."

Sabrina took the underwear. The logic made sense to her vanity; she wasn't putting on children's underwear because she was a child, but because her body was perfect even if she was still struggling with her self image at times. She stepped into them. The soft cotton slid effortlessly over her smooth skin, hugging her narrow hips without a single wrinkle.

Elena turned back to the bed and lifted the dress. It was a massive, airy cloud of ombre tulle, shifting from soft coral at the bodice to a deep, warm pink at the hem. In Elena’s hands, it looked like a costume; on the bed, it had looked like a threat.

Elena stepped closer, holding the bodice open. She looked down at Sabrina, who was standing there in the white cotton camisole and the matching panties, clutching her bare arms against the chill of the room.

"Arms up, little one. Let's get your pretty dress settled. Oops! Sorry, Sabrina," Elena said quickly, shaking her head with a self-deprecating laugh, "I’m just so used to helping my niece get dressed when I babysit. The muscle memory just kicked in."

The apology was worse than the insult. It implied that the visual of Sabrina, standing there hairless, flat-chested, and wearing plain cotton underwear was indistinguishable from a child in Elena’s mind.

Sabrina felt her face burn with a heat that had nothing to do with the champagne. A retort died in her throat. ‘Don't call me that.’ But standing there, stripped of her heels and her shapewear, she felt too small to enforce protocol. The shame of her physical reality silenced her. She simply bit her lip, looked at the floor, and obediently lifted her arms.

"Right. Let's get you in," Elena said, stepping back into her efficient role.

Sabrina stepped into the pool of tulle. The fabric rustled loudly, sounding absurdly childish compared to the sleek whisper of her usual wool and silk power suits. Elena pulled the dress into place, guiding Sabrina’s thin arms through the armholes.

The bodice was made of smooth, matte silk. It slid over Sabrina’s camisole-covered torso with insulting ease.

Elena moved to the back to finish this step in her plan doing her best to hold in her excitement for what she had been able to manipulate the bitch of a woman into. Zzzzzzip.

The sound was quick and seamless. There was no need for Sabrina to suck in her breath; there was no resistance from a curve of a hip or the swell of a breast. The dress simply swallowed her.

Sabrina looked down at herself. The sensation was wrong, terrifyingly wrong. She was used to the reassuring, heavy pressure of her "armor." The wire of the bra digging in, the cincher’s comforting compression. Now, she felt a phantom weightlessness. Her chest was a flat plane of coral silk. She felt hollow.

"It’s . . . it's too flat, Thorne," Sabrina muttered, her voice tight with panic as she touched the front of the bodice. "I look like a board. I have no shape in this. I need my bra. Grab it off the floor for me."

Elena moved around to face her, shaking her head firmly. She reached out and tied the thick pink satin sash into a bow around Sabrina’s waist, pulling it snug to emphasize just how narrow the Director truly was.

"No, absolutely no inserts. You are supposed to look young, not a young girl pretending to be older," Elena corrected her, smoothing the silk over Sabrina's flat chest. "This is a waif silhouette, Sabrina. It’s very European. Very couture. If you had breasts, it would look just wrong. This fits you perfectly. But because you’re so . . . petite . . . you look elegant. Like a porcelain doll."

Sabrina swallowed hard, desperate to believe the lie. She turned slightly toward the mirror, trying to see anything positive instead of "child." The dress flared out from her waist, making her legs disappear entirely, leaving only the flat, boyish torso visible.

"I suppose, it is a bit more . . . " Sabrina murmured, not able to come up with anything except more embarrassment on top of embarrassment

"You could say you look cute, but I would rather say precious or just perfect," Elena said, placing her hands on Sabrina's shoulders and steering her toward the low white stool in front of the triptych mirror. "You aren't forcing the room to look at you; you're inviting them. Now, sit down. We need to fix that hair. It's a mess from your nap, and it's ruining the look."

Sabrina sat, her knees pressing together instinctively under the mountain of tulle. She looked at her reflection, waiting for the hairbrush, but Elena turned away.

Elena reached down and picked up the pink sequined ballet flats from the rug.

"Oops, almost got ahead of ourselves," Elena chimed, holding up the tiny, flat shoes, "Can't have you walking around barefoot. What would people think?"

She dropped the shoes in front of Sabrina’s feet. There was no offering of a heel, no arch support, just a flat sole that would keep Sabrina firmly grounded at her natural, diminutive height. Sabrina slipped her feet into them. They fit snugly, the pink sequins catching the light, and for a moment, looking down at the pink front of the childish shoes peeking out from the tulle, she felt a wave of vertigo. She looked more like a flower girl than a woman that earned over a hundred thousand dollars a year..

"There," Elena said, straightening up, "Now for the finish." She picked up the hairbrush.

"You're flattening it!" Sabrina protested as Elena aggressively brushed out the expensive, volumized blowout she paid a fortune for. "I need the height, Thorne. I look like a drowned rat without the volume."

"Volume is for women trying to hide thinning hair or a sagging jawline, Sabrina," Elena said, her voice smooth and convincing as she gathered the blonde hair high on one side of her head. "You don't need that. We are going to pull it tight. It acts like a natural face-lift. It shows off that two-thousand-dollar laser skin you were just bragging about. Honestly, I would love to know your skin care routine. I swear, I'm already starting to see the beginning of wrinkles and your skin is just perfect." Elena pulled the hair tight, securing it with a pink bobble. Then she picked up a length of pink satin ribbon.

"Ribbons?" Sabrina asked weakly, watching in the mirror as one side of her head was transformed into a playground style. She was too absorbed by her very wrong reflection to appreciate the compliment.

"It's about cohesion, Director," Elena said, tying the ribbon into a large, floppy bow, "The dress has a satin sash; the hair needs to match. If we used a clip, it would look metallic and harsh. The ribbon softens you. It makes you look . . . well, to repeat a descriptor, it makes things look perfect." Elena finished the second twintail, pulling it just as tight. Sabrina stared at her reflection. Her face without her make up looked cherubic,it wasn’t like she didn’t know that about her appearance but the dress, the hair style compiled things to make her not look like a youthful young woman but all she saw was a child in the mirror. The bows flopped slightly against her head. She looked ridiculous. She looked just like the giraffe said . . . She looked to be ten.

"There," Elena said, resting her hands on Sabrina's shoulders and smiling at the reflection of the little girl in the mirror. "Fresh-faced and approachable. The Board won't know what hit them."

Chapter Five

"We need to leave, Director," Elena said, checking the time on her phone, "The Gala starts in twenty minutes, and traffic will be heavy."

Sabrina stood in the center of the foyer, it taking more than a little coaxing to get her to leave the bedroom where her removed clothes now remained hung up in the closet. She was looking down at her sequined flats, fidgeting uncomfortably, having no idea how child-like her body language appeared. The reflection in the mirror was still burned into her mind. Her heart shaped face, devoid of make-up, looking far too youthful. The pigtails, her real . . . her flat chest under the coral and pink monstrosity of a tulle and silk dress. She felt ridiculous, but more than that, she was ashamed of herself.

"My purse," Sabrina said suddenly, her head snapping up, "I’m not leaving without my phone, Thorne. I need to check emails on the way."

Elena paused at the front door, her hand on the handle. She looked back at Sabrina with a small, indulgent smile, the kind one might give a child stalling before school. "You said you left it on the kitchen island, remember? Go ahead. Go look for my boss's purse."

The permission felt patronizing, but Sabrina didn't have the leverage to snap back. She turned and hurried into the kitchen, the sequins of her flats sliding silently on the hardwood where her heels usually clicked with authority. She reached the island and stopped. The marble countertop was close to empty. There was the empty bottle of Krug, catching the evening light, and beside it, the key fob to her own Lexus sedan, but the heavy designer handbag she knew she had slammed down earlier was gone.

Sabrina blinked, her brow furrowing. She looked around the floor, checked the bar stools, even peered into the sink. Nothing. "I . . . I put it right here," she muttered, panic rising in her chest. She looked at the champagne bottle. ‘Did I?’ The memory was fuzzy, blurred by the alcohol and the abrupt nap. ‘Maybe I left it in the car? Did I just bring my car fob in?’ she thought. The casual gaslighting worked all too well with her feeling so out of sorts.

"Find it?" Elena called, walking into the kitchen behind her boss after waiting a few minutes.

"No," Sabrina admitted, grabbing her keys and walking over to her, looking defeated. "I must have left it in the car. Or the office. God, my head is a mess. I think your cheap champagne went right to my head."

"Don't worry," Elena said soothingly, placing her hand on the middle of Sabrina’s back to guide her to the front door. "I have my phone. I'll handle any communications. You just focus on the strategy.”

They stepped out onto the porch. Sabrina instinctively braced herself for a chill, reaching for a coat that wasn't there, something else she hadn’t brought with her. She was pretty sure she left it in her office closet, since the evening had started out surprisingly warm. A refreshing breeze rolled in, carrying the scent of impending rain, but for now, the air was light. It meant no jacket was needed, no layer to hide the explosion of tulle she was wearing.

In the driveway, Sabrina’s Lexus sat gleaming under the porch lights, a top-of-the-line luxury sedan with tinted windows and a pristine leather interior. It was a far cry from Elena’s practical, dented compact.

Elena held out her hand. "Keys, please. The plan was for me to drive and now that you have pre-partied it would be for the best, Sabrina. You aren't driving."

Sabrina hesitated, looking at the keys in her hand, then at Elena. It was safer this way, of course. She couldn't drive drunk, but handing over the keys to her own car felt like handing over something she had earned to someone so undeserving. She dropped the fob into Elena’s palm.

Elena walked to the driver’s side, moving with an elegant grace in her black gown. Sabrina went to the passenger side, but then stopped. Old habits, or perhaps an unconscious desire to distance herself from the ‘help,’ took over. She opened the back door. She climbed in. It was a mistake she didn’t even know she was making.

The back seat of the sedan was spacious for a normal person. For Sabrina, with the way she looked, it was spacious enough to be her playpen. The massive ombre tulle skirt seemed to expand instantly, filling the leather bench and puffing up around her waist like a cloud. She sat in the middle, sinking slightly into the plush seat. Without her heels, her feet barely touched the floor mats.

Elena slid into the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror. Sabrina looked up and caught Elena’s eyes in the glass. From this angle, sitting low in the back surrounded by pink fabric, Elena was amused at what the scene behind her looked like, a child being chauffeured by her mother. "Comfortable back there?" Elena asked, her eyes crinkling slightly in the mirror.

"Just drive, Thorne," Sabrina snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. She turned to look out the window, watching the suburban trees blur past, trying to rehearse her pitch for Mr. Sterling. But every time she shifted, the tulle rustled loudly, a constant reminder that tonight, she wasn't the shark; she felt more like the bait.

The drive was mercifully short, though for Sabrina, every red light felt like an hour spent trapped in a pink cloud. When the Lexus finally turned off the main boulevard and approached the sweeping entrance of The Grand Meridian, the reality of the night hit her.

The hotel was a fortress of limestone and glass, glowing against the night sky. Ahead, the semi-circular porte-cochère was jammed with black limousines and town cars. A red carpet had been rolled out, flanked by velvet ropes and photographers whose flashes popped like strobe lights as men in tuxedos and women in floor-length gowns stepped out.

A cold panic ran through Sabrina, she knew others were going to see her but the scale of the entrance way with photographers had her petrified."Pull over!" Sabrina commanded, leaning forward as much as the seatbelt and the tulle would allow. "Do not go to the valet. I am not getting out on that red carpet like this."

Elena glanced in the rearview mirror, her expression calm. "Director, the self-parking garage is around the corner. It’s a long walk, and some of us are wearing heels made more for looking pretty while sitting then a hike"

"I don't care! Park in the garage, Thorne!" Sabrina insisted, her voice cracking with stress. "I need a minute. I need to check the temperature of the room before I make my entrance."

Elena sighed, but she bypassed the glittering chaos of the main entrance, steering the luxury sedan down the ramp into the dim, concrete quiet of the parking garage. She found a spot in a secluded corner, close to the elevators, and killed the engine. The silence that filled the car was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of ventilation fans in the concrete structure.

"Give me your phone," Sabrina said immediately, holding out her hand over the center console. "I need to call Julian. If I give him a heads-up that I’m here and participating in this insanity for the sake of Edgar Sterling's ego at the cost of my own, he can smooth the way with our eccentric client. I need to know if he is already inside." Sabrina said, having a passing thought, wondering how rich one needed to be to be eccentric instead of crazy.

Elena froze. ‘If Sabrina calls Mr. Vance now, the entire game is over.’ He would tell her there was no memo on Child-to-CEO. It only said this was a black tie event, not wanting people to disrespect the cause by dressing casually and that he had no idea why his Director was dressed like a child.

"I . . . I don't think that's a good idea, Sabrina," Elena said, her voice careful. She didn't reach for her clutch purse.

"I didn't ask for your opinion, I asked for your phone," Sabrina hissed. She unbuckled her seatbelt, the mechanism clicking loudly in the quiet car. "My purse is missing, my head is spinning, and I am dressed like a . . . like a festive lampshade. I am taking control of this situation. Now give me the phone."

Elena turned in her seat to face the back, masking her panic with a look of professional concern. "Miss Halloway, listen to me. You’ve had a lot to drink. You’re flustered. If you call Julian right now, slurring your words and sounding upset, you’re going to look weak. He’s looking for any one even giving a hint of stepping out of line. Do you really want to give him a hysterical phone call from the parking lot?"

Sabrina’s hand wavered. She knew she was tipsy; she could feel the edges of her words softening, and she thought of Julian Vance, with his old-money arrogance and judgmental stare. Oh, she hated it when he just stared at her. Not checking her out, like a healthy man should, but silently judging her like she wasn't enough, him acting like just hearing her was unbearable. "I am not slurring," Sabrina argued, already sounding less certain of herself, "I just need to know if it's safe to go in."

"Let me do it," Elena pressed, leaning into the manipulation. "This is what you pay me for, isn't it? To handle the logistics? I’ll go up to the ballroom. I’ll find Mr Vance. I’ll tell him you’re here, but that you’re taking a moment to compose yourself. I’ll get the lay of the land, see who is wearing what, and I’ll bring you a drink."

Lowering her hand, Sabrina’s eyes narrowed as she weighed the options. She hated relying on Elena, but the thought of calling her boss while sitting in the back seat of a car in a parking garage, looking like a toddler, was terrifying.

"Fine. Get me a glass of wine, something sweet," Sabrina harrumphed, the fight draining out of her. "But be quick. And find out what Sterling is wearing. If the client is wearing something stupid like a school boy’s uniform, I want to know before I walk in."

"Understood," Elena said, "Stay here. Stay out of sight. I’ll be back in ten minutes."

Elena stepped out, the click of her heels echoing on the concrete. She locked the car, leaving Sabrina trapped in the dark, a prisoner of her own vehicle, and headed toward the elevator bank.

The elevator doors closed with a soft chime, and the echo of Elena’s heels faded, leaving Sabrina not just alone in the back seat of her own car, but in the dark with the doors locked. The silence pressed in on her immediately, only the sound of fans echoing around.

Without the engine running, the garage felt cavernous, the concrete walls swallowing sound and reflecting it back in dull waves. Sabrina shifted, the tulle rustling loudly in the enclosed space, making her freeze again, suddenly hyperaware of how much room the fabric took up. The skirt had pooled around her hips, puffed up against the leather seats, climbed into her lap like it had a mind of its own. She swallowed and forced herself to sit still, not wanting to hear it rustle about.

‘Ten minutes,’ she thought to herself. ‘It’s just ten minutes.’ She checked the time on the dash display, then frowned; with the car off, it wasn’t showing a thing. Without her phone, she felt oddly amputated, cut off from the steady stream of reassurance that usually tethered her to the world. No emails to skim. No calendar alerts. No messages she could send to remind people she was still in control.

She crossed her arms over her chest again, then immediately uncrossed them when she didn't feel her enhanced bust, the silk of the top of the dress brushing her bare shoulders. The fabric was light, almost insubstantial, but it felt loud, conspicuous, like it was announcing her presence even here, hidden in the dark.

Her eyes drifted to the rearview mirror. From this angle, and in the dark, she barely recognized herself. The lack of make-up made her features softer than she liked to see, her cheeks fuller without contouring, her eyes larger, more open. ‘Like a freaking doe eyed little girl…’ The twintails framed her face in a way that made her look far too young. She knew, intellectually, that she was a twenty-something executive sitting in a luxury sedan in a private garage, but the image in the glass told a different story, one that made her stomach tighten.

She looked away sharply. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she thought. ‘I am letting this get to me.’ But her reassurance rang hollow. She tried to rehearse her pitch again, the talking points she had gone over a dozen times in her head over the past week, but the words slid around instead of locking into place. Every time she adjusted her posture, the dress reminded her of itself. Every time she took a breath, she felt the tightness of the bodice, the way it flattened her chest instead of shaping it.

Her gaze drifted to the front seat. The driver’s seat was still adjusted to Elena’s height, pulled back enough that Sabrina’s knees, when she leaned, bumped the back of it. She frowned at that, irritation flaring briefly. It was such a small thing, but it underscored the larger one she was trying not to think about.

She was not in control of this moment.

Her purse was missing. Her phone was gone. Her assistant had physically removed her from her home while taking her keys, driven her here, and now left her alone in a parking garage dressed in something she would never choose. It felt like she was waiting for permission to enter an event she was supposed to be steering.

She reached down, smoothing the tulle automatically, the motion slow and almost absentminded. The fabric obeyed for a second, then sprang back, stubborn and buoyant. She let out a quiet huff of breath, half laugh, half frustration. ‘Get a grip, Sabrina,’ she scolded herself. ‘You’ve handled worse than this.’

Had she?

Sabrina thought of Julian Vance’s eyes, the way he looked at people like he was measuring their worth against some invisible standard. She thought of Edgar Sterling, of his money, his expectations, his ego. She thought of walking into that ballroom alone, of cameras and flashes and whispers.

She imagined stepping out of the elevator like this. The image made her stomach flip. Her fingers curled into the skirt, gripping the tulle tighter than she meant to. She forced herself to relax her hand, flattening the fabric again, breathing slowly like she’d been taught during media training. “Elena will fix it,” she told herself out loud, the thought both comforting and deeply unsettling. ‘She always does; the stupid giraffe is good at her job.’ The realization settled heavier than the dress.

Meanwhile, Elena made her journey. The walk to the garage elevator from the car was short, though it was only the first leg of the trek ahead of her. Elena pressed the elevator button, adjusting the strap of her clutch as she waited in the damp, echoey chamber of the garage, not looking back at the car. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to see her boss through the tinted window in a lightless car. When the doors slid open, she stepped into the scuffed metal box and pressed the button for the ground floor.

The doors opened to the humid night air of the street level. As she had warned Sabrina, it was not a direct connection. Elena stepped out onto the sidewalk, the garage looming behind her as a separate concrete block. The Grand Meridian was a block away, glowing like a beacon.

Hoping for the best, Elena began the walk. Her four-inch stilettos clicked a rhythmic, confident cadence against the pavement. She didn't hurry, despite the distance. She treated the sidewalk like a runway, ignoring the humidity that threatened to frizz her hair. By the time she reached the massive revolving doors of the hotel, she hadn't broken a sweat, thanks to her regular work outs and dance classes. She pushed through the glass, and the world transformed. The humid street air was instantly cut off, replaced by the blast of climate control scented with fresh lilies and expensive perfume.

Elena stepped into the Grand Foyer. It was a sensory overload of crystal chandeliers, polished marble, and high-society chatter. She moved through the periphery of the crowd, her height giving her a vantage point over the sea of tuxedos and gowns. She wasn't intimidated by the wealth in the room; she was hunting.

She spotted who she needed near the center of the room, standing by a massive ice sculpture. Julian Vance looked imposing, not to mention handsome in a classic tuxedo, his posture rigid and his expression one of bored superiority. Beside him stood Edgar Sterling, the man she blamed for her plan, so it even had a chance of working. Sterling was shorter, wiry, and possessed the intense, unblinking stare of a man who ran his life like a military drill, his steel-gray crew cut severe under the chandeliers.

Elena took a breath, softened her eyes, and approached. "Mr. Sterling, Mr. Vance," Elena said, her voice pitching perfectly to cut through the din without sounding shrill. She offered a hand to each, nodding respectfully to her boss. "I’m Elena Thorne. Director Halloway’s assistant manager."

"Ah, yes, Ms. Thorne," Julian said, his voice deep and dripping with authority. They had worked together enough for him to know the introduction wasn't for him. He barely shook her hand, his steely blue eyes immediately scanning the space behind her. "Where is Sabrina? I expected her to be leading the charge tonight. Punctuality is not a suggestion, and we are already behind schedule." Not seeing his fierce director, his gaze returned to the young woman in front of him. He was tempted to invite her up to his room at the hotel for a night cap after the event, but he wasn't going to abuse his position of power over his employee. With how she looked, however, it was difficult to not think about such a fantasy.

Elena let her shoulders slump slightly. It was no masterpiece of micro-acting; she wasn’t some master manipulator, though it occurred to her how much a skill like that would come in handy tonight. And in general. She looked genuinely pained. "I’m afraid I have some bad news. Director Halloway has come down with a sudden, terrible flu. She tried to power through it earlier today, but by this evening, she was in no condition to be seen publicly. She sends her deepest regrets and will be out until she recovers."

Julian’s jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing his face. "That is unfortunate," he murmured, swirling his scotch. "At least it is not typical; I don’t think she’s ever used a sick day. I hope she feels better soon, but we were counting on her input with things tonight."

"I am here to take notes and represent the department in her stead," Elena assured him, keeping her tone deferential. Then, she shifted her weight, biting her lip and looking awkwardly toward the main entrance. "However . . . I do have a small personal complication I hope you both can overlook."

"Oh?" Sterling asked, his voice sharp with interest as things seemed to be escalating in the wrong direction for his planned charity event. He turned his full, obsessive attention to her. "We overcome complications, Ms. Thorne."

"Since I had to step in at the last minute for the Director, I was caught in a bind with childcare," Elena explained, lowering her voice as if sharing a shameful secret. "My sister had an emergency, and I got saddled with babysitting my niece for the week. I couldn't say no to family, and I couldn't miss the gala . . ." She gestured vaguely back toward the entrance she had just walked through. "I brought her with me. She’s waiting in the car in the parking garage down the block. I promise she won't be a bother, but if you see a child wandering near me . . . that’s little Rina. She’s ten, about to start fourth grade. And she can be a bit . . . precocious."

Sterling’s severe expression vanished, replaced by a nod of approval. The eccentric benefactor had always preached about traditional family values and the importance of discipline in youth. "Nonsense, Elena! You shouldn't leave a child in a parking garage. Bring her inside! It’s a celebration, after all. I’m sure we can find some non-alcoholic punch for her."

Julian sighed, clearly annoyed but unwilling to contradict the client. "If Mr. Sterling insists. Just keep her out from underfoot, please. And thank you for your dedication amidst everything tonight."

"You’re very kind, sir," Elena said, smiling with relief, "I’ll go get her. She’s an awkward little thing; bright as can be, but has a habit of telling tall tales. I think she believes she is ready to be an adult despite her age and lack of maturity."

She excused herself, turning away to hide the triumph in her eyes. She headed for the bar, ordering an apple juice with three cherries and a festive straw, along with a glass of champagne for herself.

