You're curled on the sofa with a glass of wine, waiting for Marcus to come home from his big meeting—the one about his promotion to senior analyst. You've been married three years. He's kind. Gentle. The sort of man who brings you flowers on Tuesdays for no reason.
But something's wrong tonight.
You hear heels. Sharp. Clicking against your hardwood floors.
"Babe?" you call out, sitting up.
The woman who rounds the corner isn't your husband.
She's young. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Blonde hair cascading in perfect beach waves past her shoulders. Tight, tanned body poured into a white top and plaid skirt that barely covers the curve of her ass. Her breasts—round, full, obscenely perky—strain against the fabric. She's got legs that go on forever, ending in red-soled Louboutins that probably cost more than your monthly mortgage.
And she's looking at you with Marcus's eyes.
"Hey, wifey," she says. Her voice is high. Musical. Dripping with mockery. "Miss me?"
---
You stand up so fast you nearly spill your wine.
"Who the fuck are you? Where's Marcus?"
The girl laughs—a cruel, tinkling sound—and tosses her designer clutch onto your coffee table like she owns the place. She saunters toward you, hips swaying with a predatory confidence your husband never possessed.
"Oh, sweetie." She stops inches away. You can smell her perfume—something expensive and intoxicating, mixed with something else. Something warm. Your head feels fuzzy. "I am Marcus. Or I was." She taps a manicured finger against her plump, glossed lips. "Honestly? That name already feels like a bad dream."
Your legs feel weak. You sit back down.
"That's... that's not possible."
"Mmmm, but it is." She perches on the arm of your sofa, crossing those impossibly long legs. The hem of her skirt rides up, revealing the smooth curve of her inner thigh. "Let me tell you a story, babe. About how your boring little hubby became this."
She gestures at herself—at the flat stomach, the tiny waist, the flare of her hips. Your eyes catch on something glinting at her navel.
A belly button ring. Simple silver. A small pink gem.
"It started three weeks ago," she begins, inspecting her nails with theatrical boredom. "There's this girl at the office. Tiffany. Blonde. Twenty-two. Absolute cunt—in the best way. She's been fucking the CFO for months, everyone knows it, and she just got promoted over people who've been there a decade."
You try to speak. Nothing comes out.
"Marcus—I —was so fucking angry." She rolls her eyes. "Pathetic, really. All that righteous indignation. 'It's not fair, she didn't earn it, blah blah blah.' But here's the thing..." She leans closer, and that scent hits you again, making your thoughts swim. "He was also jealous. Not of her position. Of her. Of what she could do. What she could be."
"Marcus would never—"
"Marcus was a pushover," she snaps, and there's venom in it now. "A people-pleaser. A doormat. He spent twenty-six years being nice, and where did it get him? Middle management and a wife who stopped fucking him six months ago."
Your face burns. It's not... it's not like that. Things have just been stressful. You've both been tired—
"Anyway." She waves a hand dismissively. "Last week, I found something. In Tiffany's desk drawer, while she was off sucking cock in the supply closet." Her fingers drift to the belly button ring, stroking the pink gem almost lovingly. "This cute little thing. And a note."
"A note?"
"Mmmhmm. 'Put it in. Become who you were always meant to be. Take what you deserve.'" She grins, showing perfect white teeth. "So I did."
---
"You have to understand, wifey—Marcus didn't want to change. Not at first." She stretches languidly, arching her back in a way that makes her breasts push against the fabric of her dress. "He thought he'd just... try it on. See what happened. Maybe get some dirt on Tiffany, expose her little magic trick to HR."
She laughs again, and it's colder this time.
"The second it pierced his skin? Fuck." Her eyes flutter closed, and she actually moans —a soft, breathy sound that makes something twist in your stomach. "It felt like... like lightning. Like every nerve ending in his body was being rewired."
Her hand trails down her own body as she speaks, almost unconsciously.