With the drinks in hand, she navigated the lobby, pushed back through the revolving doors, and began the long walk back to the garage. The humid air hit her again, but she didn't care. The trap was now fully set.

Taking the elevator back down to the gloom of the parking deck and walking to the Lexus in the corner, she unlocked the car and opened the back door. Sabrina was huddled in the middle of the seat, her knees drawn up slightly under the tulle, looking like she was trying to take up as little space as possible.

"Here," Elena said, handing her the sugar drink with the bright red fruit floating inside.

Sabrina took the offered drink, looking at the maraschino cherries with a frown. "A Shirley Temple? Really, Thorne?"

"It’s apple juice. I thought it appropriate. It will help hydrate you, and you should really sober up before having another adult beverage," Elena said casually. She leaned against the open door frame, taking a sip of her champagne.

"Well?" Sabrina demanded, taking a sip. "What’s the verdict? Are Julian or Mr Sterling wearing a costume?"

Elena looked down at her boss, savoring the moment. "Bad news, Sabrina. The memo is dead. Sterling caved. Everyone is in tuxedos and gowns. No one else was willing to play along and it looks like only you were brave enough."

Sabrina choked on her drink, coughing as the sugary liquid hit the back of her throat. "What? Are you kidding me?" She looked down at her dress, horror dawning on her face. "You mean I’m the only one dressed like . . . like this?"

"Afraid so," Elena said, "Mr Vance is inside wearing a tuxedo, talking with Sterling. They look immaculate."

"Then take me home," Sabrina demanded, scrambling to unbuckle her seatbelt, "I am not going in there. I’ll look insane! Drive me home right now, Elena!"

"I can't," Elena said calmly, "I just spoke to Julian and Sterling. They know I’m here. I have to network for the department, or we lose our standing. And you can't drive."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Sabrina cried, tears of frustration pricking her eyes, "Sit in the car all night?"

"No," Elena said, setting her glass down on the roof of the car, "I fixed it. I told Julian that Director Halloway is sick and couldn't make it."

Sabrina blinked. "You . . . you covered for me?"

"I did. I would hate it if you got in trouble because you were the only one willing to follow directions when our CEO himself stressed how important it was," Elena lied smoothly, "But I had to explain why I was walking back out to the car. So I told them I brought my niece."

Sabrina stared at her. "Your niece?"

"Think about it," Elena said, gesturing to Sabrina’s whole look. Her twintails, the tulle dress, the sequined flats. "Without your heels, your makeup, or your bra . . . you don't look like you, Sabrina. You look like a child. If you come in as 'Little Rina, my niece' you can be a fly on the wall. You can hear what Mr Vance and Sterling say about you when they think you aren't there."

Sabrina hesitated.

It was insane. It was humiliating. But the idea of disappearing into a role of being invisible rather than being the "idiot in the costume" was strangely tempting. And the paranoia about Julian was eating her alive. She looked at the elevator doors across the dark garage, then back at her reflection in the window.

"I . . . I don't know, Thorne," Sabrina muttered.

"It's the only way to save the night," Elena said, extending a hand to help her out of the car, "Come on, Rina. Let's get you to the party. We can get your story straight on the way."

Chapter Six

Sabrina stared at Elena’s outstretched hand, but she didn't take it. Instead, she recoiled into the leather seat, looking from the manicured fingers up to her assistant’s face with a mix of confusion and outrage.

"Rina?" Sabrina spat, ignoring the hand to glare up at the taller woman. "Thorne, you know how I feel about you using my name without my proper title, let alone creating an absurd nickname. But what should I expect from a giraffe with half a brain?"

Elena didn't flinch at the insult. She didn't even bother to argue the logic. She simply reached past Sabrina’s defensive posture, her fingers closing around Sabrina’s thin wrist like a shackle. "We don't have time for this," Elena said, her voice dropping the professional facade for a moment of pure urgency. Then she yanked.

Sabrina gasped, flailing slightly as she was physically hauled out of the deep leather seat. The mountain of tulle rustled aggressively as she stumbled out, her sequined flats hitting the concrete hard.

"People are expecting me with my niece back at the gala," Elena said, not letting go of the wrist as she steadied the smaller woman, "That niece being you, for the plan to work."

Sabrina tried and failed to wrench her arm free, yanking a few more times before the grip on her loosened enough for her to find her freedom. Glaring up at the dark haired woman, she rubbed her wrist where Elena’s fingers had dug in. "Don't you dare manhandle me, Thorne! I am capable of exiting a vehicle on my own!"

"Then stand up straight," Elena countered immediately, her voice shifting into a tone that was terrifyingly nurturing as she automatically reached out to adjust the strap of Sabrina’s dress. "Shoulders back. We have a walk ahead of us."

Sabrina slapped the hand away that had assaulted her, her eyes flashing. "Watch your tone! I am not a child, and I am certainly not your child. You are pushing your luck with this today, and are walking on thin ice."

Elena blinked, pulling her hand back as if burned. A look of genuine realization crossed her face, followed by a sheepish, almost apologetic smile. "My apologies, Director. Honestly, it was just . . . muscle memory. I’ve spent so much time corralling my niece, that seeing someone in that dress . . . If you had darker hair, you could be her sister.. My babysitting practice had me acting on auto pilot.” She gestured pointedly to Sabrina’s spine. "And to be fair," Elena added, "you were slouching.”

Sabrina stiffened, instantly straightening her back to her full, albeit short, height. "I was not slouching," she lied, lifting her chin, "I was adjusting to the lack of arch support. Now let’s get moving."

Elena locked the Lexus, the beep echoing off the concrete walls, and they began the trek toward the elevator. The ride up to the street level was silent, the mirrored box reflecting a tall, elegant woman in black silk standing beside a sulking, brightly colored figure.

The moment the elevator doors opened onto the sidewalk, the humidity hit Sabrina like a wet towel. It was heavy and cloying. Beside her, Elena seemed immune to the weather, her stride long and cool.

"We need to finalize the backstory before we hit the door," Elena said, looking straight ahead, her pace forcing Sabrina to take two steps for every one of hers. "You are my niece, Rina. You are ten years old. You are starting fourth grade at a public school in the small city of Apopka."

"Ten-year-olds are usually in fifth grade," Sabrina muttered, breathless from the exertion of the walk.

"Rina, you struggle with a few subjects. You were held back," Elena improvised without skipping a beat, "It adds a layer of vulnerability. Sterling loves an underdog; he is just going to eat you up with how cute you are."

Sabrina grit her teeth. "Dont say that. I’m not telling the people I failed math, Thorne!"

"You don't have to volunteer anything," Elena said smoothly, "You will simply be answering questions, and it doesn’t have to be math; you could have failed English or Science. Now, remember. If someone says 'Sabrina' or 'Director,' you stay silent. You are Rina. Unless you want someone to recognize you?"

Sabrina scowled at the pavement. "Fine. Rina. I got it," she said out loud with a sullen voice before speaking to herself under her breath. “But I don't have to like it.

"And you need to call me something appropriate," Elena continued, "Ms. Thorne is too formal for my niece and my first name isn’t appropriate. Elena is too adult for you."

"I'll just not call you anything," Sabrina grumbled, kicking a loose pebble with her pink shoe.

"Don’t act like that. I promised Mr. Vance and Sterling you would be a good girl tonight. You will need to address me if you want something," Elena said, slowing down just as the glowing entrance of The Grand Meridian came into view. She turned to look down at the diminutive woman. A slow, shark-like smile spread over her lips. "You should call me Aunt Elly. Or better yet . . . Auntie."

Sabrina stopped dead on the sidewalk. The blood drained from her face. "Absolutely not."

"It sells the lie, Sabrina," Elena whispered, her tone hardening, "My actual niece calls me both Auntie and Aunt Elly, so you will too. It’s natural. If you call me 'Elena' in front of Sterling, the illusion breaks. Do you want to be the Director in a tutu, or do you want to be the invisible niece?"

Sabrina opened her mouth to argue. Acknowledging her assistant, her subordinate, as a familial superior was a pill she physically couldn't swallow. But the valet stand was twenty feet away. People were watching.

"Fine," Sabrina hissed, the word tasting like bile, "Auntie."

"Good girl," Elena cooed as they reached the entrance. The Grand Meridian’s revolving doors were spinning slowly. Elena stepped into a compartment effortlessly, moving with the rotation.

Sabrina stepped into the next pie-slice wedge behind her. As the door swept her into the interior, the blast of climate control hit her, cold, crisp, and scented with lilies. Through the glass, she saw the lobby. It was packed. It was bright..

Elena stepped out on the other side, turning to wait. Sabrina shook her head in a way that caused the silly pigtail hair style to wave about as she looked at the crowd, recognizing so many of the faces and not just wanting but needing them to not in turn recognize her. She couldn't do it. She couldn't step out onto that marble floor. The fear of being seen for who she was welded her feet to the mat. She missed her exit.

"Little Rina, get out," Elena hissed under her breath.

But the door kept turning. Sabrina was swept past the opening, her hands pressing against the glass, her eyes wide with anxiety. She traveled the full circle, back toward the humid street, then back around toward the lobby.

To a nearby couple in evening wear waiting to exit, it didn't look like a panic attack. It looked like a child playing.

"Where are her parents?" a woman in a silver gown muttered, looking annoyed.

The humiliation burned hotter than the shame. On the second rotation, just as Sabrina was about to be swept past the lobby again, a hand shot out.

Elena reached into the moving compartment, clamped her hand around Sabrina’s wrist, and yanked her out onto the marble floor.

"Quit playing, Rina," Elena said loudly enough for the nearby guests to hear, her voice a perfect mix of scolding and weary affection. "I told you, no running in the lobby."

"I wasn't . . . " Sabrina started, but Elena squeezed her hand. Hard.

"Hold my hand," Elena commanded, dropping her voice to a half whisper as she interlaced their fingers, "You're drawing attention."

Sabrina tried to pull away, instinctively recoiling from the physical contact, but Elena didn't let go. Her grip was firm and unyielding. It wasn't a comforting hold; it was a leash.

"Rina, there are a lot of people here. I don’t want you wandering off," Elena said simply. Leaning closer, she added, "Don't blow this."

Sabrina slumped, letting her hand go limp in Elena's warm, strong grip. She allowed herself to be towed further into the room, having to move at a rapid pace to keep up and not be pulled along.

As they moved passed a massive, gilded mirror near the concierge desk. Sabrina made the mistake of looking. The reflection stopped the breath in her throat. Elena looked magnificent, a tower of black silk and pale skin. Beside her, clutching her hand, was a child. The height difference was staggering. Without her heels, Sabrina barely came up to Elena’s ribcage. The dress looked criminally juvenile under the crystal chandeliers.

Sabrina looked away, a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. She felt, for the first time in her life, truly vulnerable.

"Shoulders back, Rina," Elena murmured, towing her toward the ballroom entrance. "Here we go. Please smile; good girls smile."

They checked in at the podium. The staff barely glanced at Sabrina, directing all their deferential "Yes, Ma'ams" to Elena. Then, they stepped through the double doors and into the event proper.

Sabrina’s heart hammered against her ribs as she saw them immediately. Julian Vance and Edgar Sterling were standing near the entrance. Sabrina braced herself. ‘He’s going to know,’ she thought, terror gripping her.

Elena approached the two, tugging Sabrina forward into the light.

"Gentlemen," Elena said smoothly, "I’m back. And I found the runaway."

Julian Vance turned. He looked down. His steely blue eyes locked onto Sabrina’s face.

Sabrina held her breath, waiting for the sneer, the recognition. But it didn't come.

Julian looked at her with zero recognition. His eyes swept over her face, her hair, her dress, and found absolutely nothing of his bulldog of a director. To him, the powerful Director Halloway simply did not exist in this small, pink creature. Initially, there was a flicker of mild annoyance, the look a man gives when a child enters an adult space. But then, realizing this was the "niece" Elena had mentioned, his expression softened. The hard lines around his eyes relaxed. He offered her a genuine, warm smile, a smile Sabrina had never seen him direct at her.

"Well, hello there," Julian said, his voice slightly higher than usual, gentle and kind. "You must be Rina. Your aunt didn't prepare us for how adorable you are, a missed opportunity for her to brag about you."

What he was saying hurt. It hurt worse than being caught. Being recognized would have been a disaster, but this? This was erasure; he saw her almost every day, yet she was somehow believable as a girl while being a woman.

"Say hello to Mr. Vance, Rina," Elena prompted, giving Sabrina’s hand a sharp squeeze.

"H-hello," Sabrina squeaked, not wanting to talk to her boss at all or draw his attention to her; she was also nervous her voice would give her away.

Julian chuckled softly, then looked back up at Elena. His gaze lingered on her face, then drifted down to where she was protectively holding the "child's" hand. He wasn't looking at her like a member of his staff anymore. He was looking at her with a deepening appreciation, a sentimental warmth seeing her in a different light now that he got a glimpse of this side of her.

"You handle her very well, Ms. Thorne," Julian said, his tone appreciative, "It’s a good look on you. Maternal."

Elena blushed slightly, a modest smile on her face, with a demure tilt of her head. "Family is important, Mr. Vance. We do what we must."

"Indeed," Edgar Sterling chimed in, stepping forward. The shorter man peered down at Sabrina with intense interest. "And this is the little scholar! Starting fourth grade, I hear?"

Sabrina nodded mutely, afraid to speak and break the spell all while she ground her teeth at the absurdity of her being in elementary school.

"I have a strict rule about children at these events," Sterling said. He reached into his tuxedo pocket. "Usually, they are a distraction. But when Elena told me you were coming, I had one of the servers scour the kitchen."

He pulled out a single, snack-size Kit Kat bar.

"I asked for something simpler than those fancy canapés," Sterling said. He didn't hand it to Sabrina, though. He turned to Elena, respecting the hierarchy. "Is it alright if she has this, Elena? I know it's late."

Elena looked at the candy, then down at Sabrina, pursing her lips in mock thought. "Well . . . She has had a lot of sugar today, Mr. Sterling."

Sabrina stared at the chocolate, feeling a bizarre, childish desire for it just because it was being withheld.

"But," Elena continued, taking the Kit Kat from the man’s hand, "Since you went to such trouble, sir . . . " She slipped the candy into her own clutch, snapping it shut. "I'll hold onto it," Elena said, smiling down at Sabrina with terrifying benevolence. "She can have it later. If she behaves."

"Well, look who we have here," a familiar, matronly voice chimed in, cutting through the ambient chatter of the ballroom.

Sabrina froze. She knew that voice. It belonged to Martha Higgins, the Director of Accounting. Martha was sixty-one, pudgy, and possessed the kind of unshakeable confidence that came from being with the company from its inception and knowing exactly where every penny in the company was buried. She was also the only person at Aegis who consistently ignored Sabrina’s demands for speed, usually responding with a maddeningly patient smile.

Martha waddled over, a glass of Chardonnay that was half gone already in hand, her eyes lighting up as they landed on the tall woman in black and the small figure in pink standing beside her. "Elena, dear!" Martha cooed, beaming. "I didn't know you had a little one of your own! You’ve been keeping her a secret from us all this time? She is adorable!"

Sabrina felt her stomach drop through the floor. The idea of being mistaken for Elena’s daughter was physically revolting; she could admit the giraffe was physically superior, but mentally it was a demotion of biology as well as status. She opened her mouth to snap a correction, but Elena beat her to it.

Elena laughed, a light, tinkling sound that sounded painfully fake to Sabrina’s ears. She covered her mouth with a manicured hand, covering her own mild embarrassment. "Oh, Martha, you flatter me, really, but please do the math!" Elena said, smiling brightly. "I am far too young to have a ten-year-old. I haven't been in the workforce that long. I would have been a young teenager when I had her if that was the case "

Martha blinked, then let out a hearty, self-deprecating laugh as she gave a half shrug. "Oh, goodness, of course! My eyes aren't what they used to be, and with the way you two were holding hands, I just assumed. It’s the maternal energy, I suppose."

"This is my niece, Rina," Elena explained, resting a hand on the top of Sabrina’s head, her fingers sliding down through one of the pigtails. "I'm just the favorite auntie on duty tonight."

"Rude," Sabrina grunted, looking at her shoes to hide the burning humiliation on her face.

"Oh, aren't you precious!" Martha beamed, undeterred by the comment. She leaned down, getting uncomfortably close. "And look at that pout! My granddaughter, Sarah, twelve, just a bit older than Rina here, gives me that exact same look when I tell her to put the iPad away."

Before Sabrina could dodge, Martha reached out and pinched her cheek with a firm, grandmotherly grip. "She knows she’s cute, doesn't she?" Martha said, giving the cheek a little wobble.

Sabrina recoiled, slapping the hand away instinctively. "Don't touch me!"

The outburst was sharp, but coming from a tiny figure in a pink tulle dress, it didn't land with the authority of a Director. It sounded petulant.

Martha didn’t act offended; she just laughed again, looking up at Elena with a knowing expression. "You have to be careful with the pretty ones, Elena. They try to use those big eyes and that attitude to get their way. Children need love, of course, but they need a firm hand, or they turn into spoiled little brats. Sarah is a terror if you let her be."

Sabrina seethed, she wanted to tell the old cow exactly where she could shove her "firm hand," but the smell of the Chardonnay wafted toward her, reminding her desperately of her thirst. The bite of the Kit Kat denial was still fresh, and her throat begged for something alcoholic to get her through this waking nightmare.

Just then, a waiter glided past with a silver tray laden with crystal flutes of champagne, desire took over. Sabrina didn't think; she just reacted. She reached out, her hand grasping for the slender stem of a glass, desperate for the bubbles, for the alcohol, for anything to numb the reality of being pinched by the head of the lowly accountants.

The waiter, a young man who looked like he feared for his job, pulled the tray up sharply, high out of her reach.

"Whoa there, sweetheart," he said, giving her a stern, reproving look, "That’s not for you."

Sabrina’s hand closed around empty air. She stood on her tiptoes, face flushing red. "I just want a drink!"

"I am so sorry," Elena said quickly, stepping in to smooth things over. She looked at the waiter with an apologetic smile, aware of the leadership at her company and the wealthy client seeing what happened or what almost happened. "She’s thirsty. Do you have any Sprite? And please . . . Could you put it in a plastic cup? Or a tumbler? I don't trust her with the crystal. She’s a bit clumsy."

"Of course, Ma'am," the waiter said, looking at Sabrina with pity, "I'll be right back with a kiddie cup."

"I am not clumsy!" Sabrina hissed as the waiter walked away.

"You almost knocked over a tray of champagne, Rina," Elena corrected her, her voice low, "Those are adult drinks. Hush now, please."

When the waiter returned, he wasn't carrying a flute. He handed Elena a short, thick plastic tumbler filled with ice and Sprite, a bright red straw sticking out of the top.

"Here you go," Elena said, handing the cup to Sabrina.

She stared at the plastic cup. It was cold and sweating in her hand. Sabrina took a sip from the straw, the sugary carbonation hitting her tongue. It wasn't champagne, but she drank it greedily, hating herself with every swallow.

“See? Martha said to Elena as she tilted her head in Sabrina’s direction

"Now," Edgar Sterling said, turning back to the group and clapping his hands together, clearly bored with the domestic interlude. "Enough about refreshments. Julian, I know you have your hands in a lot of pots. My merger is just the newest addition. Tell me about another project. I like to hear how my partners overcome hurdles. It shows character."

Julian nodded, swirling his scotch. "Well, we have the Singapore logistics project. It’s a massive undertaking. We’ve hit a significant bottleneck with the local distribution channels."

Ears perking up, Sabrina turned her attention to her boss, knowing she had already told him that wasn’t the root of the issue. "It’s not the distribution channels," Sabrina blurted out.

The circle went silent. Julian, Sterling, Martha, and Elena all looked down at her.

Sabrina felt a surge of adrenaline. This was her wheelhouse. This was what she was good at. She stepped forward, the tulle rustling. "The bottleneck isn't the distribution," Sabrina said, her voice gaining a momentary flash of its usual authority. "It’s the port authority. They’re holding the permits to artificially inflate the storage fees. You don't need to reroute; you need to lean on the trade commissioner. He folds if you threaten to move the hub to Malaysia." She looked up at them, expecting the nod of approval, the recognition of her brilliance.

Instead, Sterling threw his head back and laughed.

"My goodness!" Sterling chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. "What an imagination! 'Lean on the trade commissioner.' She sounds like she’s reciting a spy movie!"

"She must listen to your phone calls, Elena," Julian said, shaking his head with an amused smirk. "Parroting what she hears the adults say. It’s cute, in a way."

"It's not cute, it's the solution!" Sabrina insisted, stomping her foot. "I'm telling you . . . "

"Okay, Rina, that’s enough," Elena interrupted, placing a hand on Sabrina’s head to silence her. She looked at Julian. "She was playing in my home office earlier. Reading my files, pretending she was a business woman, the usual."

Julian sighed, looking from the pouting "child" to Elena. "You know, it’s funny. Hearing that kind of aggression from a child is almost charming. Hearing it from Director Halloway just gives me a migraine." He took a sip of his drink, his eyes warm on Elena. "It is so refreshing to stand here with someone who has . . . grace, Elena. Halloway is effective, I’ll give her that, but she’s a buzzsaw. She has no off switch. You have a much more . . . balanced energy. It makes me wonder if we've been looking at the wrong leadership dynamic for the client-facing side of things."

Sabrina felt like she had been punched in the gut all while the CEO threatened her job, practically offering up to someone so much less capable. He was praising Elena for her ideas while insulting her to her face, all because she was wearing ribbons in her hair.

Sterling nodded in agreement, then glanced down at Sabrina, who was fuming silently around her straw.

"Speaking of business," Sterling said, his voice lowering. "We need to discuss the financials of the Blackwood integration. It’s sensitive stuff. Little pitchers have big ears, as they say." He gestured vaguely with his glass toward the corner of the room. "Perhaps the child should go sit down? This isn't a conversation for children. I don't believe in the adage that children should be seen and not heard; bright children like little Rina here are our future, but there’s also a time and place for everything."

"Excellent idea," Elena said. She looked around the room and pointed to a corner near the heavy velvet drapes. There was a large, high-backed armchair upholstered in crushed red velvet, set apart from the main clusters of guests. "Rina, honey," Elena said, pointing, "Go sit in that chair. Drink your Sprite. I will come and get you when we are done talking business. You can come get me if you need to use the potty."

"But-" Sabrina started to argue, her eyes darting between the closed circle of executives and the distant chair. Panic flared in her chest. The velvet chair was too far away. If she sat there, she wouldn't be able to hear a word of the Blackwood financials. The entire point of this degrading charade, the only reason she had agreed to the pigtails and the bullshit Auntie shit was to gather intel to enhance her job. If she was exiled to the corner, she was just a clown in a costume for nothing.

She planted her feet, trying to hold her ground. "Auntie, please, I promise I'll be quiet. I want to listen. I can help!"

"Oh, nonsense, Elena," Martha interrupted, waving a hand dismissively before Sabrina could finish her plea. "Don't send the poor thing to sit alone in the corner like a punishment. She’ll be bored to tears by herself." Martha stepped forward, her smile wide and terrifyingly grandmotherly. "I’ll watch her," Martha offered, beaming at the executives. "My team has already run the numbers for Blackwood multiple times. You don't need me for the strategy talk, and frankly, my feet are killing me. I was looking for an excuse to sit down."

Sabrina’s blood ran cold. ‘No,’ she thought, her heart hammering. Anyone but her. And not away from the circle!

"Are you sure, Martha?" Elena asked, though she looked relieved to have the 'child' handled. "She can be a handful."

"Oh, pish-posh," Martha scoffed. She reached out and took Sabrina’s free hand, even as Sabrina tried to shift away. The hand not occupied with clutching the Sprite was in Martha’s grasp. Her grip was soft, doughy, but just firm enough to trap Sabrina’s fingers. "I raised three boys and I’m raising a granddaughter. I can handle one little spitfire. Besides, she and I need to have a little chat about manners, don't we, Rina?" Martha gave the girl’s hand a squeeze that sent the message ‘Try me.’

"That is very kind of you, Ms. Higgins," Julian said, nodding approvingly. "We shouldn't be long."

"Go with Ms. Higgins, Rina," Elena commanded, looking down at Sabrina with a mix of amusement and finality. "Behave yourself. I will come get you when we are done."

Sabrina watched in horror as Elena stepped seamlessly into the gap she had left in the circle, closing ranks with Julian and Sterling. The wall of black suits formed a barrier, shutting her out completely.

"Come along, sweetie," Martha said, pulling Sabrina away. "Let’s go find a nice spot to sit. I have some butterscotch in my purse if you finish that soda. Maybe we can play patty-cake."

Sabrina was towed away, her heels dragging slightly on the marble as she craned her neck, desperately trying to catch a snippet of what Sterling was saying. But the ambient noise of the party swallowed the conversation. She was losing it; she was losing the intel.

Martha led her to the crushed velvet armchair in the corner. She sat herself down on the adjacent sofa with a heavy sigh of relief, kicking off one of her pumps, and patted the cushion of the big chair. "Up you go," Martha ordered.

Sabrina glared at her, but the fight had drained out of her. Defeated, she clambered up into the massive chair. It was oversized, designed for a large man to smoke a cigar in, not for a petite woman in a tulle dress. When she sat all the way back, her knees didn't reach the edge of the cushion. Her legs stuck straight out, her pink sequined shoes dangling a good six inches off the floor. “What is patty-cake?” She had no idea what it was, but knew she didn’t want to do it. She slumped back against the velvet, the material scratching against her bare arms. She was trapped. She couldn't hear the merger details. She couldn't hear Julian. All she could hear was the heavy breathing of the Director of Accounting.

"You don't know patty-cake?" Martha blinked, her expression shifting from curiosity to genuine pity. She set her Chardonnay down on a coaster and leaned forward, invading Sabrina’s personal space. "Good heavens, child. What do they teach you in school? Just math and cursive? Do they still teach cursive? Every child knows patty-cake."

"I focused on cello and debate," Sabrina lied stiffly, clutching her plastic cup like a shield. "Games are a waste of productivity."

"Oh, listen to you," Martha chuckled, shaking her head. "You sound like a forty-year-old accountant with an ulcer. Put the cup down, honey. We need to loosen you up."

Martha gently but firmly pried the Sprite from Sabrina’s fingers and set it on the side table. Then, she held up her own pudgy, ring-adorned hands, palms facing out. "Come on," Martha commanded, "Hands up."

Sabrina stared at her crossing her arms and immediately felt uncomfortable doing so. "I am not doing that."

"Rina," Martha warned, her voice dropping into that "grandmother" tone again. "Don't be a sourpuss. Your aunt asked me to watch you, and I won't have you pouting in the corner. Hands up. Palms flat."

Sabrina ground her teeth. She looked over Martha’s shoulder. Across the room, she could see the back of Elena’s sleek black dress, her stupidly pert ass. Elena was nodding at Sterling, looking poised and professional, the woman playing her own part of the perfect executive. Meanwhile, Sabrina was being bullied into a nursery rhyme by the woman who usually filed her expense reports.

Defeated, Sabrina slowly lifted her hands, flattening her palms against Martha’s warm, soft ones.

"There. Now, it’s simple," Martha explained, speaking slowly as if to a toddler, "Clap your own hands, then clap mine. Then roll them like dough. Just follow me." Martha began to chant, her voice low but rhythmic. "Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker's man . . . " She clapped her hands, then reached out to slap Sabrina’s. Sabrina missed the beat, her coordination thrown off by the sheer absurdity of the situation. "Focus, Rina," Martha chided gently, resetting the rhythm, "Bake me a cake as fast as you can . . ."

Sabrina forced herself to comply. Clap. Slap. Clap. Slap. It was rhythmic, repetitive, and mind-numbingly stupid. She felt like a performing monkey.

"Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with a B," Martha sang, taking Sabrina’s small hand and using her finger to trace a 'B' on the palm.

Sabrina shivered at the touch.

"And put it in the oven for baby and me!" Martha finished with a flourish, clapping Sabrina’s hands together between her own.

"See?" Martha beamed, picking her wine back up. "That wasn't so hard, was it? It keeps the hands busy. You have a lot of nervous energy, dear."

Sabrina dropped her hands to her lap, her face burning hot. "It's inefficient," she muttered, "Why would you mark it with a B if the baby's name doesn't start with B?"

Martha laughed, popping a butterscotch candy into her mouth. She leaned back into the sofa, looking at Sabrina with a thoughtful, analytical gaze. "You know," Martha said, crunching on the candy, "You really do remind me of someone. Your aunt's boss. Have you ever met her or heard her talking to your sweet aunt on the phone?"

Sabrina’s head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, yes," Martha nodded, looking toward the group of executives where Elena it appeared she was holding court. "You have the exact same scowl. And the impatience! Always rushing, always analyzing, never just enjoying the moment. But that is part of being young and immature."

Martha took a sip of wine, oblivious to the fact that she was speaking to the Director herself.

"I’ve worked with Sabrina Halloway for five years," Martha confided, lowering her voice to a gossip's whisper, "Brilliant woman in specific circumstances, but absolutely miserable to be around. She snaps at people, interrupts them, treats everyone like they're incompetent . . . Just be mindful of others' feelings and, when you get older, you will be a fine young woman one day."

Sabrina opened her mouth to defend herself, to shout 'I am efficient, not miserable!', but the words died in her throat.

"It’s unbecoming of a grown woman," Martha continued, shaking her head sadly, "And it is certainly not cute on a little girl. You don't want to grow up to be like her, do you, Rina? Alone, angry, and so high-strung she can't make any friends?"

Sabrina sat paralyzed in the massive velvet chair, her legs dangling uselessly in the air. She gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles turning white. She had come here to save her job, to prove she was indispensable. Instead, she was trapped in a corner, wearing pink tulle, listening to the company grandmother explain exactly why nobody liked her. The worst part was, as she looked across the room at her assistant manager, who was currently laughing at something Julian whispered, Sabrina realized that for the first time in years, things were running perfectly smoothly without her.

Sabrina sat paralyzed in the massive velvet chair, the words “alone” and “angry” burrowing under her skin. She wanted to scoff. She wanted to tell this pudgy bean-counter that she didn't need "friends" in the way Martha meant. She had her sorority sisters from college, didn't she? Sure, they were frenemies at best, conniving, mean bitches who only met up to compare engagement ring carats and see whose BMI had dropped, putting one another down just to feel better about themselves. But that was the game. That was how strong women sharpened each other.

And men? She wasn't lonely. She had plenty of men. She had a roster of fuck buddies, strictly transactional relationships that provided the necessary physical release without the mess. They never lasted long, and they never got overly emotional, exactly how she liked it. She had always viewed her isolation as a sign of superiority. She was lean, mean, and efficient, not needing others to be happy.

But hearing Martha say it, hearing her describe her life not as a triumph of focus, but as the sad, lonely existence of a woman who couldn't connect with a single soul, made the defense die in her throat.

Before she could spiral further, the wall of black suits across the room broke apart. Elena emerged from the group, walking alongside Julian Vance rather than a step behind him. She didn't look like some lowly, poor assistant manager; she looked like the glue holding the trio together.

"There they are," Elena said, her voice warm as she stopped in front of the velvet chair. She looked from Martha to Sabrina, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "I hope she wasn't too much trouble, Ms. Higgins. Rina can be a bit . . intense."

"Oh, not at all!" Martha pushed herself up from the sofa. "We played patty-cake and had a lovely chat about manners. She’s a sweet thing, really. Just needs a little direction." Martha looked down at the girl. "Remember what I said, Rina. Don't be a sourpuss. You don't want to end up bitter."

"I appreciate it," Elena said, extending a hand toward the chair. "Smile, you know good girls smile, come on, Rina. Hop down. It’s dinner time."

Sabrina glared at the hand, then at the floor. It was too high to step down gracefully. She had to scoot forward and slide off, or hop off. Deciding to slide she felt her tulle skirt bunching up around her waist for a second before her sequined flats hit the carpet with a clumsy thud. She straightened her dress, desperate to regain a shred of dignity, but Julian Vance spoke up, ignoring her entirely to address Elena.

"Elena," Julian said. "I just want to say . . . Your input on the Blackwood integration was insightful. I’m sure Sterling and I would agree that it’s rare to find someone who understands both the logistics and the people involved." He sighed. "Usually, when I bring this up with your current supervisor, for as long as that lasts . . . she starts quoting efficiency percentages until my eyes glaze over. You brought a human element to it. I think we’re going to be seeing a lot more of you, Ms. Thorne."

Sabrina felt sick. They were erasing her legacy in real-time.

"Thank you, Mr. Vance," Elena said modestly, "I just want what’s best for the team."

"Well, let's get some food in the little one," Julian said, checking his watch, "She looks exhausted, and I for one am famished."

Elena put a hand on Sabrina’s shoulder, her fingers digging in. "Say thank you to Ms. Higgins for watching you, Rina. And say goodbye."

Sabrina stood frozen. Every fiber of her being rebelled.

Elena squeezed harder. "Rina."

Sabrina looked at Martha, who was waiting with an expectant, benevolent smile, the woman who pitied her "sad" life. "Thank you," Sabrina forced out, the words sounding strangled, "Ms. Higgins."

"You're very welcome, dear," Martha beamed. "Such a cute kid," she told the CEO as the group began to move, "A little odd, but cute. I bet she would have fun with my Sarah. Elena, I don’t want to presume, but what do you think of us setting up a play date?"

Sabrina choked on her own breath. A playdate? The sheer horror of the suggestion froze her blood. Being trapped in this ballroom was one thing; being dragged to a suburban house to play dolls with Martha Higgins’s tween granddaughter was a circle of hell she hadn't even known existed.

"I’m very busy with umm- ahh . . . Studies " Sabrina blurted out quickly, her voice pitching high in panic, “You know, school stuff like homework and reading."

"Nonsense," Elena cut in, her eyes lighting up with a sadistic delight. She looked at the older woman with a beaming smile. "Oh, that is such a generous offer! I think that is exactly what Rina needs. She spends far too much time alone with her coloring books. She needs to socialize with girls her own age."

"It’s settled, then!" Martha clapped her hands together softly. "Sarah has a lovely collection of American Girl dolls. They can have a tea party. I’ll text you the details on Monday, Elena."

"We look forward to it," Elena cooed.

Sabrina looked up at her assistant, her eyes wide with betrayal. “You wouldn't dare,” she mouthed silently.

Elena just winked at her, a quick, imperceptible flutter of her lashes, before turning back to the men.

"Socializing is key to development," Julian Vance agreed, nodding sagely as if they weren't discussing the Director of Operations playing with dolls. "Good for the character. Builds the 'human element,' right?"

Reaching out, Elena gave a light squeeze to the broad shouldered man's forearm, her touch lingering. "Exactly," Elena said. Her other hand placed a firm touch on the small of Sabrina’s back, propelling her forward. "Now, let’s eat. Rina gets cranky when her blood sugar drops."

Sabrina walked toward the dining area, her legs feeling like lead. She wasn't just losing her job; she was losing her adulthood. Monday wasn't going to be a board meeting; it was going to be a tea party. She resolved herself to fire her subordinate the moment she could speak to HR.

"Here we are," Elena announced as they reached the set tables. She took charge of the seating arrangements immediately. "Mr. Sterling, why don't you sit there? Julian, you take the center.” Her addressing him less formally for the first time, hoping it didn’t come across as rude like her boss often said it was when she did it with her all while the women continued to call the CEO by his own given name with little warmth. “Martha, you can take the end on the left, next to my niece since she seems so taken by you."

That left the center seat on the opposite side for Sabrina, directly across from Julian Vance. Martha sat to her left, and Elena sat to her right.

Elena pulled out the chair for her. It was a standard banquet chair, perfectly accessible. Sabrina stepped forward, ready to sit with as much dignity as she could muster after the playdate ambush. But before she could bend her knees, she felt Elena’s hands clamp firmly around her waist.

"What do you think you're-" Sabrina started to snap. Before she could finish, Elena hoisted her into the air. Sabrina gasped, her feet kicking uselessly for a split second as she was physically lifted and deposited onto the cushioned seat. The sensation of being manhandled, of being so light that her assistant could lift her without breaking a sweat, made her skin crawl. She hated being touched, and the casual ease of the lift reminded her painfully of her physical vulnerability. "Put me down!" Sabrina hissed, her face flaming as she scrambled to adjust her dress which had bunched up during the flight. "I can sit my own fucking self!"

"Watch your language, Rina," Elena admonished smoothly, sliding the chair in until Sabrina’s stomach pressed against the linen tablecloth. She patted Sabrina’s shoulder. "I’m just helping. I know how tired you get after a long walk. Those little legs aren't used to keeping up with adults. If you keep speaking like that we are going to the bathroom to wash your mouth out with soap. That is an adult word you shouldn’t be using.”

Sabrina froze, her mouth snapping shut with an audible click. The threat was so archaic, so humiliatingly juvenile, that her brain momentarily short-circuited. She looked at Elena’s face and saw zero hesitation. ‘She would do it,’ Sabrina realized with horror. ‘She would drag me into the Grand Meridian restroom and scrub my tongue like an unruly toddler.’

"Quite right," Martha agreed from the left, nodding sagely as she unfolded her napkin. "My Sarah learned that lesson the hard way. Ivory soap tastes terrible, but she stopped swearing, didn't she? You have to nip that behavior in the bud, Elena."

"Good for you, Ms. Thorne," Edgar Sterling added, looking over his spectacles with approval. "Too many guardians let that slide these days. Discipline is love, I always say. A clean mouth makes for a clean mind."

Sabrina looked around the table. She was surrounded by three adults who all agreed that she, a twenty-six-year-old executive, deserved to have her mouth washed out for cursing. She slumped in her chair, defeated by the sheer insanity of the consensus.

A waiter appeared instantly, holding the heavy, leather-bound menus. He handed one to Martha, one to Elena, and then turned to the men.

"And for the young lady?" Edgar Sterling asked, looking over his spectacles. He didn't even glance at the leather menu the waiter was offering Sabrina. "Bring her a kid's menu. Do you have the ones with the crayons?"

"We do, sir," the waiter nodded.

"I don't need crayons," Sabrina muttered, her voice significantly quieter than before, the threat of the soap still lingering in her mind, "I can read a menu."

"I’ll take one," Julian Vance interrupted, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned across the table, winking at Sabrina as if she couldn't hear him, though he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "I find the puzzles relaxing. I’ll happily color with the girl. It keeps the mind sharp, doesn't it, Sterling?"

Sterling chuckled, clearly pleased by the family-friendly atmosphere Julian was fostering. "Indeed it does. Shows a good balance."

The waiter returned a moment later, bypassing Sabrina with the leather menu and sliding a single sheet of paper and a small box of crayons in front of her. He did the same for Julian, putting it on top of his leather bound menu.

Sabrina stared down at the paper. It featured a maze shaped like a lobster, a word search, and a Tic-Tac-Toe grid.

"Now," the waiter said, taking out his pad. "Tonight’s special selections for the charity are the Jumbo Shrimp with Scallops served over a saffron risotto, or the Personal Beef Wellington with honey-glazed rosemary carrots."

Sabrina’s stomach growled. The Wellington sounded divine. She opened her mouth to order.

"I'll take the Wellington, rare," Julian said.

"Same for me," Sterling added.

"And the lady?" the waiter asked, looking at Sabrina.

"I'll have the Wel-"

"She’ll have the chicken fingers," Elena cut in effortlessly, not even looking up from her own menu, her index finger pressing into the kids menu in front of her fake niece, pointing to the kiddie options. "With the mac and cheese. And keep the Sprite coming, please."

"But, I want the steak," Sabrina protested, looking at Elena with genuine outrage.

"The Wellington is too rich for you, Rina," Elena said, closing her menu and handing it to the waiter. "And after that language? You're lucky you're getting dessert later. Chicken fingers are a safe bet; you can be so picky."

"Excellent choice," the waiter said, snatching the opportunity away before Sabrina could cause a scene. He disappeared toward the kitchen, not wanting to be involved in a conversation evolving an upset child.

Sabrina sat fuming, gripping a blue crayon so hard it threatened to snap. Across the table, Julian Vance picked up a red crayon. He reached across, drawing a large X in the center of Sabrina’s Tic-Tac-Toe grid.

"Your move, Rina," Julian said with a benevolent smile, before turning his head slightly to address Elena. "So, Elena, regarding the staffing for the Blackwood account... I was thinking we might need to restructure the oversight committee."

Sabrina’s ears perked up. Restructure the oversight committee? That was her committee. She needed to hear this. She leaned in, trying to catch the details.

"I think that's wise," Elena replied, her voice calm and professional. "Current leadership is . . . stretched thin."

Sabrina angrily drew an O in the corner of the grid, straining to listen.

"And what about you, young lady?" Edgar Sterling’s voice boomed, cutting through the intel Sabrina was trying to gather. "Starting fourth grade, I heard? That’s the year they start the multiplication tables in earnest, if I recall what they do in public school."

Sabrina blinked, her focus fracturing. "Um. Yes," she said, having no idea.

"Let’s see what you’ve got," Sterling challenged, looking amused. "What is seven times eight?"

"Fifty-six," Sabrina answered automatically, her eyes darting back to Julian, who was saying something about 'redundancies in middle management.'

"Good," Sterling nodded, "Nine times six?"

"Fifty-four," she muttered. Julian was drawing another X on her paper. He was blocking her win.

"Twelve times twelve?" Sterling pressed.

"One forty-four," Sabrina said, distracted. Julian was saying, “Halloway is brilliant, but perhaps too rigid for the transition phase . . .”

"What is eight times seven?" Sterling asked again, testing her focus.

"Forty-eight," Sabrina said, watching Julian’s lips move as he spoke to Elena.

There was a pause at the table.

Sabrina snapped her attention back to Sterling. "Wait. No. Fifty-six. I meant fifty-six."

Sterling smiled, a condescending, pitying expression settling on his face. He reached over and patted her hand, which was resting near the crayon box.

"Don't worry, my dear," Sterling said kindly, "It’s a lot of pressure with everyone watching. And frankly . . ." He glanced at Julian and then at Elena. "This is the trouble with the public school system in general. They just don't drill the fundamentals like they used to. At my Blackwood Academy, where my grandsons go, the fourth graders are doing pre-algebra."

"She’s a bright girl, Mr. Sterling," Elena said, coming to her defense with a tone that suggested she was covering for a slow child. "She just gets easily distracted. Don't you, Rina?"

"Your move," Julian said softly, tapping the paper where he had just placed his third X, winning the game while Sabrina was trying to do math and save her career at the same time. "Tic-Tac-Toe."

Sabrina looked down at the paper. She had lost. She looked at Sterling, who now seemed to think she was bad at math. She looked at Elena, who was eating a breadstick with the serenity of a saint.

The waiter arrived and placed a plastic bowl of bright orange macaroni and cheese in front of her.

"Enjoy," the waiter said.

Sabrina stared at the plastic bowl of neon-orange macaroni. It was the final insult. The smell of the saffron risotto wafting from the waiter’s tray was intoxicating, rich and buttery, calling to her refined tastes. She did not eat pasta meant for toddlers. "I am not eating this," Sabrina announced, her voice trembling with rage. She shoved the bowl away with enough force that it skidded across the linen tablecloth, stopping inches from the edge in front of Julian, threatening to fall off into his lap.

She looked at Elena, her eyes burning with defiance. "I'm not a child, and I demand to be treated with respect! I want the scallops and risotto!" Her mouth watered just saying it, the craving for a real meal overpowering her common sense, it hitting her extra hard when she hadn't eaten all day leaving her hangry for a number of reasons.

The table went silent. Julian raised an eyebrow, looking amused by the "little gourmand." Sterling, however, looked disappointed by the lack of gratitude.

"That is quite enough," Elena said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly low register when she saw their client's expression. She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse us, gentlemen. Rina needs a reset."

Elena moved with lightning speed, grabbing Sabrina by the upper arm. Her grip was iron. She hauled her work superior and current pretend niece out of the chair, not waiting for her to find her footing.

"I’ll come with you," Martha said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin and standing up. "Sometimes it takes two with a tantrum this size. Demanding scallops like a little princess . . . Honestly."

"I am not having a tantrum!" Sabrina screamed as she was dragged away from the table, her feet skidding on the carpet, enough that one of the little ballet flats came loose "I just want dinner! Let go of me!"

Elena didn't answer. She marched Sabrina across the ballroom, as Martha stopped to pick up the lost footwear as they moved through the lobby, and into the ladies' room. It was an opulent space with marble floors and gold fixtures, currently empty.

Elena spun Sabrina around and backed her against the sink counter. "Soap," Elena muttered, reaching for the dispenser, "I warned you about that mouth."

"Now, Elena," Martha tutted, closing the heavy restroom door and locking it. She looked at Sabrina with a critical, grandmotherly eye. "Soap is for bad words, certainly. But throwing food? Screaming at the table? Demanding adult food you probably won't even finish? That requires a firmer hand. If that were my Sarah, she’d be over my knee before the door clicked shut. It worked on my sons and I know it will work on your little one. She isn’t a bad girl; she’s just having a bad moment."

Elena paused, the soap dispenser in her hand. She looked from Martha to Sabrina, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You’re right. She needs to learn her place."

"No!" Sabrina panicked, backing up until the marble dug into her spine. "You can't touch me! I am your boss! I’m in charge!!"

Martha shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Such a bad attitude. She wasn’t acting so spoiled earlier. You have to break that delusion."

"I intend to," Elena said.

Before Sabrina could dart for the stall, Elena grabbed her wrist and spun her around. With a strength that Sabrina in her diminished, petite state could not match, Elena sat on a velvet vanity bench and yanked Sabrina down across her lap.

"Let me go!" Sabrina shrieked, kicking her legs. But she was too light, too small. Elena’s arm clamped across her back like a steel bar, pinning her in place.

The first smack landed hard against the tulle and silk of her dress.

"Ow!" Sabrina gasped, the shock of it more painful than the sting.

"Who are you?" Elena demanded, her voice calm and authoritative.

"What!?!" Sabrina yelled, and immediately received two sharp swats in rapid succession.

"Not listening only makes things worse, Rina," Martha advised from the sinks, putting the girl's shoe on the floor next to her before checking her lipstick in the mirror as if this were a normal occurrence. "Tell your Auntie the truth."

"I am telling the truth! I'm a director." Sabrina sobbed.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The pain was real, sharp, and humiliating. Sabrina realized with terrifying clarity that she couldn't overpower Elena. She was trapped in a child’s body, being disciplined by her subordinate, and the only way to make it stop was to surrender.