"His hips cracked first. Pop. Pop. Spreading wider. Then his waist—cinching in, ribs shifting, organs rearranging. It hurt, babe. It hurt so fucking good." She bites her lip. "His chest started swelling. These perfect tits just... growing out of nothing. Heavy and sensitive and aching."
You're frozen. Horrified. But you can't look away.
"His cock was last. That was the hardest part—for him, anyway." She smirks. "Watching it shrink. Feeling it pull up inside him. Lips forming where there used to be... well. You know."
Her hand dips between her thighs, just for a moment, and she lets out a shaky breath.
"And then there was the mind. That's where it got really fun."
"What do you mean?" Your voice comes out as a whisper.
"Marcus tried to fight it." She opens her eyes, and there's something gleeful in them now. Triumphant. "He kept thinking, 'This isn't me. I have to take it out. I have to go home to my wife.' But there was another voice. My voice. Getting louder every second."
She stands, pacing in front of you like a predator circling prey.
"I told him the truth. That being good was boring. That being nice was weak. That he'd spent his whole pathetic life playing by the rules, and the only people who win are the ones who take." She stops, turning to face you. "I told him what it would feel like to have power. Real power. The kind that comes from being hot enough to make men stupid. From being ruthless enough to use it."
"And he just... gave in?"
"Oh, he fought. For about three hours." She grins. "But every time he looked in the mirror—at these tits, at this ass, at this face—a little more of him crumbled. And when I finally made him touch himself?" She shudders with pleasure at the memory. "When I made him slide two fingers into that tight, wet little pussy and feel what a real orgasm was like? That was it. Game over."
She snaps her fingers.
"Marcus died screaming into a pillow in a hotel room, cumming so hard he saw stars. And I was born."
---
You feel sick. Dizzy. This can't be real.
"I went to work the next day," she continues, examining herself in the mirror above your fireplace. Adjusting her hair. Pouting at her reflection. "Walked right into the CEO's office. Told him I was the new hire. That I'd been personally recommended."
"They didn't question—"
"Babe." She looks at you with pity. "Look at me. Really look at me."
You do. And you hate yourself for noticing how perfect she is. The symmetry of her face. The fullness of her lips. The way her body seems designed to make people stare.
"Men are simple creatures," she says. "Show them a pair of tits and a tight dress, and they'll believe whatever you tell them. I had three job offers by lunch. But I didn't want a new job." Her smile turns cruel. "I wanted Marcus's job. His office. His parking spot. His life."
"How?"
"I fucked his boss."
She says it so casually. Like she's discussing the weather.
"Bent over his desk at 2 PM on a Tuesday. Let him use me like a toy. And when he was finished, when he was still panting and trying to figure out what the fuck just happened, I whispered in his ear: 'Fire Marcus. Promote me. Or I'll tell your wife.'"
Your hands are shaking.
"By 5 PM, I had his job. His salary. His corner office." She turns back to you, and her eyes are hungry. "And now I'm here for the rest."
---
"You can't do this."
You're standing now. Backing away. But she follows, step for step, those heels clicking against the floor like a countdown.
"Can't I?" She tilts her head. "Sweetie, I already have. Marcus is gone. Everything he was—his memories, his feelings, his pathetic little love for you—I ate it all. Digested it. Used it to make myself stronger."
"There has to be something left. Some part of him—"
"There isn't." She's close now. So close you can feel the heat radiating off her body. "And even if there was... why would I let him out? To go back to this?" She gestures at the living room. At your modest furniture. Your Target decor. Your ordinary life. "To go back to you?"
The contempt in her voice cuts deeper than you expected.
"I was a good wife," you say, and you hate how weak it sounds.
"You were a boring wife." She reaches out, trailing a finger down your cheek. Her touch burns. "You let yourself go. You stopped trying. You thought you could coast on a ring and a piece of paper, and he'd just... stick around forever?"
"We were happy—"
"He wasn't." She leans in, lips brushing your ear. "He fantasized about other women every time he fucked you. Younger women. Hotter women. Women who actually wanted it. Did you know that?"