“Hmmm . . .” Martha started thinking about the girl's claim. “You know I’m a director of a whole division; it is cute that you want to be like me, but right now we need the truth.”

"Who are you?" Elena asked again, her hand raised.

"I-" Sabrina choked, her resolve crumbling under the physical reality of her helplessness. "I'm Rina."

"And how old are you?"

"Twenty-six!"

Smack!

"Try again," Elena warned, "Martha, how old does she act?"

"She’s ten but right now, she isn't acting like a big girl, I'd say," Martha chimed in.

"I'm ten!" Sabrina cried out, desperate to stop the stinging. "I'm ten years old!"

"And what grade are you in?" Elena pressed.

"I have a Master's degree!"

Smack. Smack.

"Fourth grade!" Sabrina wailed, tears streaming down her face. "I'm starting fourth grade!"

"And who is in charge?" Elena asked, her hand resting on Sabrina’s back, heavy and dominant.

"You are," Sabrina whispered into her own lap.

"And who am I?"

Smack. Smack.

Sniffling, Sabrina shook her head rapidly ready to say whatever her attacker wanted to stop the assault. “My Auntie . . . ”

“Good, now will you be a good girl!?”

Smack.

Squirming, trying to get free but finding no means of freedom, Sabrina tried to reach behind her to cover her sore rear end. "I will be a good girl," Sabrina recited, the words tasting like bile, "I'll be a good girl."

Elena smoothed down Sabrina’s skirt to cover the little girl's panties and lifted her upright. Sabrina stood there, face red, eyes wet, trembling with residual shock. She felt stripped of everything: Her title, her age, her dignity.

"Much better," Martha said, nodding approvingly, "Now, wash your face. We have a dinner to finish."

Ten minutes later, a subdued, red-eyed Sabrina was placed back into her chair at the table. She didn't argue when Elena tucked a napkin into her collar. She didn't speak when the waiter refilled her Sprite. She just picked up a chicken finger with a trembling hand and ate it, staring at the tablecloth.

"Everything alright?" Julian asked, looking at the silent girl.

"Much better," Elena said brightly, cutting into her beef wellington. "We just needed to get on the same page."

Edgar Sterling wiped his mouth, looking at Sabrina with a contemplative expression.

"You know," Sterling said, leaning back. "It’s hard to find that kind of discipline these days. Most parents let the children run the asylum. But, you . . . You have control, Elena. And the girl, despite her outbursts, has a spark. She’s bright."

He took a sip of wine. "Blackwood Academy prides itself on two things: academic rigor and character development. We take bright, spirited girls like little Rina here, and we mold them. We give them the structure they crave."

Sabrina chewed her macaroni, keeping her eyes down.

"I think she would be a perfect fit," Sterling continued. "In fact, I’d like to invite you both to tour the campus, as early as tomorrow if you like. I’m sure we have an opening in the fourth-grade. I think seeing the facility might help you decide if it’s the right environment for her to succeed."

Sabrina’s head snapped up. Elementary school? He wanted to send her to an elementary school?

"That is a very generous offer, Mr. Sterling," Elena said, feigning surprise, "We wouldn't want to impose."

"Nonsense," Sterling insisted, "I want to help. Bring her by. Julian can come along, and we can talk about the merger while the headmistress assesses Rina."

Sabrina looked at Elena, waiting for her to say no. But Elena was smiling.

"We would be honored," Elena said.

Sabrina’s mind raced. She should scream. She should flip the table. But then she looked at Julian Vance. He was nodding, looking impressed by Elena’s ability to secure such a personal invitation from the client.

If Sabrina refused . . . if she threw another fit here, things could end badly for her. If she agreed, and then she didn’t show . . . Sterling would be insulted. The merger talks would stall. Elena would be to blame, looking incompetent, but the department, Sabrina’s department, would suffer. She was sure when she was looking back like herself and having the time to formulate a plan, she could save herself and the department. Just not the vile, dark haired woman that dared to treat her like this.

‘I have to go.’ Sabrina reasoned, clutching her fork. ‘If I don't go, things only get better for me and worse for the giraffe. Once the papers are signed, I’ll fire Elena and get my life back.’ It was a desperate, delusional rationalization, but it was the only thing keeping her from screaming.

"What do you say, Rina?" Sterling asked, smiling at her, "Would you like to come see my school?"

Sabrina looked at the man who held her company’s future in his hands. She looked at Elena, who was daring her to play along.

"Yes, sir," Sabrina whispered, defeated. "I would like that."

Chapter Seven

The gala didn’t just fade away as the evening went on; it was dismissed by Edgar Sterling himself. He rose from the table, moving closer to the entrance doors for the reserved room, a hotel employee coming over to hand him a microphone, his voice booming comfortably over the remnants of dessert and the low murmur of tired conversation. "I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight," the spectacled man said, his gaze sweeping over the room, him taking the time to nod and smile at each table in turn, him beaming at the crowd as he unbuttoned his suit jacket. "Thank you for purchasing a plate, or in some cases, a whole table. Every dollar raised tonight is going straight to the foundation, and that is something you should all be proud of."

He raised his glass, catching the light of the chandeliers. "For those of you heading home, drive safe. For the wise ones who booked a room upstairs . . . I’ll see you at the hotel bar in ten minutes."

Applause rippled through the room. For Sabrina, it was the sound of salvation. It meant the night was over. It meant she could finally drop the act, get back to her car, and forget this nightmare ever happened. She started to push her chair back, eager to bolt for the exit, but the humiliation, it seemed, was just getting its second wind.

Vance was there before she could even stand.

"Allow me," he said, pulling Elena's chair out first, ignoring Sabrina entirely.

Sabrina froze, hovering awkwardly halfway out of her seat, forced to push her own chair back with the backs of her legs while Vance offered Elena a hand up like she was royalty.

"Thank you, Mr. Vance," Elena said softly, smoothing her dress.

"Please, call me Julian," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Mr. Vance is for the office. I would like to think we can move past that formality when at a social event. And I insist on walking you to your car. The lot can be chaotic."

"We don't need-" Sabrina started to say, ready to snap that they knew the way.

"We would appreciate that," Elena interrupted, placing a warning hand on Sabrina’s head before running her fingers through one of the pigtails, sliding along the ribbon in her hair.

They moved toward the exit, the cool night air hitting them as they stepped out of the venue. The warning of the oncoming rain was present now. The moment they cleared the doors, Julian made his move. He didn't just walk beside them; he captured Elena’s hand, his fingers interlacing with hers in a way that was far too intimate for a business acquaintance.

Sabrina watched the contact, her stomach churning with rage and jealousy. She didn't even fully understand the reason, she was positive she didn’t have any attraction to the judgmental rich prick, but seeing him treat her assistant like a prize while ignoring the woman who signed the contracts that brought in the money made her blood boil.

To maintain the charade, Elena reached out with her free hand and gripped Sabrina’s. "Come along, sweetie," Elena cooed, tightening her grip.

The result was a grotesque human chain: Julian, the charming suitor; Elena, the demure guardian; and Sabrina, dragged along like a toddler with a sticky face. Her not resisting the hand holding after the encounter in the ladies room and being so worn out from the stress of the night and long day at the office.

"So," Julian said, swinging Elena’s hand slightly as they walked down the paved path. "When you aren't chaperoning spirited nieces or managing events, what does a beautiful lady like yourself do?"

Sabrina squeezed Elena’s hand hard, trying to convey her fury through bone compression. ‘She works for me,’ Sabrina thought venomously. ‘She organizes my calendar. She doesn't have a life. Or need a life.’

Julian didn't look at Sabrina. He was entirely focused on the woman in the middle. "Are you a wine and jazz kind of woman? Or more of a hiking boots and trails type?"

Elena glanced down at her heeled feet not even flinching at Sabrina's weak attempt at a death grip. She just squeezed back, her hold like a vice, while smiling up at Julian. "Oh, I keep things simple. I like quiet nights, a good book or movie. But when the opportunity presents itself, I'm like most women, enjoying a chance to get dolled up. Though I admit, I don't get out as much as I should. Work keeps me rather busy."

"We'll have to change that," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave. "You need someone to show you there's more to life than work."

Sabrina gagged internally. They reached the car–her car–her beautiful, customized luxury sedan that Elena had driven earlier. Instinct took over. The moment they stopped, Sabrina dropped Elena’s hand and reached for the front passenger door handle.

Elena was faster.

Before Sabrina’s fingers could graze the chrome, Elena stepped in front of her, blocking the path with her hip, and popped open the rear door. "Backseat, sweetie," Elena said, her voice sugary but her eyes hard.

Sabrina opened her mouth to snap, but Julian spoke up, his brow furrowing as he looked from Sabrina to the cavernous leather interior of the back seat.

"Wait," he said, pausing with his hand on the roof, "Do you have a booster for her? Or a car seat?"

Sabrina froze. She stared at him, waiting for the punchline to the mean spirited joke. "She looks a little small for just the belt," Julian continued, his tone genuinely concerned, "The shoulder strap is going to cut right across her neck."

"We usually have one," Elena lied, not nearly as smoothly or as quickly as she would have liked. "But her mother, my sister . . . She has it in her SUV right now. "

Julian looked uneasy. "You really need to be careful, Elena. You have to keep your little niece safe. The highway can be dangerous at this hour."

"I know," Elena said, sounding suitably chastised, "I'll pick a new one up first thing in the morning."

She ushered Sabrina in. Sabrina climbed into the backseat, her cheeks burning, her frilly skirt bunching up around her legs. She scowled, crossing her arms, but the humiliation wasn't over.

Elena leaned into the backseat, reaching right over the fake child.

"What are you doing?" Sabrina hissed.

"Safety first," Elena muttered. She grabbed the seatbelt, pulled it across Sabrina’s chest, and clicked it into the buckle herself. She gave the strap a firm tug to tighten it, effectively pinning Sabrina against the leather.

Elena pulled back, hand on the door but not closing it yet. Through the open door, Sabrina watched them say a lingering goodbye, a soft touch on the arm.

“You know . . .” Julian rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uneasy about the confession he was about to say. “I was tempted to invite you back up to my room.”

Tapping her index finger to her lipsticked lips, Elena leaned closer to her company's leader. “Were tempted, as in past tense?”

Julian chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Yeah, I'm now tempted to go home with you, but I think that would be crossing a line. Not just professionally, but with your niece with you . . . Even if it would be nice.”

Placing her palm on the tall man’s chest, thanks to her footwear she was eye level with the man.”Julian, are you flirting with me?” she smiled coyly. He took a half step back, but his demeanor didn’t show he was fully closed off. ”For at least one of us, it is sad you won't give in to that temptation, though I can see the appeal of sleeping my way to the top.”

“An interesting strategy. Think it will work?”

Elena shook her head laughing, her smile easily reaching her eyes. “No, you have too much–or is it… the right amount of–integrity.”

Julian shook his head in tandem. “You have your niece for the week, right?

Elena nodded her head not sure where the question was leading to.

“I understand Rina is going on a playdate with Ms. Higgins' granddaughter for a tea party. Perhaps you could use a plus one?

The interaction was making Sabrina sick. ‘If Thorne wants to slut it up, why is she pussy footing around it?’ she thought, the topic of the infuriating playdate catching her attention.”I’m not going to that!” she yelled so both those outside the car could hear. Instead of verbal response, the dark haired woman shut the car door, sealing her inside buckled tightly in.

“Sorry about her, she is tired after such an eventful evening.”

Inside the car Sabrina, seethed watching the two continue to talk before seemingly agreeing to something before Elena got into the driver's seat.

"You," Sabrina seethed as the engine purred to life, "are fired. Re-hired, just so I can fire you again. And fucking the CEO isn’t going to save you."

"Buckle up," Elena said calmly, checking her mirrors, "Oh, wait. I already did that for you."

They pulled out of the lot, leaving Julian waving in the rearview mirror. Sabrina was just beginning to construct a lecture on insubordination that would peel the paint off the walls when blue and red lights exploded in the cabin.

A siren chirped behind them.

"Unbelievable," Sabrina groaned. "You're speeding? In my car?"

"I was doing thirty," Elena said, frowning. She pulled over to the curb.

The officer who approached the window looked bored. He shined his flashlight into the front, then immediately into the back, the beam landing square on Sabrina’s face.

"License and registration," the officer said. "Are you aware the tint on your car is too dark? As in, illegal? It's way too dark."

"It's factory custom!" Sabrina shouted from the back.

The officer ignored her. He took Elena’s license and the registration Sabrina had to direct Elena to find in the glove box. He walked away, ran the numbers, and returned with a clipboard.

"I'm writing you a citation for the tint," the officer said to Elena. "And a second citation for you not properly securing your little one."

Elena blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Unrestrained child," the officer said, tapping his pen against the clipboard. "She's not in a booster seat."

Something inside Sabrina snapped. The wire holding her sanity together frayed and parted. She lunged forward against the seatbelt.

"Are you blind?" she shrieked. "I am twenty-six years old! I am a grown woman! I own this car, and I make millions at my job. The company that probably pays your precinct's taxes! I don't need a damn booster seat!"

The officer looked at her. He looked at the pigtails. He looked at the oversized bow on her dress. He looked at how her feet barely touched the floor mats, he mostly looked bored.

His expression didn't change.

"Ma'am," he deadpanned, "The law is based on height and weight, not age. You don't meet the requirements. Sit back against the seat." he said, not believing the girl or caring.

He ripped the ticket off the pad and handed it to Elena. "Drive safe. And get a booster carseat for the kid." He walked away.

Silence filled the car. It was heavy, thick, and suffocating. Elena placed the tickets on the dashboard. She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. The officer of the State had just legally notified Sabrina that she needed to sit in a booster or carseat, like a child. She merged back onto the road. To break the silence, she reached out and turned on the radio. A bubbly, vapid pop song blasted through the high-end speakers, something about teenage heartbreak and glitter.

"Turn this garbage off," Sabrina snapped, her voice trembling with rage. "Put on The Market Watch podcast. I need to check the Asian markets."

Elena did reach for the dial, but only to turn the volume up a notch."No," Elena replied.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no." Elena caught Sabrina’s eye in the rearview mirror. "Driver picks the music. The passenger shuts their cakehole."

Sabrina gasped, too shocked to retort. She turned to stare out the window, plotting her revenge, when she realized the skyline was wrong. The skyscrapers were fading behind them. They were passing strip malls and gas stations.

"Where are you going?" Sabrina demanded. "My penthouse is to the north. You're heading west."

"We aren't going to your penthouse," Elena said.

"Turn around. Take me home. That is a direct order."

"I can't," Elena said reasonably, "Think about it, Sabrina. You have no ID. You have no keys. You have no purse. And your clothes are back at my place. Right now, you're dressed like a doll at a tea party." Elena signaled a turn into a neighborhood of older, modest homes. "Your building has a doorman and security," Elena continued. "Do you really think they're going to let you waltz in looking like that, screaming that you're renting the penthouse? They'll call the police. And frankly, after that last ticket, I don't think you want to talk to the police again tonight."

Sabrina slumped back. The logic was right, she didn’t personally know the door man or the security despite seeing the same faces for years, and that meant they wouldn't know her. Not when her own boss didn't bat an eye, and the old bat had taken one look at her and was convinced she was just a child; it made her want to scream.

Elena led her up the walkway and unlocked the front door. The air inside smelled of vanilla and fresh linens, a stark contrast to the stale anger radiating off Sabrina, thanks to the aggressive air fresheners plugged into every outlet.

"Once more, welcome to my humble abode," Elena said, tossing her keys, complete with Sabrina’s luxury car fob attached, into a ceramic bowl near the door. The clatter sounded far too aggressive for the eventful evening.

Elena pointed to the stairs. "Up and first door on the left. You can sleep in there; it is where you got changed. My niece's room before they moved out of state, if you recall."

Sabrina walked to the stairs and craned her neck to look up, but her movement was awkward. After years of strictly wearing high heeled stilettos, her achilles tendons had shortened significantly. Being forced into flat shoes for hours was agonizing; her calves seized up if she stood flat-footed.

To compensate, she found herself walking on the balls of her feet, bouncing slightly with her knees pressed together to keep the frilly dress from swishing too much.

Elena watched her tip-toe toward the landing, a small smirk touching her lips. "Half-bath is under the stairs, Sabrina. Full bathroom is across the hall from where you're sleeping. You don't have to hold it. You look like you're doing the potty dance."

Sabrina whipped around, her face flaming. "I do not need to use the potty! I mean restroom . . . My legs hurt because these hideous shoes offer no arch support!"

"Right," Elena said, clearly not believing her, "Well, you know where things are."

Sabrina hobbled up the steps, wincing, and peered into the room on the left. It was exactly as she remembered from earlier: a nightmare in pastel pink. There were stuffed animals on the bed, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, and a rug shaped like a cloud.

"I am not," Sabrina said, enunciating every word, "sleeping in a nursery."

"It's the only other bed I have," Elena said from the bottom of the stairs, kicking off her heels and rubbing her own aching feet. "Besides, you already took a nap there, unless you prefer sleeping on the floor."

Sabrina turned away from the pink room. Her eyes drifted down the hall to the open door at the end, the master bedroom. She could see the edge of a queen-sized bed with a normal, grey duvet.

"I'll take that one," Sabrina said, pointing to the Master Bedroom. "You can sleep on the couch."

Elena stopped, rubbing her foot. She looked at the stairs, at the woman at the top of the stairs. The woman who had been disciplined, humiliated, ticketed, and legally classified as a child, bouncing on her toes like a toddler needing a toilet, yet still had the audacity to demand the homeowner’s bed.

"Is that so?" Elena asked softly, her voice devoid of the subservience Sabrina was used to at the office. She wasn't going to move to vacate her own room. She didn't even look angry. She just looked like a parent waiting for a tantrum to run its course. "We can discuss your delusions of grandeur after you’ve washed up. The bathroom is right there. And Rina? Don't forget to wash your hands."

Sabrina opened her mouth to argue, to fire her again, to scream that she was the Director of Operations at Aegis Strategic Logistics, a woman who commanded entire fleets and negotiated international shipping contracts, but a sharp cramp in her calf and the undeniable pressure in her bladder kept her from exploding on her assistant. “My name is Sabrina . . . ” She said, dragging out her name, even annoyed at herself for saying her own first name instead of her family name like her subordinate was supposed to use. With a huff that blew a stray hair out of her face, she spun around, wincing as her heels didn't touch the floor, and stomped on her tiptoes into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

The moment the lock clicked, Elena moved. She didn't go to the master bedroom to pack her things. Instead, she walked briskly into the nursery.

On the floor, in a discarded heap where Sabrina had frantically changed hours ago, lay Sabrina's expensive padded bra and matching lace thong. Elena scooped them up with a shake of her head. They wouldn’t do for progressing things. She tossed them into the hamper in the hallway, burying them under a pile of towels.

She checked the closet. Sabrina’s power suit was hanging there, looking like a shell of the authority Sabrina thought she still held. Elena left it. It was a taunt, really. Close enough to see, but useless for sleeping. The heels and the purse, however, were safely stowed in the living room closet downstairs, behind some jackets.

The bathroom door creaked open. Sabrina emerged, her face freshly scrubbed; her makeup had been removed long ago. She was still doing the awkward, bouncing walk, her hands smoothing down the front of the frilly dress.

"I feel disgusting," Sabrina muttered, entering the pink room and kicking the door stop so the door drifted shut, though not all the way. "I need my silk pajamas at home. Where is my purse? We can still get there before midnight."

"You misplaced it. Honestly, if you had paid attention rather than storming into a house that isn’t yours, this whole Rina situation would have been avoided," Elena said, leaning against the dresser, "And you aren't getting it tonight unless you suddenly remember where you misplaced it. I have something for you; you can sleep in this."

Elena tossed a garment onto the bed. It was a nightgown, a light lilac purple cotton with small, faded white ducks printed on the hem. It belonged to her niece during her 'awkward growth spurt' phase, meaning it would fit Sabrina, but it was hardly high fashion.

Sabrina stared at it with genuine horror. "I am not wearing that. I sleep in silk or I sleep in nothing. I’ll just sleep nude."

She reached for the zipper of her dress, struggling to reach it past the oversized bow.

"Absolutely not," Elena said, her tone sharp enough to make Sabrina pause. "You are not sleeping naked in my niece's bed. That is unsanitary and disrespectful. You will wear the nightgown."

"It has ducks on it, Elena!"

"And so what? It's cute and you know it. Put it on, or I’ll put it on for you. And considering how tired you look, I don't think you want to wrestle me for it. Not after your negligence got me a ticket for the tint on your car."

Sabrina glared, her hands trembling from exhaustion, her memory plenty sharp to remember how she had been manhandled in the bathroom; her rear was still a bit sore from the encounter. The fight had drained out of her with adrenaline. She was in a stranger's house and technically she had no car, no money, and her feet felt like they were on fire.

"Fine," she spat.

She unzipped the dress and let it pool around her ankles, stepping out of it with her strange, tiptoed gait. She was left standing in the white camisole and the plain, full-coverage cotton panties Elena had forced her into earlier. She snatched the nightgown from the bed and pulled it over her head. It was soft, smelling of lavender detergent, but she refused to admit it was comfortable.

"Happy?" Sabrina asked, the nightgown falling to her knees, making her look even smaller.

"Ecstatic," Elena deadpanned.

Sabrina hobbled over to the corner of the room where a child-sized white vanity table sat. It was the only place to sit other than the bed. She collapsed onto the small, cushioned stool. Tonight, she had sat in some chairs that left her feet dangling and now, here in the child's bedroom, she found a chair the right height for someone vertically challenged like her.

"My feet are ruined," Sabrina moaned, looking at her reflection in the oval mirror bordered by painted flowers, "I'm going to need physical therapy. And this hair . . . I look ridiculous." She reached up to tug at the ribbons, but her fingers were clumsy with fatigue. She fumbled with the knot, pulling it tighter by mistake. "Ow! Damnit!"

"Stop before you rip it out," Elena said. Before Sabrina could protest, Elena moved behind her. "Hands down."

Sabrina hesitated, watching Elena’s reflection in the mirror, then dropped her hands to her lap. Elena’s fingers were deft and gentle. She untied the ribbons, sliding the silk out of the hair, and carefully unwound the elastic bands.

You have far too many knots in your hair," Elena murmured, not unkindly. She picked up a paddle brush from the vanity, a pink one, naturally. "Hold still."

Sabrina braced herself for pain, but it didn't come. Elena started at the ends, gently working through the tangles created by the teasing and her hair bouncing annoyingly as she walked in the child-like hair style. The rhythm was slow and methodical. Brush, smooth, brush, smooth.

Sabrina’s eyes fluttered. The tension in her shoulders, which she had been carrying like a weight since the first moment she saw the tulle dress she was to wear began to melt. The sensation of the bristles scratching lightly against her scalp sent a shiver down her spine, not of fear, but of comfort.

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of the brush moving through her hair. Sabrina stared at her own reflection, her vision blurring slightly. For a second, it wasn't Elena standing behind her. It was a memory, warm and golden. She was seven years old, sitting on the floor of her childhood bedroom. Her mother was behind her, brushing her hair before bed, humming a song Sabrina couldn't quite remember anymore. It was a feeling of being safe. Of being small, but protected. Of being cared for without a contract or an agenda.

"There," Elena whispered, the word pulling Sabrina back from the edge of sleep, "All done."

Sabrina blinked, the memory fading but the feeling lingering in her chest, a strange ache she hadn't felt in years. She looked in the mirror. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, framing her face which, stripped of so much of herself, even her regular scowl, she found herself looking and feeling surprisingly younger but for the first time it wasn’t wholly negative to her overly tired exhausted mind.

"I-" Sabrina started, her voice lacking its usual venom. She cleared her throat, trying to find her inner, in-control self again, but nothing came other than more weariness.

"Come on," Elena said, placing the brush back on the vanity with a soft clatter. She tapped the mattress behind her. "Up."

Sabrina didn't have the energy to argue about being ordered around. Her feet were throbbing in time with her heartbeat, and the adrenaline crash had left her limbs feeling like lead. She stood up, doing her awkward, tiptoe shuffle over to the bed, and climbed in.

The mattress was softer than she preferred; she liked her beds firm enough to bounce a quarter off. The sheets were jersey cotton, not the high-thread-count Egyptian she purchased for her own bed at home. But as she sank into the pillows, a groan of pure, unadulterated relief escaped her lips.

Elena moved instinctively. It was muscle memory from years of watching her niece. She reached down, grabbed the edge of the duvet, and pulled it up to Sabrina’s chin, smoothing out the wrinkles over her shoulders. She even tucked the corners in tight around Sabrina’s sides, creating a warm, restrictive cocoon.

Sabrina blinked up at her, feeling oddly comfortable. It was a sensation she usually associated with the third glass of Pinot Noir, not a child’s bedroom in the suburbs.

"I need a drink," Sabrina mumbled, her eyes heavy, "I should have had more wine at the gala. Then maybe none of this would have happened."

"You had none and that was plenty," Elena said, her voice quiet in the small room. She rested her hand on the bedpost, looking down at the woman who usually terrified the interns. "But I have to know . . . Why in the world did you agree to visit Sterling's school? You hate PR stunts, and you hate wasting time. I expected you to shut him down the moment he asked."

Sabrina shifted in the covers, the duck-print nightgown twisting around her legs. She stared at a glow-in-the-dark star stuck to the ceiling, her defenses too lowered by exhaustion to lie. "I was mad," Sabrina admitted, her voice slurring slightly into the pillow. Everyone kept going on and on . . . acting like you were amazing. Giving you all the praise I deserved. It pissed me off."

"So you agreed to a tour?" Elena questioned.

"I agreed," Sabrina mumbled, her eyes finally closing, "because I knew I would never show up. I made the promise in your name. So when the day comes and there is a no-show . . . you're the one who looks like a flake who disappointed the rich man. The offer gets dismissed after agreeing . . . and you look bad."

Elena stared at her. "You agreed to a tour just to sabotage my reputation with a client? To make me look unreliable?"

"It seemed like a good strategy at the time," Sabrina whispered, her breathing already evening out into the rhythmic puff of sleep. "Checkmate . . . "

Elena shook her head, a mixture of disbelief and amusement on her face. Even half-asleep and dressed like a toddler, Sabrina was still playing corporate warfare.

"Goodnight, Rina," Elena whispered.

She reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness, save for the soft, amber glow of a nightlight plugged into the wall near the door, a plastic sleeping bear that Elena had completely forgotten to unplug and the little stars on the ceiling. The nightlight casting long, soft shadows across the room, illuminating Sabrina’s sleeping face in a warm, golden hue.

Stepping out into the hall and pulling the door shut, Elena left it cracked just an inch–another habit she hadn't quite shaken. Elena walked down the stairs, the silence of the house finally settling around her. Her own feet were aching as she crossed the living room into the small kitchen. Not turning on the overhead lights; the streetlamp outside provided enough illumination. She opened the cabinet above the fridge and pulled out a bottle of red wine. It wasn't the vintage stuff Sabrina kept in her penthouse; it was a fifteen-dollar bottle from the grocery store. She didn't bother with a glass. Popping the cork, she took a long, slow pull straight from the bottle, and leaned back against the counter.

The tall slim built woman stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence of her home.

No sound of footsteps, or of doors, she let out a tired sigh. Sabrina Halloway, the Director of Operations, the terror of the boardroom, was asleep in her niece’s duck nightgown. Tucked into a twin bed, waiting for morning.

Elena took another drink, a slow smile spreading across her face just as the sound in her home changed as the skies that had been threatening rain made good on their promise as a downpour began.

"You say checkmate, but you don’t know the game we are playing," Elena whispered to the empty room.

Chapter Eight

Morning came quietly, the pale light filtering in through the bedroom curtains as Elena’s alarm went off. She silenced it immediately, more out of habit than necessity, already awake enough that the sound felt unnecessary. Weekdays always started this way: Too early. Yet her body moved anyhow through her waking routine, slightly on autopilot before her thoughts fully caught up, the discipline of routine carrying her out of bed without hesitation.

She rose without lingering, swinging her legs over the side of the bed reaching for the robe draped across the chair, tying it loosely as she crossed the room. The mirror caught her in passing, hair still loose from sleep, face bare but alert, eyes already clear in a way they rarely were first thing in the morning. Whatever remained of the night before sat neatly filed away, not forgotten, but no longer demanding attention. Not that her scheme was without flaws and ways for it to blow up in her face, but she no longer felt like she was walking on thin ice ready to fall out from underneath her. The shower was brief and functional, heat loosening the last of the stiffness from her shoulders as steam fogged the glass. The lithe woman let her thoughts move ahead of her hands, needing to not dwell on everything and move ahead with the day to come. This morning carried weight, and she acknowledged it without indulging it.

Dressing with care, she moved piece by piece through the familiar ritual. Boyshort lace panties, shelf bra, sheer pantyhose smoothed into place before the fitted satin blouse; the soft plum fabric caught the light as she fastened the buttons and tied the pussybow at her throat. The cream-colored pencil skirt followed, tight enough to demand awareness with every step, falling neatly just below the knee. Her hair went up into a clean bun, restrained and controlled enough, leaving strategically few tendrils loose to soften the line of her face. Makeup came next, precise to enhance what she had been blessed with without looking like she was ready for a date, shadow and liner chosen to draw attention to her eyes without theatrics, lip liner and lipstick applied to shape rather than exaggerate. The glossy nude heels completed the look, three inches of stiletto elevation that aligned posture and intent.

By the time she adjusted her slim watch and smoothed the skirt one last time, she looked exactly as she needed to. Composed and unmistakably professional, without sacrificing her femininity. The faint difference in herself registering not as excitement, but as steadiness.

The house remained quiet as she stepped into the hallway. Her memories of having a guest were contrasted by the absence of movement, telling her no one was up and about. Sabrina was not careless with time, alarm or not, and the lack of footsteps or doors opening made Elena slow slightly as she passed the guest room. The door still closed, as she had left it, and after a moment’s pause she rested her hand against the knob and listened, hearing only the soft, even rhythm of breathing on the other side.

She opened the door carefully. The room was unchanged, frozen in the soft disarray of sleep, the small figure beneath the covers barely shifted, the nightgown twisted slightly at the knees where restlessness had tugged at it hours earlier. Without the tension of resistance or performance, without sharpness or command, the woman in the bed looked almost unreal, softened by sleep and framed by a room that should have mocked her but instead seemed to fit her disturbingly well.

Elena let herself observe for a moment longer than necessary, noting the steady rise and fall of Sabrina’s chest, the absence of lines from her brow, the way exhaustion had stripped her down to something deceptively gentle. Someone else might have mistaken it for innocence. Elena knew better.

Her attention lingered on the bed for a moment longer than it should have. The steady breathing, the way sleep had softened everything sharp about the woman tangled in pastel sheets. There was something almost disarming about it, enough that Elena felt the faint tug of hesitation again, quickly recognized and set aside. Sympathy was a poor guide for what needed to happen next.

Turning away, her focus shifted to the closet, the place where choices waited to be made whether Sabrina was ready to face them or not. Inside, the power suit hung exactly where it had been left the night before, expensive, made to be fitted perfectly to her diminutive boss’s frame and add a level of authority to her. It didn’t belong in the room the way the nightgown and stuffed animals did, even when simply hanging in the closet.

Rather than taking it away entirely, or leaving it partially hidden where it was, Elena decided the opposite would be more effective. She lifted it from the hanger and crossed the room, silently as she could, moving to the triptych of full-length mirrors in the center of the room, the one she’d installed after her niece moved out so she could check lines and proportions from every angle when getting ready for work. She hung the suit over the left-most mirror, blocking the reflection from one of the angles.

From the bed, once waking eyes adjusted, it would be impossible to miss. If things went right, it wouldn’t be worn, but it would give her boss something to focus on. The familiar object would give her something that made her feel more at ease, yet would remain just out of reach.

Satisfied, Elena stepped back, giving the room one last glance before leaving and closing the door behind her. ‘Breakfast first. Let the tiny witch sleep for now. She will need the energy,’ Elena thought.

Descending the stairs, the quiet followed her into the kitchen. With it came a memory, the image of Sabrina Halloway across a polished desk, smiling as she praised Elena’s capability while gently explaining why she couldn’t recommend her for the promotion she applied for outside of Sabrina’s direct control. ‘Too soft,’ she’d said, framed as concern. ‘Better to stay where you belong. You’re valuable there. Useful. Protected.’

Elena set a pan on the stove, the motion grounding as the memory faded back into its proper place, no longer sharp enough to sting. It wasn’t rage that remained, but resolution.

She opened the refrigerator to gather what she needed to start cooking, reaching automatically for eggs before pausing. There were only a few left. Not enough for two people for a meal. The realization came with a brief, sharp flicker of annoyance at herself for letting things run low, followed by a slower, more deliberate consideration. She had planned to make breakfast for both of them. For a moment she stood there, the cool air spilling out around her, weighing a choice on how to proceed. Then she pulled the sausage from the drawer and set it on the counter. Her movements stayed steady as she sliced it down, cracked the remaining eggs into the pan, and began scrambling them. She folded everything together with measured care, adding a small dash of salt and a sprinkle of shredded cheese before it was ready to be pulled off the heat.

Standing there a moment longer than necessary, watching the eggs set in the pan, the faintest pinch of unease tightening in her chest. Not regret exactly, and not second thoughts, but the awareness that this was a line being crossed deliberately. Part of her did feel bad. That much was honest. Sabrina looked smaller asleep than she ever did awake, and there was a lingering echo of last night that made this feel uncomfortably intimate.

The feeling that gave her pause didn’t last; the guilt gave way to something more firm, more settled. This wasn’t about payback for sharp words and a bruised pride. It was about stopping a pattern of abuse that had been allowed to run unchecked for too long. The tiny tyrant didn’t just cut people down; she cultivated dependence, kept those beneath her exhausted and second-guessing themselves, convinced they deserved it. Elena had watched it happen to others after it happened to her.

If this slowed Sabrina down, if it forced her out of her usual momentum even briefly, then so be it. She could afford to start the day off balance. She could afford to be uncomfortable. Elena finished cooking, plated the food neatly, and poured orange juice into a glass. She wiped the counter, arranging everything neatly on a lap tray, before lifting it and turning back toward the stairs. Feeling a little bad didn’t mean she was wrong; it just meant she was human. And ultimately, Elena felt confident in her decision.

Carrying the tray carefully, Elena moved back up the stairs, each step measured to keep the contents steady, the faint warmth of the plate seeping into her palms. The guest room door yielded silently beneath her hand, opening just enough to slip inside without disturbing the stillness she’d left behind earlier.

She crossed to the bed and sat along the edge, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight. Up close, sleep had softened everything. Lashes resting dark against pale skin, breath slow and even, the nightgown bunched loosely where one knee had drawn up beneath the covers. It was an image that tugged again at something inconvenient, the quiet reminder of how easily appearances misled, how serene Sabrina could look when stripped of authority and sharpened intent.

Reaching out, Elena brushed a few strands of hair away from Sabrina’s temple, the gesture more tender than she expected herself to act, clearing space before leaning down to press a brief kiss to her forehead. It was the type of thing she would do to wake up her niece and she found the act feeling natural despite knowing the truth.

The reaction from the sleeping figure was subtle but unmistakable. Breathing shifted first, the slow rhythm faltering before settling again, lashes fluttering faintly as awareness began to surface. A small movement followed, shoulders adjusting beneath the covers, the beginnings of a frown pulling at her brow as sleep loosened its hold.

Only then did Elena shift the tray, lifting it from her own lap and settling it carefully across Sabrina’s thighs, adjusting it until it rested securely. The scent followed naturally, eggs and sausage warming the air between them, close enough now to register even through the fog of waking. A faint inhale came first, deeper than the last, followed by another, confusion threading through the motion. Eyes opened partway, unfocused at first, landing on Elena’s face before drifting downward, registering the unfamiliar weight across her lap. The tray, the plate, the glass of orange juice catching the light.

Disorientation came quickly after that. The wrong ceiling. The pastel walls. The mirrors. Her suit draped deliberately within her line of sight. Memory rushed in uneven fragments, the previous night collapsing into the present with a violent sharpness that pulled her fully awake.

Only when seeing her boss come to did Elena speak, her voice low and even, timed to the moment of Sabrina's awareness coming around.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” she said calmly.

For a moment, Sabrina didn’t answer. Her eyes fluttered a few more times as she glanced down at herself and what she was wearing and the god damned duck on it. The phrase ‘sleepy head’ sat wrong in her ears; it was like it should be followed by a term of endearment like ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’. Considering who it came from, it was all very wrong. The tone was worse, sweet and calm and at the same time sounding like Elena was talking down to her. Sabrina stared at the tray as if it had appeared there by mistake, her hands hovering uselessly at her sides, fingers flexing once before curling into the blanket that had kept her warm and comfortable all night.

“What . . . ” Her voice came out softer than she meant, like that part of her was still just waking up, the word trailing off as she cleared her throat and tried again. “What is this?!”

The question was small but, like the young women it came from, there was a great deal of force behind it; she was used to speaking with authority and it showed. She shifted as she took in the weight and warmth of the tray from the breakfast in bed. Her stomach betrayed her with a quiet, unmistakable response, audibly gurgling.

“I didn’t ask for breakfast,” she said, ignoring what her stomach announced with a frown coming to her face, lifting her chin slightly as if posture alone could reassert order. “I don’t eat in the mornings. You know that.”

Her gaze flicked back to Elena, irritation sharpening as memory finished slotting itself into place. The gala. The drive. The night that hadn’t ended when or where it should have. Being here at all. She pushed the tray a fraction of an inch away from her body, as if distance might undo its presence. “I’ll have coffee,” she added, the words delivered with practiced certainty, “Tall. One extra shot of espresso. Cream and sugar.” It sounded like an order because that was how she’d meant it; the cadence was automatic, like she was speaking to a service worker she had no intention of tipping. For a split second, she might as well have been seated at a café counter instead of tangled in a child’s bed, dressed in cotton and ducks.

Only then did the absurdity catch up to her. The room pressed in again, the mirrors reflecting angles she didn’t recognize, her suit hanging just out of reach like a promise she could see but not quite touch. She swallowed, irritation bleeding into unease, as she tried to ignore the way the food still smelled . . . good.

Her eyes dropped again, unwillingly this time, tracing the plate, the glass, the care with which everything had been arranged. “Take it away,” she said, quieter now but no less firm. “I don’t have time for this. I need to get dressed and get to the office.”

The words sounded weaker than her normal familiar authority, ringing hollow in the child's space she found herself partially assimilated into, the sentence undercut by the simple fact that she hadn’t moved yet, hadn’t pushed the tray off her lap, hadn’t stood. She remained where she was, half-awake and entirely out of place, waiting for the world to snap back into alignment and do as she demanded.

Elena didn’t move to take the tray. She stayed seated on the edge of the bed, posture composed, hands resting loosely in her lap as she looked down at the woman who normally never looked up at anyone. Part of her wished she was quick-witted enough to say her pause wasn't accidental, like it was there to give Sabrina just enough time to feel the contradiction between her words and her stillness, between command and circumstance. The truth was, she was just scrambling to come up with what to do or say next. “You don’t eat in the mornings,” Elena agreed mildly, her tone matter-of-fact rather than deferential, as if she were confirming a calendar entry, “Most days you live on caffeine until noon and pretend it counts as fuel.”

She reached out then, not to reclaim the tray, but to nudge it back the fraction of an inch Sabrina had pushed it away, steadying it where she had put it initially. “And I don’t have an espresso machine,” she continued, as if this were simply the next logical point in the conversation, “No coffee pot, either. Just the pod brewer, and I ran out.” A brief pause, long enough to register. “I used the last one while I was cooking.” Her gaze lifted to meet Sabrina’s fully now, calm and direct. “So, this is what’s available.”

The room seemed to tighten around the two of them, the mirrors holding their reflections in place, the suit hovering in Sabrina’s peripheral vision like a reminder of what she expected the day to look like and how little control she currently had over it. Elena tilted her head slightly, studying her, trying to prepare for the little blonde’s tirade of a rebuttal. “You have a full day,” she added, not unkindly, “You always do. Meetings, calls, people waiting on you to be sharp. Skipping food doesn’t make you efficient, it just makes you irritable.” A faint, knowing look crossed her face. “And you don’t need any help with that.”

She let the silence settle again, the smell of eggs and sausage still present, still tempting despite the refusal. “Please eat. I gave you the last of my eggs before I can go grocery shopping.”

Elena didn’t wait for an answer. Waiting would have turned the moment into a standoff, and that was the last thing she wanted. Not yet. She rose instead, smoothing her skirt as she stood, leaving the tray where it was, warmth still seeping through thin cotton and the scent lingering with a stubbornness that refusal alone wouldn’t dispel. The door closed softly behind her, the latch catching with a muted click.

Downstairs, the house felt as it always did. This early in the morning, however, it was odd she had so much energy to tackle the day. Moving through the living room toward the closet without hesitation, she pushed aside a coat to retrieve the purse and the heels tucked behind it. They were easily the most expensive things in the living room; Elena thought the extravagance was silly, as she wouldn’t buy such items even if she had the money. Setting the purse on the coffee table, she opened it and navigated the contents with ease.

The screen of Sabrina’s phone lit immediately as Elena took it out and rested it in her palm. No trouble with the passcode. It was like there was no resistance for her to gain such intimate access, as the code was just as she had been told to set it after an upgrade earlier in the year. A personal errand that Sabrina had sent her on, saying she had much more important things to do than go to a retail store. ‘Of course she didn’t change the code,’’ Elena thought.

On the phone, missed calls crowded the display, time-stamped in clusters that told a story of negligence of the phone. Normally her boss lived on the device, and how it had less than ten percent power left. Wanting to go through things, she started with the missed call log. Julian Vance’s name appeared more than once from the night before, the first logged shortly after the gala was meant to begin, followed by another nearer to its end. HR sat between them, then again this morning, the pattern unmistakable. Martha Higgins’ name followed, cheerful even in text form, and beneath it several missed calls from a contractor in Singapore, the timing off only because of time zones, the lack of voicemail more concerning than reassuring considering the repeated calls from the worker across the sea working on the project.

Opening the first voicemail, she held the phone away from her ear just enough to keep the volume contained. Vance’s voice filled the space, clipped and displeased, asking where Sabrina was, reminding her with thinly veiled concern that events like this were remembered, that visibility mattered, that opportunities didn’t wait. The message ended without pleasantries, the implication clear enough to sting even secondhand. ‘So that’s how the night started,’ she thought, not fully positive if the call was made before or after she had told him the tiny terror wouldn't be making it.

The next message came from HR, professional but edged, noting the CEO’s inquiry and requesting confirmation of Sabrina’s status, the timestamp aligning neatly with the opening remarks of the gala. Elena exhaled slowly, thumb hovering before tapping the next. Vance again, this time later, his tone altered, smoother, almost magnanimous, mentioning he’d heard she was ill, expressing hope for a quick recovery, gently suggesting better communication in the future. The shift was so abrupt it bordered on insulting. ‘Damage control,’ Elena thought.

Morning messages followed. HR again, requesting a doctor’s note when feasible for her to be allowed to return to work if she misses more than a day, considering the fast pace of the current work load, outlining procedure in careful language that still managed to sound haughty. Then Martha Higgins. The sweetness in her voice was unmistakable, false concern layered thickly over reassurance, promises to cover anything needed while Sabrina was ill, reminders of teamwork and family, every word a velvet-wrapped warning. Elena didn’t need to hear the subtext explained to recognize the power play unfolding. ‘She’s already circling,’ she thought.

Missed calls from Singapore. Elena noted the repetition, the persistence, the absence of follow-up in writing. ‘Something important enough to call at four in the morning, urgent enough to try again, but still no text message or voice mail,’ Elena noted. That observation alone made her uneasy. The potential for this to unravel more quickly than she’d planned crept in, unwelcome but undeniable, the realization that holding Sabrina here had consequences that reached well beyond just taking her down a peg.

For a moment, doubt pressed in insistently. This was bigger than humiliation, bigger than rebalancing a single dynamic. There were contracts, timelines, people who didn’t care about personal power struggles and wouldn’t hesitate to exploit a lapse. Elena closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself against the back of the couch. ‘You might have overplayed this,’ she admitted silently. ‘And if it blows back, it won’t be gentle. Fuck . . . fuck . . . no, fuck it all. I need this.’

The thought didn’t stop her. Resolve settled in where uncertainty had tried to take hold. She straightened, clicking on the icon for the email notifications. She looked at what came in, skimming over the subject lines before deciding there was nothing there she had to address through the dying phone. Slipping the device back into Sabrina’s purse, she set everything exactly where she’d found it. ‘If this is going to explode . . . ’ she thought, already moving toward the closet again to put it back in the hiding spot, ‘it won’t be because I flinched.’

When the bedroom door closed, Sabrina knew her assistant wouldn’t be far. For the moment, she had a much-needed pocket of space to herself, even if it was in a space she didn’t want to be in.

She stayed still at first, chin tucked, eyes fixed on the far wall where a stuffed bunny sat on a shelf too low to be hung for an adult. Part of her felt as if movement might summon Elena back prematurely; the sound of the tall, dark haired woman’s heeled feet could be heard trailing off what she presumed was down the stairs. The tray of food remained balanced across her thighs, its presence undesired, but more tempting now that she no longer had an audience to perform refusal for. Heat bled through the thin cotton of the nightgown and into her skin, the smell impossible to ignore no matter how tightly she pressed her lips together. Eggs. Sausage. Real food. Her stomach made its opinion known again, louder this time, a traitorous sound that made her wince and glance toward the door as if it might tattle on her.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she thought, irritation flaring, the reflexive anger easier than examining why she hadn’t already pushed the tray off or stood up to reassert control. Breakfast in bed was indulgent, unnecessary; it was something other people did when they had time to waste or someone to serve them, not something she allowed herself on a workday. It wasn’t like she never ate breakfast, but in general she was not much of an eater. Perhaps it contributed to her height, growing but not eating too often or too much just felt like a way to get fat when she already had to use shape wear to look how she wanted. Coffee was efficient. Caffeine was always the right call, but it seemed Elena’s negligence had that option removed. Her gaze dropped despite herself, taking in the plate. The careful portions, the way the sausage had been cut into manageable pieces instead of slapped down carelessly, the glass of orange juice placed just so, not full enough to spill if she shifted. That detail stuck with her longer than she liked. It seemed like such a nice thing to do and she hated it.