Tears prick your eyes.
"That's not—"
"It is." She pulls back, smiling. "I have all his memories, remember? Every dirty little secret. Every shameful thought. And you know what the funniest part is?"
You shake your head.
"He felt guilty about it. Spent years hating himself for not being satisfied with what he had." She laughs—a bright, cruel sound. "But me? I don't feel guilty about anything. I'm going to fuck whoever I want, whenever I want, and I'm going to love every second of it."
She pulls something from her clutch. A small velvet box.
Your wedding rings.
"Found these in his jacket," she says. "Well—my jacket now, I suppose. Shame they don't fit anymore." She holds them up to the light, watching them glitter. "Tell you what, wifey. I'll give you a choice."
"A choice?"
"Mmmhmm." She drops onto the sofa, crossing her legs, looking up at you with mock innocence. "Option one: you accept that your husband is gone. You grieve. You move on. You find some other mediocre man to disappoint, and I take everything else—the house, the savings, the car—as a nice little severance package."
"Or?"
Her smile widens.
"Option two: I use this navel ring to do something really fun."
She touches the pink gem again, and it pulses with light.
"This thing doesn't just transform. It rewrites. Reality itself, babe. I've been holding back because, honestly? Tormenting you is kind of hot." She bites her lip. "But if you're going to be difficult... I can make it so we were never married at all. So Marcus never existed. So you never existed—at least not as anyone who matters."
"You're bluffing."
"Am I?"
She presses the gem.
---
The world shifts.
It's subtle at first. The photos on the wall—you and Marcus at your wedding, on vacation, at Christmas—they flicker. His face blurs. Stretches. Reforms into hers.
"What—what's happening—"
"Shhhh." She stands, walking toward you as reality ripples around her. "Don't fight it. It's so much easier if you don't fight it."
The wedding photos now show her. Blonde. Radiant. In a white dress that barely covers anything, draped over some man you don't recognize—tall, handsome, rich-looking.
"Who is that?"
"My husband. Well—my first husband." She grins. "I've had three. All wealthy. All wrapped around my finger. All conveniently... disposed of when I got bored."
The house is changing. Your furniture—disappearing, replaced by sleek modern pieces. Designer. Expensive. The walls shift color. The carpet becomes hardwood.
"This isn't your house anymore," she says, almost gently. "It never was."
You stumble backward, and your clothes feel wrong. You look down—
You're wearing a maid's uniform.
"What the fuck—"
"Oh, that's fun." She claps her hands together, delighted. "I didn't even do that on purpose. The ring must have decided you'd be useful." She circles you, appraising. "Mmmm. Not bad. A little old for my taste, but you'll do for now."
"I'm not—I won't—"
"You don't have a choice." She grabs your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes. "This is reality now. You've always been my maid. You've always been nothing. And Marcus?" She laughs. "Marcus never existed. There's just me. There's only ever been me."
She releases you, and you stumble.
Everything you knew—your marriage, your home, your identity—it's gone. Rewritten. You can feel the new memories trying to push in, trying to overwrite who you were—
"Don't worry," she says, heading for the stairs. Her stairs now. "You'll forget soon enough. They always do."
She pauses at the landing, looking back over her shoulder. Perfect. Cruel. Untouchable.
"Oh, and one more thing?" She touches the belly button ring—presses it deeper, and you hear a faint click. "I just locked it in. No clasp anymore. No way to remove it." Her eyes glitter with malice. "This body? This life? It's mine forever now."
She blows you a kiss.
"Clean the kitchen, would you? I'm having company tonight. Several companies, actually."
She disappears upstairs, laughing, and you're left standing in a house that was never yours, wearing clothes you don't remember putting on, with memories that don't belong to you slowly suffocating everything you were.
And somewhere, in the deepest part of your mind, a small voice whispers:
Marcus loved you. Marcus was real.
But with every passing second, that voice gets quieter.