A faint movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Looking over, her eyes snagged immediately on the dark shape hanging over the leftmost standing folding mirror. Her suit . . . Her clothes draped deliberately for her to see and use. Yet, despite it being a welcome sight, the garment didn’t look like it belonged in the room much like how she felt about herself. Frowning, she looked around, taking notice of a few things. Like how she didn't see her shoes or underwear, for starters. Turning slightly in bed, she looked at the crayon drawing on the wall above the head board and groaned.

She shifted, half expecting the tray to slide or wobble, but it held. The simple fact of that steadiness seemed to decide the matter for her. With a muttered curse under her breath, she picked up the fork, telling herself it was purely practical, that she needed the energy Elena had insisted on, that eating a few bites didn’t mean conceding anything beyond basic physiology. “Fucking fine . . .” The first mouthful silenced her internal argument almost immediately, warmth and salt and fat cutting through the fog that still clung to her thoughts, grounding in a way she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

‘Damn it,’ she thought, annoyed all over again. Chewing slowly now, her eyes flicked back to the door as if Elena might somehow sense her giving in from downstairs. She took another bite anyway, then another, the resistance draining away with each one until the food was gone far more quickly than she intended. Only then did she pause, fork resting on the empty plate, a hollow settling in her chest that had nothing to do with hunger.

The room pressed in again once the tray was lighter, the mirrors reflecting angles she didn’t want to see, the suit watching her like an accusation. Memory finished catching up in full, last night snapping back into place with uncomfortable clarity. The gala, the spanking, the drive and the tickets, the way control had slipped through her fingers one small humiliation at a time. She swallowed hard, setting the fork down carefully, smoothing the blanket over her legs as if tidiness might help her think.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ she told herself firmly, her own voice sounding even condescending to her own shortcomings, wanting to push forward to make things better even if it felt daunting to do so in the child's bedroom. ‘I need to get dressed . . . I needed to get my phone last night. The longer it takes, the worse things will get. Fuck, I need to get ahead of whatever damage had already been done.’ The fact that she’d eaten breakfast in a child’s bed, alone and unseen, was something she could live with so long as she put things back in the proper order.

For now, she shifted the tray aside, planted her feet on the floor, and drew a steadying breath. Her eyes lifted once more to her pants suit in the mirror as if it was mocking her and the duck nightie she currently wore. Her clothing, of course, couldn't do anything. It was an object, but it represented who she actually was and how low she let herself fall all for the sake of a deal and her CEOs insistence on following a memo to keep a client happy. All of it had been pointless, as she was the only one to follow through.

The day had to move on. Sabrina happily peeled the stupid duck nightie over her head, leaving it crumpled on the floor. She stood there in plain white cotton underwear with a pink band designed for a child, much like the baby blue camisole that did nothing to help her less than endowed chest; clenching her jaw, she looked around on the floor for the bra and thong she wore when arriving, neither of which were in sight.

Grimacing, she scanned the floor again, slower this time, eyes tracking the space beside the bed, then the area near the dresser; irritation rose with every empty patch of carpet. She knew where she’d left them. She hadn’t been neat and orderly about it, but they had discarded to the floor. The absence of them was yet another obstacle in her path, this one enough that she wanted to throw back her head and scream so she could get into something not designed for a little girl.

Stepping closer to the bed, she crouched, bracing one hand against the frame as she leaned down to check beneath it. Not seeing what she needed, Sabrina decided to go deeper in case they got kicked under the bed. Getting to her knees, her cotton pantied covered ass rose in the air as the front of her crawled slightly under the frame. Dust, a stray sock that clearly didn’t belong to her, the shadowed underside of furniture that hadn’t been moved in years, but no sign of the bra or thong she remembered dropping without a second thought the night before.

‘This is not happening,’ she thought, annoyance edging toward something greater as she straightened again, hands pressing briefly to her thighs as if grounding herself. ‘I don’t misplace things like this.’ Her own comment made Sabrina shake her head vigorously enough for her blonde hair to spill about. No, she was neat and organized, but yesterday she had misplaced her purse containing her life. It had to be something intentional, considering she brought her key fob inside. Why else would it have been on the counter?

Dropping back down, this time fully onto her knees, reaching farther under the bed, her fingers swept along the floor with more insistence than care, hair falling forward to obscure her view. Still nothing. The room felt smaller now, not that it had been large to begin with. The mirrors caught her at angles she didn’t want to acknowledge, the suit hanging in plain sight like a reminder of what she should have been able to put on by now without interference.

Picking up the pink sock with a picture of a blue duck on it, she rolled her eyes; the random sock had to have been there for years. “Oh, look . . . What a surprise, a duck.” She threw it to the floor in the middle of the room as the door opened behind her. With Elena stepping into the room, Sabrina's shoulders stiffened. Pushing herself upright quickly, brushing hair back from her face with a sharp motion, she bristled at being seen on her knees with her ass up in the air.

Elena stepped inside without comment, closing the door behind her with quiet care, her gaze taking in the scene in a single, assessing sweep. The discarded nightgown on the floor, the tray still on the bed, the plate clean of food with the orange juice left untouched.

“They’re gone,” Sabrina said flatly, irritation bleeding into her voice despite her effort to contain it. “I left them here last night. I didn’t move them.”

Elena nodded once, as if that aligned neatly with expectations, and crossed the room at an unhurried pace, crouching just enough to glance beneath the bed herself before straightening again. “What is gone? What didn’t you move?” she asked, seeing one of her niece’s old socks in the middle of the carpet.

Sabrina exhaled sharply through her nose, the question only increasing her irritation. Here she was, still standing in the underwear fit for a ten year old girl, and the idiot giraffe couldn't put the context clues together. “My bra. And my underwear,” she said, clipped, precise, “The ones I wore last night. They were right here.”

Elena’s eyes moved again, slower this time, not under the bed now but over the room itself. The open floor, the dresser, the discarded nightgown, the mirror where she had left the all too expensive pants suit hanging. She didn’t rush to fill the silence, knowing exactly where Sabrina’s adult belongings were. “You’re wearing your underwear,” she stated, matter of factly.

Sabrina’s head snapped like she had been slapped, disbelief flashing across her face before true anger took its place. “Mine?! You truly are a twit sometimes," she said sharply, “What else would I be wearing?!” Her hand lifted in a short, frustrated gesture toward herself, as if the answer should have been obvious. “They’re not appropriate, and you know that. I need my bra. I need my thong. I cannot put my tailored suit on over . . . this.”

Elena didn’t contradict her boss, Her expression staying neutral, attentive in a way that felt uncomfortably parental rather than subordinate. “You can’t,” she agreed evenly, “Not like that.”

Sabrina seized on the agreement immediately. “Then help me find them,” she snapped, “I left them here. I did not lose them!”

Reaching down, Elena picked up the discarded nightgown, lifting it from the floor and folding it once without thinking, setting it aside on the dresser. “You took them off last night,” she said, accusatorially, “You were tired. You weren’t exactly tracking where things landed.”

“I don’t misplace my clothes,” Sabrina shot back, in the same way she spoke in meetings when she felt challenged, “Especially not when I’m supposed to be at work.”

Elena met her gaze then, steady and unflinching. “Yesterday, you misplaced your purse,” she said quietly, “with your phone, your keys, and everything you need to function.” She let that sit for a moment before continuing, tone unchanged. “So, it’s not impossible.”

The comparison was an accusation and it hit home hard. Sabrina’s mouth tightened, breath drawing in through her nose as she looked away, eyes flicking back to the mirror where the suit hung waiting, so close but so far. “This is not the same thing,” she said, but even her own certainty wavered.

“No,” Elena agreed, “It isn’t.” She turned slightly toward the dresser again, fingers resting briefly on the edge as if grounding herself. “But it does mean we deal with what’s in front of us, not what should be.”

Sabrina laughed once, short and humorless. “And what’s in front of me,” she said, gesturing down at herself again, “is completely unacceptable.”

Elena nodded, conceding that point without hesitation. “Which is why you aren’t staying in those.” She opened the drawer this time, withdrawing a folded pair of panties from the already opened package and setting them neatly on the bed, followed by a soft camisole in white that had a childish lace on the hem line. “These are clean,” she said, “And will work for what you’re wearing today.”

Staring at what had been placed on the bed, it was more of a provocation rather than clothing. Her jaw tightened, shoulders squaring instinctively as though posture alone could reject it. “That,” she said flatly, “is not what I’m wearing.”

“You said you can’t wear what you have on now under your suit and . . . ” she replied, voice level, unbothered by the edge in Sabrina’s tone, “I agree.”

Sabrina’s scoffed. “Those don’t fix the problem,” she snapped, “That is the same thing I’m wearing now!”

“They’re clean,” Elena repeated calmly, as if that were the only metric that mattered, “And you aren’t wearing the same underwear two days in a row.”

Sabrina’s eyes flicked up, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. That’s not happening.”

“I am not a child,” Sabrina shot back immediately, heat flaring as she stepped closer to the bed. “And you do not get to decide anything for me unless I say so.”

Elena nodded as if she was in agreement. “I’m not your enemy. Let me help you,” she said evenly, finishing the sentence in her mind, ‘Or at least I wasn’t till you decided to screw me so many times.’ “Because standing here arguing isn’t getting you dressed, and we have places to be.”

The reminder stung. Sabrina glanced again at the mirror, at the suit hanging there, frustration tightening her chest. “You are obstructing me,” she said, “again.”

“No,” Elena corrected quietly. “I’m making sure you are hygienic and I'm not going to argue with you about putting on clean clothes.”

That earned her a sharp look. “The wrong-” Sabrina cut herself off, breath tight, clearly choosing which argument to pursue. “I need my things. The ones I wore last night.”

“And if they were available,” Elena said without hesitation, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She gestured toward the bed instead, where she put the offered camisole and panties. “But they aren’t. So we deal with what’s in front of us.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Sabrina’s fingers curled, then released, irritation warring with the practical awareness that time was moving whether she liked it or not. “Fine,” she said at last, clipped. “But you can't talk to anyone about this.” Her voice was full of regret.

Elena inclined her head slightly, accepting the concession. “Of course.” She stepped aside, clearing space rather than pressing closer. “Once you’re dressed,” she added, “we’ll talk about the rest of your morning.”

"Turn around," Sabrina demanded, as she looked at what she was about to put on her prid., Every fiber of her being protested at what she was about to do, her fingers hovering over the hem of the slightly rumpled camisole she had slept in.

"Sabrina, we don't have time for modesty," Elena replied, checking her watch, "You changed in front of me last night. There is nothing I haven't seen."

Sabrina hesitated, her grip tightening on the fabric. The idea of stripping down in front of her subordinate again made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to be practical. ‘She’s just the help,’ Sabrina told herself, the thought dripping with a comforting layer of disdain. ‘One does not feel shame changing in front of a doctor or a maid. Thorne is basically office furniture that learned to walk. She doesn't count.’ With a huff of resignation, she pulled the camisole over her head and tossed it on the floor, wanting to pretend she had never worn it all while knowing she was about to put on one similar. She shoved the cotton panties down next, stepping out of them with a quick, jerky movement, eager to get the transition over with.

Standing there naked in the morning light, she tried to carry herself with the haughty posture of an executive, chin up and shoulders back, but she was never really proud of her body. The only reason she had chosen to avoid surgical enhancement was due to hearing too many tales of bad doctors and botched jobs.

Elena watched her with a detached, cynical eye. Without her clothing, her veil to hide how she really looked, the padded bras, and the waist cinchers, the "Director of Operations" simply vanished. In her place was a slight, stick-straight figure. Elena’s gaze drifted over the completely hairless skin; what Sabrina claimed was a five-thousand-dollar investment the night before. But in the dimmer light of the night or the light of day, the laser hair removal wasn't doing her any favors. Instead of making her look sleek and high-maintenance, it just made her look undeveloped. Combined with the flat plane of her chest, she looked less like a woman who commanded boardrooms and more like the child whose room she was currently occupying.

"Well?" Sabrina snapped, feeling the weight of the silence, "Hand me the damn things."

Elena reached out and passed her the fresh white cotton panties.

Sabrina snatched them, her nose wrinkling as she stepped into them. They were soft, sure, but they lacked the cool, slippery caress of her usual Italian silk. They felt thick and utilitarian, clinging to her hips in a way that felt deeply unattractive. She pulled on the white camisole next, the cheap lace scratching slightly against her skin. It was degrading. It was the kind of underwear bought in a three-pack at a discount store, not something worn by a woman of her prestige. She tugged at the hem with its cheap lace, glaring at Elena through the mirror.

"Listen to me, Thorne," Sabrina hissed, stepping closer and jabbing a finger toward Elena’s face. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone, if I hear a single whisper about 'child's panties' or 'ducks' by the water cooler, I will make your life a living hell. I will bury you in so much paperwork you won't see the sun until you retire. Do you understand me?"

Elena smiled, a soft, patient expression that didn't reach her eyes. It was the look a mother gives a toddler threatening to run away from home. "We've already been over this, Sabrina," Elena said, her voice infuriatingly calm as she reached out to smooth the twisted strap on the camisole. "I told you, your secrets are safe with me. Now, let's focus on the rest of the outfit."

Turning back to the mirror, her hands smoothing the cheap cotton camisole over her hips, Sabrina felt a fresh wave of despair. She looked past her reflection to the pinstripe pants suit hanging on the mirror frame. It was a masterpiece of tailoring, designed to exaggerate her padded form to project power and competence, but as she looked from the suit back to her own unenhanced, cotton-clad reflection, the reality sank in.

Without the foundation, the padded bra to fill the blouse, the waist cincher to create the hourglass silhouette, the heels to give her stature, the suit wouldn't fit. The blazer would hang off her narrow shoulders like a blanket; the trousers would drag on the floor. "I can't wear it," Sabrina muttered, her voice tight with misery, "Not with this underneath. I’ll look like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s closet."

She spun around, glaring at Elena. "This is ridiculous, Thorne! I need my things. Find my goddamn bra and my thong! Or better yet, find my purse! If I have my ID and my keys, I can go home and get properly dressed. Stop standing there looking at me and look for them!"

Elena didn't move. She didn't look flustered by the outburst; she looked disappointed, talking to Sabrina with the slow, deliberate cadence one uses for a child who is struggling to understand simple instructions. "Sabrina, you know the truth," Elena said gently. "I didn't lose your things. You did. You were the one stumbling around last night. You were the one who threw her purse supposedly on the counter or thought you did. It isn't my fault you can't keep track of your belongings."

"I didn't lose them!" Sabrina said, raising her voice in a flustered scream.

"And yet, here we are," Elena interrupted, turning away from the argument. "But since you can't wear the suit, and we are burning daylight, we have to use what is available."

Elena took the two steps needed to reach the white dresser in the small bedroom, the one painted with small flowers, and pulled open the second drawer. It smelled of lavender sachets and old memories. Elena’s expression softened as she reached inside it and a few more of the drawers. These weren't just clothes; they were artifacts from a time when she was the sole support for her sister and her niece, Crystal. Times had been hard then, money tight, but she had loved them fiercely. She missed the noise they brought to this house, a silence that had only grown louder after they left, leaving her alone in the inherited property her sister and herself gained when her parents passed. She pulled out a neat stack of clothing and turned back to Sabrina. "Here," Elena said, laying the items out on the bed, "These will fit. Crystal loved this outfit."

Sabrina stared at the pile in horror. First, there was a pair of thick, opaque white tights. Next, a light pink denim skirt with attached overall straps, a pinafore designed for durability and play. But the pièce de résistance was the t-shirt. It was a bright yellow tee featuring a cartoon graphic of two ducks having an argument. The angry duck was quacking a speech bubble that read: "Oh! Duck you, too!"

Elena smiled down at the shirt, a genuine warmth reaching her eyes. She remembered buying it at a discount rack, chuckling at the pun. "Crystal thought this was hilarious," Elena said softly, tracing the graphic. "She was my crystal ball . . . I used to tell her that with her, I could see a happy future. She wore this shirt until the print started to crack."

To Sabrina, the sentimental journey was nauseating, and the shirt was a declaration of war. "Are you insane?" Sabrina whispered, pointing a shaking finger at the shirt. "I am the Director of Operations. I am not wearing a shirt that makes a barnyard pun! And I don't care about your 'Crystal ball!’”

"It's cute," Elena said defensively. "And it fits the vibe."

"I don't care what fits the vibe! I have to go to work! I have a department to run!"

Elena sighed, the nostalgia fading as the shark-like efficiency returned to her eyes. She picked up the white tights and tossed them to the shorter woman. "That's the thing, Sabrina," Elena said coolly, "We aren't going to work."

Sabrina froze, the tights hitting her chest and falling to the floor. "Excuse me?"

"You seem to have forgotten our dinner conversation," Elena said, crossing her arms, "Mr. Sterling invited us to tour Blackwood Academy. He wants to see if 'Rina,' your new persona, is a good fit for the fourth grade. We have an appointment to make; even Mr. Vance will be there."

"I never planned to go to that!" Sabrina shouted. "I told you last night. I only agreed to make you look bad when 'Rina' didn't show up. It was a strategy!"

"I'm well aware of how you tried to hurt my career," Elena replied, her voice hardening, "You confessed that quite clearly. You wanted to sabotage the client relationship to hurt me. But here is the reality, Sabrina. I am not going to let you tank my career, or yours for that matter, all because you wanted to play games."

"I am not going," Sabrina declared, crossing her arms over her flat chest, "I am walking out that door, I am calling an Uber, and I am going to the office."

Elena raised an eyebrow. "In your new underwear? With what phone?"

Sabrina opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

"And you will pay with what money?" Elena pressed, taking a step closer. "Your wallet is in your missing purse. Your ID is in your missing purse. You can't call a car for a pick up. Even if you used my phone, you can't pay for a cab. You can't even get past the security turnstiles at Aegis without your badge."

She gestured to the window, to the driveway where Sabrina’s Lexus sat locked and useless without its fob.

"You are stranded, Sabrina. You have no resources, but I am giving you help to get through this, as bitter of a pill as that is to swallow. The only person with a car, keys, and a plan is me." Elena picked up the pink overall skirt and held it out, her expression brooking no argument. "Now, we can stand here until we're late, which will insult Mr. Sterling, upsetting the head of our company, or you can get dressed. But make no mistake: I am going to that school. And since you are my 'niece' Rina, you are going to school. I'm not going to have them believe I'm so irresponsible to leave a ten year old girl all on her own, unsupervised."

Chapter Nine

Sabrina snatched the thick white tights from the bed, her face twisted in a scowl that would have terrified a junior analyst. And yet here, in a room painted pastel pink, it just looked like a pout.

"This is insane," she muttered, sitting on the edge of the mattress to roll the opaque fabric up her legs. "I am a grown woman putting on hosiery meant for a kindergartner. These are going to cut off my circulation. I'm going to get a blood clot, Thorne, and I will sue you from the ICU."

"They stretch, and don't exaggerate. Besides, it rained all night. It’s chilly outside, and this will help keep you warm." Elena dismissed her boss’s complaints, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. "And stop stalling. We’re on a schedule."

Sabrina yanked the tights up to her waist, the elastic band snapping against her skin with a cheap, final thwack. She stood up, feeling encased and sexless. Her legs were now two pillars of blinding white matte, compressed more aggressively than her normal thigh high stockings.

Next came the shirt. She held up the bright yellow tee, staring into the eyes of the angry cartoon duck quacking, ‘Oh! Duck you too!’

"I hate this duck," Sabrina hissed, pulling it over her head, "I hate its beak. I hate its pun. I hate that you spent actual currency on this."

"It adds character," Elena deadpanned, "Crystal thought it was hilarious." She remembered having to bargain with her so she would change, allowing the shirt to be put in the laundry.

Finally, the skirt. Sabrina stepped into the light pink denim, pulling the pinafore straps up over her shoulders. She fumbled with the metal buckles, her fingers shaking slightly from a mix of rage and low blood sugar, until they clicked into place. She turned to the triptych mirror.

The reflection that stared back was a nightmare. The white tights made her legs look like marshmallows. The overall skirt flared out stiffly, hiding what little shape she had. The yellow shirt washed out her pale complexion and showed no hint of having breasts, not that she had much to show to begin with. Then there was her hair. It was still a tangled, disheveled mess from sleep, the blonde strands sticking up in chaotic tufts that the duck nightgown had encouraged.

"I look deranged," Sabrina announced, turning to glare at her assistant, "I look like a runaway orphan who got dressed in the dark. And I’m barefoot. Or do you expect me to walk into Blackwood Academy in my . . . in these stupid tights?" she corrected herself,. not wanting to take ownership of what she was wearing.

"You have shoes," Elena said, pointing to the corner of the room, "The pink sequined flats from last night are right there. They look so cute on you."

Sabrina recoiled as if the shoes were radioactive. "I am not wearing those glitter-bombs again. They have zero arch support, they pinch my toes, and I refuse to be associated with the word 'cute' for a second consecutive day. I need real shoes. I need my heels. Where did you put them?"

Elena sighed, pushing off the doorframe with a look of supreme patience, shaking her head as if Sabrina were speaking nonsense. "I didn't put them anywhere, Sabrina," Elena lied smoothly, leaning into the gaslighting she had established earlier. "You were the one stumbling around last night, kicking things off the moment we walked in the door. If you can't remember where you threw them during your little tantrum, that isn't my fault. I can't be responsible for every item you carelessly toss aside."

"I did not toss them aside!" Sabrina shouted, though the certainty in her voice wavered under Elena's calm gaze.

"Well, they aren't here," Elena said reasonably, "And since you refused to tell me where you 'misplaced' your purse with your car keys, we can't get into your place for more options." The tall woman slipped her right foot out of her shoe. She balanced easily on her left leg, the sheer pantyhose covering her foot sliding silently against the plush carpet. She nudged the glossy nude high-heeled shoe toward Sabrina. "You can try mine," Elena offered, a glint of amusement in her green eyes, "If you're so desperate for height."

Sabrina looked at the shoe. It was a stiletto. It was nude. It was a symbol of the adult power she was currently being denied. Without thinking, without letting her brain process the obvious physics of the situation, she stepped forward.

‘I just need the lift,’ Sabrina thought, desperate for the click of a heel, the arch of her foot, the feeling of being herself again. She slid her white-tighted foot into Elena’s shoe. Or rather, she slid her foot into the cavern of Elena’s shoe.

Elena was a statue of a woman, standing five-foot-ten with an athletic build. Her feet were proportionate to her height. Sabrina, at four-foot-eleven and petite in every way, had feet that were practically doll-sized by comparison.

Sabrina’s foot drowned in the shoe. Her toes didn't even reach the toe box, and there was a massive, humiliating gap of at least two inches behind her heel. She tried to take a step, to prove she could make it work, but the shoe just clunked uselessly against the floor, staying flat while her foot lifted right out of it. She wobbled, nearly turning her ankle, and had to grab the bed frame to catch herself.

The image in the mirror was devastating. She didn't look like a woman borrowing a friend's shoes. She looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s closet, clomping around in heels that were comically, impossibly too big for her.

"Oh," Elena said softly, slipping her other foot out and standing comfortably in her stockings, towering over Sabrina even without the heels. "I forgot. You have such . . . tiny feet."

Sabrina kicked the shoe on the ground in front of her, angry at the object like it was at fault. The nude stiletto tumbled across the carpet a short distance. Her face burned hotter than it had all morning. She stared at the heels lying on the floor, shoes that fit the woman who was currently running her life, but were literally too big for Sabrina to fill.

"Shut up," Sabrina whispered, the fight draining out of her as the physical reality of her smallness crushed her ego. "Just . . . shut up and give me the sparkles."

Elena smiled, the expression maddeningly benevolent as she stepped back into her own heels, regaining her statuesque height in a single fluid motion. She turned her attention to the triptych mirror, but not to look at her boss. She reached out and unhooked the pinstripe blazer and trousers from where she had hung them earlier. With the obstruction removed, she caught her own reflection.

For a second, she just stared, her slim smile on her lipstick-covered lips growing. She straightened her spine, smoothing the plum colored blouse tucked into her cream pencil skirt. Years ago, back in high school, she had hated looking in mirrors. She had been a "tall string bean," awkward and elbows, towering over the boys with zero confidence. But looking at herself now, poised, curvaceous, and towering over the woman who felt she had to constantly remind everyone that she was a Director, she felt a surge of pride. Elena wasn't just tall; she was substantial. She was a woman who didn't need padding or platforms to take up space. "Let's put this away," Elena said airily, turning toward the closet with the suit in hand, "Since we won't be needing it."

"I might need it later!" Sabrina protested, watching her armor disappear into the dark recesses of the closet.

"No, you won't. Rina doesn't wear suits." Elena shut the closet door with a definitive click.

She walked to the corner of the room and retrieved the pink sequined flats. She dropped them at Sabrina’s feet, the sequins catching the morning light. "Put on your pretty shoes," Elena instructed, her tone hovering somewhere between a request and a command, "Then sit down. I need to fix that hair."

Sabrina stared at the shoes, then up at Elena, her jaw tight. "I don't need help, Thorne. I am fully capable of brushing my own hair."

"We don't have time for your tantrums, Sabrina," Elena replied, cutting her off smoothly. She gestured to the vanity stool. "You’re used to ordering everyone around to help you, aren't you? Barking commands for maps and coffee? Well, I’m just being proactive. I’m stepping up. I’m helping you before you even have to ask."

"I wasn't going to ask!"

"And I wasn't asking you to sit," Elena said, her voice dropping that octave again, using the ‘Auntie’ tone she used when Crystal was too wound up to listen slipping into something harder. "I was telling you. Now, sit. Before we're late."

Sabrina glared, looking from the towering woman to the child-sized stool. The logic was twisted; Elena was framing her domination as proactive assistance, but the force behind it was undeniable. Grinding her teeth, Sabrina sat, shoving her feet into the sparkly shoes with aggressive force, them slipping in easily with the smooth tights on. "Fine," she spat, "But if you pull my hair, you're fired."

"Me? Getting fired . . . Again with this. I wouldn't dream of it," Elena smiled, picking up the pink paddle brush as her work superior sat where she was told with a heavy huff escaping her lips. Still, she had done as she was told. "Good girl."

The so-called compliment left Sabrina’s skin crawling. Gripping the edges of the painted vanity stool, her knuckles turned nearly white. She wanted to snap, to snatch the hair brush from her assistant's grasp and throw it across the room, to scream that she wasn't a dog or a toddler performing a trick. But the cold reality of her situation–the missing keys, the missing clothes, the looming threat of the school tour–kept her glued to the seat. She sat there, fuming silently, her pink sequined feet crossed at the ankles, her not even sure why she sat that way instead of crossing her legs at the knee as she normally did.

Elena didn't seem to notice the rage radiating off her boss. She was humming softly, rummaging through a small basket on the vanity. She pulled out a handful of small, multi-colored rubber elastics, pastels in pink, blue, and yellow. "We're doing a Crown Carousel today," Elena announced, setting the elastics down next to the brush.

"A what?" Sabrina asked, eyeing the pile of rubber bands with deep suspicion. "That sounds . . . complicated. And time-consuming. Just put it in a ponytail, Thorne."

"A ponytail is lazy; we need to make an impression today," Elena corrected, picking up a fine-toothed comb, "And it won't hold up. The Crown Carousel is secure. Besides . . ." Elena’s eyes softened as she looked at the reflection of the blonde hair in the mirror, seemingly looking past Sabrina to a memory. "My sister gave Crystal this exact hairstyle on her first day of first grade," Elena said softly, "She was so nervous about big kid school. But once she saw herself in the mirror with her 'princess crown' of hair, she marched right onto that bus. She looked adorable. And so will you, Rina."

Sabrina felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room temperature. ‘First grade,’ she thought with horror. ‘She is giving me a hairstyle designed for a six-year-old.’

"I am not in first grade," Sabrina hissed, "I am a twenty-six-year-old executive."

"Sit still," Elena commanded, the nostalgia snapping shut instantly as she tapped Sabrina’s head with the comb, “A hair style won't change who you are; don't be silly. And my niece Rina is starting the fourth grade. No one thinks you are a 1st grader.” Elena began to work. She didn't just brush the hair back; she used the comb to part Sabrina's hair with surgical precision. Starting at the very center of the crown, she drew radial lines down to the hairline, dissecting the blonde bob into triangular ‘pie slices.’

Sabrina felt the comb scratching lightly against her scalp, mapping out the geometry of her humiliation. "This feels tight," Sabrina muttered, trying to pull away as Elena gathered the first section of hair right above her left ear.

"It has to be tight to stay neat," Elena said, snapping a small pink elastic around the base of the section to create a tiny, vertical ponytail. Then, the "carousel" began. Elena took the tail of the first ponytail, smoothed it flat against Sabrina's scalp, and fed it into the next section of hair. She secured them both with a blue elastic.

Snap. Pull. Smooth. Snap.

The rhythm was hypnotic and terrifying. Elena worked her way around Sabrina's head in a circle. The style pulled every stray hair tight against the scalp, creating a "natural facelift" that widened Sabrina's eyes enhancing her natural young doe-eyed look. The chain of connected ponytails formed a colorful wreath of hair and rubber bands that sat high on her head like a playground crown.

"You're pulling my brain out," Sabrina complained, watching in the mirror as her professional bob was cannibalized into a segmented chain. "I look like I'm wearing a hair helmet."

"It kept Crystal tidy through recess, lunch, and nap time," Elena said absently, moving to the final section at the nape of Sabrina’s neck. She snapped the last elastic in place and tucked the remaining tail neatly under the loop to hide it. To finish the look, she picked up the large, pink Grosgrain bow. She clipped it right at the starting point of the carousel, just above Sabrina's temple, covering the first elastic. "There," Elena said, stepping back and resting her hands on Sabrina's shoulders.

Sabrina stared at her reflection. The transformation was absolute. The "Crown Carousel" was a masterpiece of juvenile engineering. It was intricate, colorful with the exposed elastics, and completely stripped her of any adult edge. Combined with the duck shirt and the pinafore, she didn't look like an executive having a bad hair day; she looked exactly like a young girl ready for a big day to head to the bus, much like she imagined Thorne’s niece did in the story she told.

"I look . . . " Sabrina’s voice trailed off, the word 'ridiculous' dying in her throat as she saw Elena's satisfied smile in the mirror.

"You look ready for school," Elena finished for her, "Now, let's get in the car. We have an errand to take care of first."

Chapter Ten

"Errand?" Sabrina repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism as she followed Elena down the stairs. While Elena descended with fluid grace, the sharp clack-clack of her stilettos announcing every step, Sabrina’s progress was far less dignified.

The sequined flats offered zero elevation, and her calves screamed in protest at the lack of the type of support her feet demanded. Years of strictly wearing five or six-inch heels had shortened her Achilles tendons to the point where standing flat-footed was physically painful. To compensate, she was forced to bounce on the balls of her feet, her knees knocking together slightly as she descended one step at a time, looking for all the world like a toddler doing a frantic potty dance rather than a corporate executive in a hurry.

Everything since the gala had been announced had seemed reasonable at the time. Not that the eccentric request from Edgar Sterling had been reasonable, but it was his charity event and was the client with a wallet full of money they wanted. So, his wants were the needs. Or that was supposed to be the case, until she was backstabbed by everyone coming together like a stupid union to refuse, leaving her the only one brave and foolish enough to comply. It made her wonder if biting the bullet to be publicly embarrassed wouldn't have been better than privately having her pride eviscerated by pretending to be Elena’s niece. At least public humiliation ended when one left the room. This had not ended at all; it simply kept finding new rooms.

“We’re going to a meeting with a big client and Julian,” Sabrina huffed, gripping the banister to stabilize her tiptoed descent, “We don't have time for a detour.”

“So, now you're in a hurry for the school tour? We don't have much of a choice,” Elena said, stopping at the front door to pick up her purse and her keys with the borrowed fob attached to Sabrina's Lexus. She turned, dangling the fob from a manicured finger. “Unless you want to explain to Mr. Sterling and Mr. Vance why the Director of Operations has been pretending to be a fourth grader?”

Sabrina froze on the bottom step, the chill in the air after a night of pouring rain air seemingly seeping through the door before it even opened. “Excuse me?”

“The ticket from last night,” Elena reminded her, opening the front door, “Officer Miller cited me for endangering a minor because you weren't in a booster seat. I am not repeating that to have my license suspended for driving you to a school, a place crawling with parents, safety patrols, and hard-nosed Mr. Sterling himself, without correcting that violation. The most we are going to do is drive you far enough to avoid problems. If we get pulled over again, they won't just write a ticket; they’ll ask questions. Questions about why a woman, cute as you are, is claiming to be twenty six, is dressed like a school girl and is sitting illegally on the way to school.” Elena raised an eyebrow, her gaze sweeping over Sabrina’s pinafore and the Crown Carousel styling arranged with humiliating care. “Do you want to have that conversation with the police? Or worse, do you want to explain to Mr. Vance why you missed the meeting because you were getting a car ride from an officer since you have no ID and have a small disagreement about the requirement to be in a proper seat?”

Sabrina’s mouth clicked shut, but she did not move, not immediately, because she had seen the ticket and she had not read it, not closely enough to know whether it had been written to Elena personally the way the woman claimed or written to the car, meaning written to her, meaning another problem she would be expected to pay for while being told she was not allowed to solve anything herself. The money was nothing, a petty number that would not even register on a statement, but the law was not about money and she could feel that in her bones, because it was a rule that looked at her height and turned it into a verdict. It felt like the law itself was saying she could not be an adult just because she was short, and the rage that sparked in her chest was the kind that usually went somewhere productive. A memo, a call, a legal threat, an argument designed to destroy someone. But she could not win an argument with a statute in the short term; to do that, she would need money and, for that, her well paying job had to go well.

She could not fight the law without a lawyer and a prolonged legal battle, and she could already see the timeline of it. The filings, the hearings, the months spent being forced to comply anyway while the world treated her like the problem, and the part that made her swallow hard was the simple fact that continuing to violate the law after being informed was not principled, it was reckless. Reckless brought higher risks. Those risks could lead to her story ending up on the news. Stories like that could damage a company. Such a thing reaching Julian would show him how much of a liability she had become, and Julian did not protect liabilities no matter how much money they made him.

‘This is how they corner you,’ she thought, bitterness sliding through her like cold water. The cage did not seem to be from Elena’s hands; it was the rules of a harsh reality itself, and Elena was simply standing in front of the door holding a key she had not earned but still possessed. “This is ridiculous,” Sabrina said at last, voice tight, clipped, pitched for reason rather than volume. “A law and a ticket does not mean I stop being an adult.”

“It means I don't drive you anywhere until it is corrected,” Elena replied. She did not argue philosophy because she did not need to; she only needed to be the person holding the fob. “Including the tour of the school you agreed to.”

Sabrina stood there another second, bouncing on the balls of her feet because her tendons would not let her settle, then forced herself forward. Not because she wanted to, not because she accepted the premise of the fiasco, but because knowingly proceeding in violation after being informed was the one position she could not defend. It would make her attempt to right the wrong more difficult. “Fine,” she hissed, the word tasting like metal, “What is the errand?”

“I already told you. It's about that ticket and me not losing my license and not having your truth exposed,” Elena said, unlocking the Lexus, “To get you a carseat.”

Sabrina stomped to the car, or rather did a stiff-legged, bouncing march, her pinafore swishing with every awkward step. She climbed into the backseat, crossing her arms and fuming as Elena pulled out of the driveway. She told herself she was not complying; she was managing risk, she was choosing the least catastrophic option available, and when she got her phone back, she would make this stop.

The drive was mercifully short, but the destination was a fresh hell. Elena pulled into the parking lot of a massive baby superstore.

“I am not going in there,” Sabrina announced as the engine cut.

“You have to,” Elena said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I need to make sure I buy the right size. We need to measure you against the height markers on the box. Unless you want me to guess and risk buying a diaper bag instead?”

“That threat only works because of how many typos I see in your work making me question your ability to read with any proficiency, I hate you,” Sabrina whispered.

“Language. Be polite to adults,” Elena warned, “Come on, Rina.”

Sabrina got out of the car, using both hands to slam the car door, cringing as she remembered this was her car. Her movements were stiff and painful. She kept her head down, praying the Crown Carousel hairstyle and the duck shirt would act as camouflage. If anyone from the office saw her walking into a baby store dressed like this, she would have to move to a different continent. The worst part was that the fear did not come only from being recognized, it came from how easily she might not be. Adults did not stare and investigate, they glanced and resolved and moved on, and being resolved into the shape of a child without earning a second look felt like the world agreeing with the lie.

They marched to the safety aisle. It was a kaleidoscope of safety ratings and pastel padding. Elena bypassed the simple backless cushions, the ones that might have offered a shred of dignity, and went straight to the High-Back carseats section.

Elena stopped in front of a display model, a Graco monstrosity in a shade of violet with butterfly stitching. Sabrina nearly bumped into the taller woman as she stopped to read the display.

“This looks robust,” Elena mused, tapping the headrest, “Side impact protection. Adjustable head support. And it’s rated for a girl a little heavier than you. It supports little ones that are on the taller side. You fit right in the sweet spot.”

“It has butterflies on it,” Sabrina hissed, looking around frantically to see if anyone was watching, “It’s purple.”

“And the niece I know likes butterflies almost as much as she loves ducks. If you like, we can see if they have one in pink,” Elena noted, her hand hovering over the box. “We'll take it.”

“No,” Sabrina snapped, the idea of spending one more second in this fluorescent-lit purgatory hunting for a pink version overriding everything else, “Do not look for pink. Just get the damn thing so we can leave.”

Soon enough, the booster seat was being scanned by a cashier.

“That will be one hundred and forty dollars,” the teenage cashier said, snapping gum as she scanned the purple box.

“We'll take the installation service as well,” Elena added smoothly, handing over her credit card, her expression serene in a way that made Sabrina want to scream.

The cashier blinked, glancing at a schedule taped to the register. “That's an extra fifty bucks, ma'am. And there's gonna be a wait. Chad has to finish a stroller assembly first, and he's kinda slow.”

Elena didn’t sigh or complain. Instead, she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial, charming tone. “I hate to be a bother, really I do,” Elena said, her smile warm and apologetic. “But we are on a very tight schedule. I’m taking my niece for a tour of Blackwood Academy this morning. We're hoping to get her enrolled for the term and we simply cannot be late. If you could ask Chad to make this a priority, I’d be happy to hand him an extra twenty dollars for his trouble.”

The cashier’s eyes lit up at the mention of the tip. “Oh, for sure. Blackwood is fancy. I’ll page him right now and tell him to drop the stroller.”

“Thank you. You're a lifesaver,” Elena beamed.

The cashier nodded, finishing the transaction. As the receipt printed, her eyes drifted over Elena’s shoulder to where she saw the small girl standing by the exit, shifting about in a familiar way she had seen a dozen times babysitting. With the shortened tendons and the flat sequined shoes, Sabrina was doing her usual anxious bounce, shifting weight from one ball of the foot to the other, knees knocking together, unable to stand still or put her heels down. “Restrooms are right over there, in the back corner,” the cashier said helpfully, tearing off the receipt, “Looks like your niece is doing the potty dance. Poor thing looks like she’s about to burst.”

Elena turned, watching Sabrina’s frantic, tiptoed shifting. A slow, shark-like smile spread across her lips.

“Good catch,” Elena said. She turned fully toward her boss. “Rina, sweetie? Do you need to use the potty?”

Sabrina’s head snapped up. The name was bad enough, but the question asked loudly in front of a line of strangers was unbearable.

“I do not,” Sabrina snapped, her voice pitching high and sharp, forgetting herself. “I am fine. I just want to leave.”

“Now, Rina, don't lie,” Elena said, closing the distance between them in two long strides. “The nice employee can see you dancing. We have a long car ride to the school. We are not having an accident in my car.”

“Your car?! Listen here, giraffe, I said I don’t-”

Elena didn't wait for the protest to finish. She reached out and grabbed Sabrina’s forearm. It wasn't a gentle guide; it was a firm, inescapable grip, her fingers digging into the soft skin just enough to paralyze the limb. “Come along,” Elena commanded, her tone brooking no argument.

She pulled. Sabrina stumbled, the sequined flats slipping on the linoleum as she was dragged past the impulse-buy candy and toward the back of the store. “Let go of me,” Sabrina hissed, trying to dig her heels in, failing because she had no traction and Elena had all the leverage. “Thorne, unhand me this instant.”

“Quiet,” Elena said, making a shushing sound, yanking the door to the single-occupancy Family Restroom open and shoving Sabrina inside. Elena followed, locking the heavy deadbolt with a decisive thud.

The room was bright, smelling of industrial lemon cleaner and diapers. It was spacious, designed for strollers, with a low toilet and a changing table. “Are you insane?!” Sabrina shouted, rubbing her arm where Elena had grabbed her. “You do not drag me around like a . . .”

“Like a what?” Elena interrupted, backing Sabrina up until her legs hit the porcelain bowl of the toilet. “Like a child? Because that is exactly what everyone out there sees. A cute little girl in a duck shirt doing the potty dance.”

“I can't help the way I stand!”

“It doesn't matter why you're doing it,” Elena said, leaning down so she was face-to-face with the fuming executive. “It matters what it looks like. And right now, you are drawing attention. You are acting like a brat. And I am getting real sick of you not even pretending to show me . . .” she said slightly, trailing off, finishing the sentence mentally and differently out loud. ‘Never is there respect for me.’ Her lips pressed into a line before finishing with something that wasn’t such a depressing truth. “By me, I mean your aunt for this little ruse, who should be getting respect and love from her niece, or at least an attempt to sell that story so we can get through this.”

Sabrina opened her mouth to fire her, to tear into her with the kind of precise verbal attack that made grown men sit straighter in conference rooms, but Elena’s eyes narrowed.

“Don't,” Elena warned, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Do not forget last night, Sabrina. Do not forget the ladies' room at the gala. I told you then that you were acting like a brat. And what happened?”

Sabrina flinched. The memory of the spanking, the sharp, stinging humiliation across her rear while she was helpless, flashed behind her eyes, her face burning crimson. “I am not a child to be spanked,” she whispered, though her voice lacked its usual steel. Her hands tightened into fists at the reminder of the assault. ‘Oh, I haven't forgotten and you will regret even thinking about raising a hand to me,’ she thought, but kept it to herself. The order of the world had been turned upside down. The green eyed giant in front of her was only in a temporary position of power and, while she couldn’t always control her rage, for now it was going to be the fuel to obliterate this woman as soon as Sabrina had her rightful place again.

“Then stop acting like one who needs it,” Elena countered, “Because if you throw a tantrum out there, or if you wet yourself in the car because you were too stubborn to go when told, I will put you over my knee. I don't care who is around.”

Sabrina stared at her, judging the threat. Elena looked perfectly calm. Perfectly willing.

“Now,” Elena pointed to the toilet, “Sit. Try. We aren't opening that door until you do.”

“I told you, I don't have to go,” Sabrina pleaded, crossing her arms over the cartoon duck, “I didn't even drink the orange juice this morning. We can just wait.”

“You haven't gone since before the gala began,” Elena noted, checking her watch, “That was over twelve hours ago. You are dancing because you are full. Sit down.”

“No. I'm not going.”

Elena sighed, the sound echoing off the tiles. She pushed off the doorframe and reached for the lock, not to open it but to make a point. “Fine,” Elena said coldly, “If you won't listen, then I can't trust you to keep my car seats dry. Stay here.”

Sabrina blinked. “Where are you going?”

“I'm going to Aisle 4,” Elena said, her hand on the deadbolt, “To buy a pack of pull-ups. If you refuse to try like a big girl, then we will treat you like a toddler who has accidents. I’ll diaper you right here on the changing table before we leave.”

Sabrina looked at the changing table, a plastic slab meant for infants, then at Elena’s dead-serious expression. The thought of crinkling plastic under her pinafore shattered her resistance instantly. “Wait,” Sabrina gasped, grabbing Elena’s wrist, “Don't. Don't do that.”

“Then sit,” Elena commanded, pointing to the bowl.

With a groan of defeat, Sabrina turned around. She reached up to her shoulders, her fingers fumbling with the metal buckles of the pink overall straps. Her hands shook, making the simple task difficult, but finally the clasps popped open. The straps slid down her arms, the bib of the overalls falling forward to hang loosely at her waist.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the denim skirt and shoved it down. Then came the white tights and the humiliating cotton panties with the pink band. Seeing them bunched around her ankles again, against the sequined shoes, made her want to weep.

She sat on the toilet. As Elena predicted, the moment she relaxed, nature took over. The sound was audible in the quiet room, a final betrayal of her defiance confirming just how desperate she had actually been.

Elena didn't gloat verbally. She just watched, her expression impassive, leaning back against the door to ensure no escape.

Sabrina took longer to finish than she would have liked, hating to admit her bladder really had been full. While sitting there, she kept looking at her assistant manager then down to the glossy nude colored heels that she couldn’t wear. They looked stylish enough; if the heel was higher and were of the proper size she would get a pair like them, but that wasn’t a worry for now. Her eyes slid away from the dark haired woman over to the changing table that folded out from the wall, wondering if it would really hold her weight or send her crashing to the floor. It was a dark thought; either she would end up lying on a public bathroom floor, or would be strapped into a changing table ready to have a diaper put on her. Anxiety flowed through her as her bladder emptied. She eventually finished and pulled the layers of white cotton, tights, and denim back up, struggling to re-clasp the buckles over her shoulders with burning cheeks. She flushed the toilet with an aggressive jab of her thumb, then turned to the sink to wash her hands, refusing to look at Elena in the mirror.

“One last thing before we go back out there,” Elena said, not moving from the door.

Sabrina froze, soap on her hands. “What?”

“We need to get your story straight. You seem confused,” Elena tilted her head, “How old are you, Rina?”

Sabrina glared at the drain. “I am twenty-six.”

“Wrong,” Elena said sharply, “Twenty-six-year-olds have IDs. They have keys. They drive cars. You have none of those things. Try again.”

“Elena, stop this.”

“How. Old. Are. You?” Elena repeated, spacing the words out. “We are going to a school. If you tell a teacher you're twenty-six, they’ll call social services because you're delusional. If you tell Mr. Sterling you're twenty-six, he cancels the contract because we lied. You need to be in character. So tell me. How old are you?”

Sabrina looked at the door. It was locked. She looked at Elena. She looked down at the duck on her shirt. She was trapped in a box of her own making, reinforced by Elena’s terrifying competence, and the worst part was that Elena was not asking her to believe the lie, only to perform it.

“I'm ten,” Sabrina whispered, the lie tasting like ash.

“I can't hear you.”

“I'm ten,” Sabrina said again, louder, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink.

“I still can't hear you.”

“I'm ten,” Sabrina shouted, voice cracking with fury and humiliation. “I am ten years old. Are you happy?”

Elena nodded once, as if that solved a problem. “And how are you going to behave for the rest of the day?”

Sabrina squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears of sheer frustration. “I will be good,” she choked out.

Elena’s gaze stayed on her a beat longer, not satisfied yet, like she was checking off boxes on a list Sabrina couldn’t see.

“And one more thing,” Elena said, voice still low, still controlled. “If you are going to be Rina today, then you need to understand something. I am supposed to be your aunt.”

Sabrina’s hands clenched on the edge of the sink. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It has to do with what comes out of your mouth,” Elena replied. “It is never okay for you to talk to me the way you just did out there. No insults. No snapping. No calling me names.”

Sabrina felt heat rise in her face again, the humiliation morphing into anger because she knew exactly what Elena meant, and she hated that Elena was right about how it looked. “You dragged me,” she hissed, “You put your hands on me like I was nothing.”

For a split second, the tiled bathroom blurred, replaced by the memory of another time and place. Glass, steel, and the muted hush of Julian Vance’s office, sunlight slanting through floor-to-ceiling windows while she sat perfectly composed in a leather chair she had earned. Julian had been relaxed, almost bored, congratulating her on last quarter’s numbers, on how cleanly she had closed a deal everyone else had written off, before his tone shifted just enough to register, and he gestured toward the woman seated beside him.

The HR representative had been forgettable in the way HR women often were, neat and pleasant and just a little too eager to be reasonable, the kind of person who could have been pretty if she tried harder, which only irritated Sabrina more. She spoke carefully, using phrases like concerns and perceptions and team morale, explaining there had been complaints, multiple ones, about Sabrina’s tone, about comments that felt dismissive, belittling, sometimes aggressive.

Sabrina had rolled her eyes then, not even bothering to hide it, already cataloging the list of underperformers who had probably decided bullying was a more comfortable word than accountability. Vance had noticed, of course, and sighed, fingers steepled, explaining that if she did not make the company as much money as she did, this conversation would be very different. That this was not a get-out-of-jail-free card, just an opportunity to adjust optics.

The HR woman had added, almost apologetically, that while she did not approve of threats or harsh language, she understood the reality, and moving forward Sabrina would need to complete an anti-bullying training module, something preventative, something to show good faith.

Sabrina had smiled tightly and agreed, already dismissing the entire thing as bureaucratic theater, another example of paper pushers slowing down people who actually worked.

The memory collapsed back into lemon cleaner and tile, but the echo of one phrase lingered longer than it should have, because it had followed her here and Elena had picked it up like she owned it. Optics . . . It is about how it looks.

“And you called me a giraffe,” Elena said, flat and unamused, pulling Sabrina’s mind fully back into the room without raising her voice, “You do that in front of the wrong person at a school and it is not cute. It is not funny. It is a little girl speaking with sass, which is a behavioral problem. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Sabrina swallowed, jaw tight, because she understood and she hated understanding. ‘Little girl . . . Fuck you, Thorne.’

“You do not call me Thorne,” Elena continued as if she could see into her mind, “You do not call me giraffe. You call me what you are supposed to call me.”

Sabrina’s eyes flicked to the deadbolt. The lock sat there like punctuation.

“What is your name?” Elena asked. The question sharpened on the last word, as if precision itself was the lesson. “Say it.”

Sabrina stared at the drain like it had answers. “Rina,” she said, barely audible, the name tasting wrong because it wasn’t hers.

“You sound like you are unsure,” Elena corrected immediately, “If you cannot say it clearly in here, you will not say it clearly out there when it matters.”

“My name is Rina,” Sabrina forced out, louder, steadier, hating herself for cooperating and hating herself more for how her body had already learned that resistance only bought her more time in this room.

“And who am I?” Elena asked.

Sabrina’s fingers curled tighter around the sink, knuckles whitening again. It was happening enough that Sabrina wondered if she would be giving herself a future with carpal tunnel. “Aunt Elena,” she said; it came out more like an accusation.

Elena nodded once, like that was the only acceptable answer. “Or Auntie, if you want to sound sweet. Either works, but you get it right, because we do not practice getting things wrong and then hope we magically get them right when it is important.”

Exhaling through her nose, slow and controlled, because she could foresee what future problems this could avoid but hating it nonetheless. She could feel a knot in her stomach and the beginnings of a headache. ‘She is wanting us to train so it is a reflex,’ she realized, and the realization did not make it better. On more than one occasion she had pulled Thorne into her office, making her read a brief that was to be presented to a client over and over again, making small adjustments as they went, expecting the giraffe to pick up on them instantly. Now, the roles were reversed

Elena’s expression softened into something that would read as caring to anyone outside this room. “Now dry your hands,” she said. Then, only then, she reached for the lock. “We are going back out there, and you are going to behave, Rina. You are going to speak to your aunt the way you are supposed to, because we cannot afford you slipping up when it counts.” The deadbolt clicked and the door opened, spilling them back into the store.

Sabrina stepped out first, shoulders tight, jaw locked, and she could feel the impulse to snap rising in her like a reflex, but she kept it contained because she had learned what snapping bought her. She forced herself into a stiff toe-heel walk, trying to look controlled rather than frantic, trying to keep her movements from giving the wrong impression once more. She hated the pink sequined flats for how much they flashed under the lights, glittering like they wanted attention.

The humiliation from the bathroom still clung to her skin, and in that raw space a different instinct surfaced, not the one that barked orders, but the one that survived, the one that watched Elena and measured what worked. Elena wanted Rina. Elena wanted this myth of a good niece. Elena wanted performance. That meant there was a currency available that Sabrina despised but could still spend.

She softened her face. The juvenile appearing young woman arranged her voice into something smaller than it should have been. She forced her pride down hard enough that it felt like swallowing glass. “Aunt Elena,” she said quietly, making herself say it clearly, making herself use the family title that tasted wrong. “Can I ask you something?”

Elena’s gaze flicked to her, suspicious, measuring. “What?” The pitch of her voice, the tone and use of the word aunt had her willing to listen, not that she would ignore her no matter what. The events in the bathroom had gone too far, as the idea of spanking the little witch again or putting her in a diaper amused her. She knew it was wrong and regretted it, though oddly enough she didn’t feel the same way about the physical act of it the night before.

Sabrina waved her hand toward her feet as if she was trying to be responsible, trying to be anything other than furious. “These shoes keep slipping,” she said, and she hated how small she sounded, “I almost fell earlier, and if I fall again in public, or at the school, then that becomes a problem we cannot control. If I am supposed to behave, then I need traction.”

Elena watched her for a long moment, and Sabrina held the sweetness in place like a mask, because she understood this was not a request a director made. It was a request a child made, and she hated that it was the only way to get anything. The options here in this kids’ store would be none to her liking, but she could improve what she was wearing at least by a few degrees. This was a fight she could win if she did it correctly through the niece act. It would be small, but it would be a victory and show she did have cards to play to have some control of the insanity.

“Fine,” Elena said at last, as if granting a reward for cooperation. “If you're going to behave, pick something safer so long as it is cute.”

The word ‘pick’ sent a thin, humiliating wash of relief through Sabrina’s chest. She grabbed onto it because relief from a strategic retreat to gain a victory was still relief.

They turned down the footwear section, and the wall of options made Sabrina’s stomach drop. Everything was loud. Everything was designed to be noticed. Velcro straps. Plastic hearts. Cartoon branding. Glitter overlays that made her skin crawl. She moved through it like she was trying not to touch anything, scanning for the least impossible compromise. She eventually found it, or what passed for tolerable–white sneakers with thick rubber soles and pink fabric, lights embedded along the side that blinked bright red and pink when they moved, velcro straps sitting above laces like the designer could not decide if the wearer was old enough for one method or the other.

They were horrible. They were a joke. They were still better than sequins that flashed like a punchline. Both best and worst of all, they were in a child's shoe aisle yet her size was easy to find. “These,” Sabrina said softly, keeping the tone sweet because that was part of the path to victory.

Elena took the box and paid at the small footwear counter without comment while Sabrina sat on a little bench and forced her hands steady as she slipped off the sequined flats. For a second, seeing them in her hands instead of on her feet felt like ripping off a label someone had slapped on her, and then she put the sneakers on and stood, and the lights blinked bright pink and red with her first step.

Heat flooded her face. ‘This is not a win,’ she told herself, keeping her expression neutral as she walked. ‘This is just less of a loss, and I will take what I can get.’

Only then did they return toward the front, where the original register area waited like a stage and the cashier leaned forward the moment she saw them.

“Oh, look at that,” the teenage cashier chirped, grinning. “She looks much better. Crisis averted, huh? No more dancing.”

Sabrina’s jaw tightened until her teeth creaked, and she tasted blood where she bit the inside of her cheek, because the impulse to lash out was still there. She had learned what lashing out bought her, and could not afford another purchase.

“Thank you,” she ground out, the words tasting like poison but sounding just as sweet as before.

“She’s just shy,” Elena added with a bright, apologetic smile, resting a hand possessively on Sabrina’s shoulder in a way that looked affectionate to strangers and felt like a collar to Sabrina. “Come on, Rina. Let's go see if Chad got your seat ready.”

Outside, the crisp chill of the morning hit them instantly, dampness from the night's storm still clinging to the air. Sabrina shivered violently in her short sleeves, goosebumps rising on her arms, and she braced herself for the freezing wind to cut through to her legs, but the bite never came. The thick, opaque white tights insulated her perfectly, and the traitorous comfort of it made her stomach twist.

‘I am actually thankful for this,’ she thought with a surge of self-loathing. ‘I am standing here relieved to be wearing kindergarten hosiery because it keeps me warm, and I hate that my body accepts it like it belongs.’

The trunk was open, and Chad was just backing out of the rear passenger door with the speed of someone motivated by money.

“All set,” Chad said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Locked into the anchors tight. That thing isn't going anywhere.”

Elena handed him the crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Thank you, Chad. You’re a lifesaver.”

“No problem,” he said, pocketing the cash. He looked down at Sabrina, eyes flicking to the blinking lights on her sneakers. “Cool kicks, kiddo. Good luck at school.”

Sabrina didn’t answer. She stared past him into the open door of her car. He was talking about the shoes she worked so hard for, sacrificing part of her own sanity to get to replace the uncomfortable flats. In the car ahead of her, the contrast was obscene. The interior was cream leather and walnut trim, a sanctuary she paid an exuberant amount for. Now, dominating the back seat, was the purple high-back booster with butterfly stitching, massive enough to block the rear window.

“Well,” Elena said, gesturing to the open door, “we're burning daylight. Up you go.”

Sabrina looked at the seat. It was high, thick plastic adding inches of elevation.

“I can't believe you did this to my car,” Sabrina whispered, voice full of sullen misery.

“It’s not your car right now,” Elena corrected softly, her voice stripped of public sweetness, “Ten year olds don’t have cars, and right now it is the vehicle transporting a minor to a school interview. And you promised to be good. Remember?”

The reminder landed like a hand on the back of her neck, and she swallowed hard, because she understood that the law itself was part of the trap now, and she understood that if she continued after being informed, knowingly violating, then the system would escalate, and the system did not care about dignity or fairness.

She reached for the door frame to steady herself, lifted one foot, and the damp metal from last night’s rain made her slip.

“Whoa,” Sabrina gasped, legs kicking as gravity took her, and the lights in her shoes blinked violently with the sudden movement as if mocking her.

Strong hands caught her.

“I’ve got you,” Elena said, and before Sabrina could regain balance Elena used the moment to lift her, hoisting her into the booster seat like she weighed nothing.

“Put me down,” Sabrina shrieked, humiliation flooding her throat.

“Arms up,” Elena instructed, reaching across her.

“I can do it myself,” Sabrina snapped, batting Elena’s hands away.

Elena captured the belt and threaded it through the bright red guide loop. “These can be tricky, even for adults.”

“I am an adult,” Sabrina spat, “My hands are twenty-six years old.”

Elena clicked the buckle and tugged the strap until it locked, pinning Sabrina back against the purple butterfly wings.

Sabrina clawed at the release. “This is ridiculous. This entire law is bullshit.”

Elena froze. Her eyes snapped to Sabrina’s, wide and warning.

“Rina,” Elena chided, her voice dropping to a scandalized whisper, “Language. We are headed to a school. You are about to meet teachers. You are about to meet other fourth graders. What will they say if they hear you talking like a sailor? You want to make friends, don't you?”

“My peers are my sorority sisters and if I want to make friends they will be on the Board of Directors,” Sabrina shouted, giving the buckle one last futile yank.

“Not today,” Elena said, straightening up. She reached into the front seat, grabbed a plastic bag Sabrina had been too furious to notice, and dropped an iridescent unicorn backpack onto Sabrina’s lap. “Hold this.”

“I am unbuckling this the second you close the door,” Sabrina threatened, glaring up at her.

Before Elena straightened up and backed away, her eyes flicked down toward Sabrina’s feet, still swinging uselessly above the plush floor mats, the sequined flats glittering under the open door light like they were determined to announce her misery to the entire parking lot.

Elena exhaled through her nose in mild annoyance, not at the shoes themselves but at the inefficiency of how it had happened. “We should have done this in the store,” she said, already reaching into the front seat for the shoebox she had left on the passenger side floor. “But you were in such a rush to get out to Chad that you nearly tore my arm off.” She lay the blame for not putting on the shoes in the store at Sabrina's feet even though it hadn’t occurred to her but she surmised that Sabrina was the one wanting to get out of the shoes a shame considering how cute they looked or so Elena thought.

Sabrina’s fingers were still clawing at the buckle, her wrists twisting at an awkward angle because the belt pinned her chest and the plastic wings of the booster forced her shoulders into a posture she could not leverage. “I was trying to leave,” she snapped. “I am not wearing these glitter bombs another second than necessary.”

“I agree,” Elena replied, and there was something infuriating about how calm she sounded, like she was granting agreement the way someone granted a sticker. She slid the box open with one hand, pulled the tissue paper aside, and lifted the new sneakers out, one in each hand, bright even in morning light.

They were childish in the way everything in that store was childish, white uppers with panels of bubblegum pink, the sides banded with translucent plastic that held tiny embedded lights. Even sitting still, the soles looked like they were waiting to blink, the kind of shoe designed to turn a normal step into an announcement. The laces were a glossy synthetic white; too clean, too thick, and over the top was a wide velcro strap in matching pink that promised childish glee in the same way the booster seat promised safety, by treating the wearer as exactly what she currently appeared to be a child.

Elena held them up like a demonstration. “Take off your shoes and we will get these on”

Sabrina looked down at her feet, then at her pinned shoulders, then back at Elena with a glare that could have melted steel. “I can’t.” she said, hating the admission, hating that she had to say it out loud. She tried anyway, bending forward as much as the strap allowed, fingers scrabbling for the sequined flat, but the belt locked tighter the moment she leaned, cinching her back against the booster. Her hand brushed the glittery toe and then slipped off uselessly. She tried to bring one knee up, but the molded divider between her legs and the angle of the seat made it impossible, forcing her thighs into an undignified sprawl that left her feeling even more trapped.

Her cheeks burned. ‘Of course I can’t,’ she thought, fury sharp enough to taste. ‘Even changing my shoes . . . My . . . shoes. Like I want to own either of these.’’ She was frustrated that the booster seat the law demanded removed even more freedom than she ever thought possible.

Elena watched the struggle without moving to unbuckle her, and Sabrina felt the familiar flare of panic at the idea that Elena would choose this moment to make a point. Much like she had pounced on the woman, her lesser when she wanted to drive point home.

Then Elena did something worse, something more helpful, but done in a way that made her feel like the woman who knew better was seeing her as a child in need of assistance. “Hold still,” Elena said, and crouched.

Her hands were warm and decisive as she caught Sabrina’s ankle through the thick white tights, fingers closing around the slim curve above the heel. Sabrina jerked instinctively, but the belt held her pinned letting Elena’s grip hold her steady, and the motion only made the little lights in the new sneakers blink once as Elena set them on the seat beside her a promise of what's to come and worse Sabrina desperate to get rid of one infinity had picked them out.

Elena slid the first sequined flat off with one smooth tug. The shoe gave no resistance, popping free and leaving Sabrina’s foot covered only by the opaque tights, the fabric stretched tight over her arch and toes. Without socks, the sight felt more wrong. Her toes weren’t currently painted, being overdue for a good mani-pedi, but the tights made her small, dainty feet seem so much less like they belonged to her than it should have. Sabrina hated that too, hated how many tiny humiliations could exist inside a single task.

Not commenting. Elena just lifted the new sneaker and guided Sabrina’s foot into it. The inside was padded, softer than Sabrina expected, a cushioned heel cup and a surprising curve of arch support that pressed up under her foot through the tights. The fit was snug, but not painful. They were the right size, the kind of snug that felt comforting and possessive, like the shoe was shaping her foot into the posture it wanted. The thick sole raised her heel slightly, not enough to be a real heel, not enough to satisfy what her tendons begged for, but enough that the burning pull in her calves eased by a fraction. Or at least it would when she walked in them, she supposed; she hated herself for the choice even more, feeling her tight covered foot inside.

Tugging the tongue straight, pulled the laces tight with quick, practiced motions, Elena tightened them in crisp little increments until the shoe held Sabrina’s foot firmly. Then the revenge seeking woman folded the velcro strap down across the top, the sound loud in the open air, a hard ripping press that felt like a finalizing stamp.

Staring at Elena Thorne and what she was doing, at how absurdly normal Elena was being about this, at how absurdly intimate it felt, it made down-but-not-out Sabrina swallow hard. Anger did not remove the reality she was momentarily trapped in.

Elena repeated the process on the other foot, sliding the second sequined flat off and replacing it with the matching sneaker. Her fingers were efficient, almost gentle, but gentleness did not make it better when Sabrina was powerless to stop or assist her. When Elena tightened the laces and pressed the velcro strap down, the embedded lights winked bright pink and red at the slight jostle, blinking like they were applauding.

“There,” Elena said, straightening, “Better traction, better support. Just like you wanted.”

Sabrina flexed her toes inside the shoes, feeling the arch support again, the snug padded sides, the strange security of rubber that actually gripped. The sensation was more than just a few degrees better than what she had been wearing, which only made her angrier, because of that word bouncing around her mind still. Optics. These shoes were not how she wanted to be seen.

Reaching back over to the shoe box, Elena flicked the tissue paper back inside with a tidy movement before putting the now discarded pink flats inside. Shoes she bought only a few days ago, already thinking ahead to when she could get her diminutive boss back in them. “Next time I take you shoe shopping, we’re going to do this before we leave the store. Wasting time in a parking lot is how we get late, and being late is not something you nor I ever enjoy being.”

Sabrina glared at her. “I was trying to get out of there.”

“And you did,” Elena replied, her tone mild. “Now you are dressed appropriately, seated appropriately, and you are going to act appropriately.”

She leaned in, blocking the open door with her shoulder, and Sabrina saw her hand drift toward the edge of the frame where the child safety lock waited.

“Hold this,” Elena said, dropping the iridescent unicorn backpack onto Sabrina’s lap before Sabrina could protest, and the lights in the sneakers blinked again with the tiny shift of her feet.

Sabrina yanked the interior handle, the reach infuriatingly difficult from the booster seat and its straps. The door handle pulled loosely, disconnected from the latch. She was trapped, strapped into a purple booster seat behind a child-locked door, her blinking sneakers flashing every time she shifted, and the worst part was how quickly her mind started calculating survival inside the humiliation rather than escape from it, because escape required leverage she no longer had.

The drive to Blackwood Academy blurred into misery made tactile. The booster seat boxed her shoulders, elevated her body so her feet dangled, and the molded cup holder beside her looked designed for juice boxes. She clawed at the buckle once more, twisting, but the belt locked tight against the guide and the seat held her fast.

Elena tapped the infotainment screen. “It's a bit too quiet. We need some energy.”

She put on a family hits station at a volume that made Sabrina’s teeth ache.

“No,” Sabrina groaned, shrinking back against the purple wings, “Elena, please. Make it stop. I have a headache.”

“It’s popular with the pre-teen demographic,” Elena said, tapping the steering wheel to the beat.

“I don’t care,” Sabrina snapped, tugging uselessly at the strap, “Do I look like a pre-teen to you?”

Elena inhaled as if preparing to answer.

“Shut up, Thorne, don't give me your smart-ass answer,” Sabrina growled, cutting her off before she could speak. Her idea of playing the part given to her and acting sweet to get her way was momentarily forgotten. “Just put on a podcast. Anything where adults are speaking in complete sentences. Please.”

“A podcast,” Elena said, considering it as she guided the Lexus into a brightly lit Wawa gas station. “That’s actually a wonderful idea. It will help get you in the right headspace.”

The car now stopped, she paired her phone. “Connected,” the system announced. Then a chiming melody burst through the speakers, followed by an overly enthusiastic narrator welcoming “little fillies and gentle-colts” to another episode of Equestria Girls.

Sabrina stared at the dashboard in horror. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“It’s top-rated,” Elena said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Listen closely. You might learn something about conflict resolution.”

Elena pumped gas while Sabrina sat trapped, premium speakers broadcasting cartoon friendship lessons to the parking lot. People glanced over. Sabrina sank lower in the booster seat, cheeks burning, telling herself she would remember every second of this and repay it in a way that mattered.

Elena returned and did not turn it off, but, like Sabrina wanted and demanded, they drove north. Blackwood appeared like an estate, wrought-iron gates and ivy-covered brick, old money and discipline. Elena parked in the front row of the visitor parking lot.

Sabrina’s stomach dropped when she saw the Rolls-Royce Spectre parked beside them. “He brought the Rolls,” Sabrina whispered, staring at the Spirit of Ecstasy. “He only drives that when he wants to intimidate and show off for someone.”

“Then let's hope he is not intimidated by a fourth grader,” Elena said, killing the engine. The podcast died, leaving silence.

Edgar Sterling waited at the front entrance of the school his family had owned for generations, checking his watch. Julian Vance leaned against a pillar in a tailored three piece suit; he looked bored, scrolling through something on his phone. A third figure stood nearby, a severe woman in grey with cat-eye glasses on a chain, hair pulled tight, looking like she belonged to a late nineteen hundreds reform school.

“Who is that?” Sabrina asked, voice trembling despite herself.

“That must be the Headmistress of the Lower School,” Elena said, peering through the windshield. “The website said she personally oversees younger grade admissions like, for example, say a fourth grader.” Elena turned in the driver’s seat, looking back at the woman strapped into the purple butterfly chair. “Okay, Rina,” Elena said, her voice sharp and clear, “Game time. We are late, so we apologize. You are shy, so you let me do the talking. And if Mr. Vance, Mr. Sterling, or that woman asks you a question, you answer it politely. You do not correct them. You do not talk about logistics. You are a ten-year-old girl who loves ducks and is both nervous and excited about her potential new school.”

Elena reached for her door handle. “I am going to come around and unbuckle you,” she added, her eyes locking onto Sabrina’s. “Do not try to get out yourself, we don't want you slipping again. Wait for me, I will get you out. We are doing this properly. Okay?”