Three weeks later, Kelvin had reached one undeniable conclusion.
Becoming a beautiful woman was an elaborate form of torture disguised as self-care.
It all began with waxing.
“This is going to sting,” the aesthetician warned gently.
She was a petite woman with a warm smile and hands that inspired absolutely no confidence.
Kelvin snorted.
“Sting?
Please.
How bad could it possi-” RRRRIP!
The wax strip came off his forearm with a sound that reminded him of industrial-strength tape being ripped off concrete.
An unholy scream exploded out of him.
“AAAAAH-!” The aesthetician actually flinched.
Kelvin bolted upright, clutching his arm as tears flooded his eyes.
The freshly waxed skin burned like it had been peeled alive.
“What the hell?!” he shrieked.
“Are you trying to flay me?!” From the corner of the room, Manager Victoria didn’t even bother looking up from the tablet in her hands.
“Every trace of body hair has to go,” she said calmly.
“Men naturally have thicker, more visible hair.
Put you in a sleeveless dress like this and people will notice immediately.” “But I like my arm hair!” “Not anymore.” Before he could protest further- RRRRIP!
His other forearm.
“AAGH!” RRRRIP!
His left leg.
“Mother of-!” RRRRIP!
His right leg.
“I hate this!
I hate all of you!” The aesthetician offered him an apologetic smile.
“We’re only halfway done.” Kelvin stared at her in horror.
“…Halfway?” She nodded.
Then she reached for the wax covering his chest.
Kelvin’s soul left his body.
‘RRRRIP!’ The scream that echoed through the salon was so loud someone outside knocked on the door to ask if everything was alright.
“It is not!” Kelvin yelled, his voice cracking.
“Nothing is alright!” Manager Victoria simply turned another page on her tablet.
“We’re making excellent progress.” “I’d rather wrestle a bear!” “Noted.” Finally, the aesthetician picked up another strip and gestured toward his armpit.
Kelvin looked at it.
He looked at her.
Then he looked toward the door, seriously weighing whether he could outrun everyone in the building while wearing nothing but a towel.
“You know,” he said weakly, “I don’t think armpit hair is that noticeable.” “It is.” “I can keep my arms down.” “You can’t.” “I’ll never wear sleeveless dresses.” “You absolutely will.” At this point Kelvin was a sobbing, whimpering mess on the table.
“I didn’t sign up for torture,” he wheezed.
“Paragraph seven, subsection three of your contract,” Manager Victoria said flatly.
“‘The signee agrees to all necessary physical modifications required to maintain the illusion of the assigned gender role.’You signed it.” “Nobody reads those!” ‘RRRRIP.’ Kelvin howled.
The aesthetician patted his shoulder sympathetically.
“Only your face left, dear.” “My…
my face?” “We can’t have you walking around with a five o’clock shadow, can we?” Kevin looked at the hot wax.
Then at the mirror.
Then back at the wax.
“I want to go home,” he whispered.
‘RRRRIP.’ ***** After the waxing came the wardrobe fitting.
Kelvin stood in his underwear in a room full of strangers-stylists, designers, and a terrifying woman named Madam Elizabeth who seemed to have X-ray vision for every imperfection on his body.
“He has no hips,” Madam Elizabeth declared, circling him like a shark.
“And his shoulders are too broad for a woman his height.” “I’m ‘right here’,” Kevin said through gritted teeth.
“Quiet.
I’m working.” A corset was produced.
It looked like a medieval torture device.
Kelvin was laced into it so tightly that his vision swam and his ribs screamed in protest.
“Breathe shallowly,” the assistant said cheerfully.
“You’ll get used to it!” “I can’t ‘breathe’ at all!” “That’s the spirit!” Then came the padding.
Foam pads were strapped to his hips to create a more feminine curve.
A silicone bra was shoved into his chest, giving him the illusion of breasts.
He stared at his reflection in horror.
“I look like a department store mannequin that got hit by a truck.” “You look like a woman who gets hit on by classy men,” Manager Victoria corrected.
“That’s the goal.” Kelvin flipped her off.
She didn’t flinch.
***** The dresses were next.
Madam Elizabeth brought out an arsenal of clothing-flowing skirts, tailored blouses, delicate fabrics that felt like spiderwebs against his freshly-waxed skin.
Every time Kelvin tried to put something on, a stylist would swarm him, tugging here, pinning there, muttering about his “masculine proportions.” “This dress makes my shoulders look huge.” “Your shoulders ‘are’ huge.
The dress is doing its best.” “The sleeves are too tight.” “That’s because you have the arms of a man who carries art supplies instead of a woman who carries handbags.
We’ll order a custom size.” “Can I at least wear pants?” “A woman in pants?
At a Morrowgate family function?
Preposterous.” Kelvin wanted to scream.
Instead, he let them dress him like a doll, standing still as they adjusted hemlines and tucked seams and argued about whether cream or ivory made his skin look more “delicate.” (It was cream.
Cream made him look “like a porcelain doll.” Kevin had never felt less like a porcelain doll in his life.) The makeup trial was its own special circle of hell.
Anyways, after a long three weeks of pure torture, Kelvin was finally ready.
He stood silently by the mirror and looked at himself.
The wig was long, black, and silky, falling past his shoulders.
The makeup was subtle-just enough to soften his jaw, make his eyes look bigger, his lips fuller.
The dress was a simple cream-colored midi dress with a modest neckline, but it hugged his slender frame in a way that made him look almost…
elegant.
He turned left.
Turned right.
He looked like a woman.
A very beautiful woman.
“You’ll pass,” Manager Victoria said from behind him, her voice flat.
“Don’t speak too much.
Keep your voice soft.
Smile, but don’t show too many teeth.
And for God’s sake, don’t swear.” She paused, letting her gaze settle on him.
“One more thing.
Mr.
Alexander has no idea we hired a man for this job…
and I’d like to keep it that way.” Kelvin took a deep breath.
His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
‘You’re doing this for Gabriella.’ He nodded once.
“Let’s go.” ***** The Morrowgate family mansion was a palace.
Kelvin had seen pictures online, but they didn’t capture the sheer weight of the place-the towering iron gates, the sprawling gardens, the marble fountain in the center of the circular driveway.
The main building was a blend of traditional American architecture and modern luxury, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows.
A butler greeted him at the door and led him through hallways lined with art that could have paid for his sister’s surgery ten times over.
Then they stopped in front of a pair of massive wooden doors.
“Mr.
Morrowgate is waiting inside,” the butler said, and then disappeared.
Kelvin stood alone.
His palms were sweating.
The wig itched.
The heels hurt.
‘You can do this.
You can do this.
You can-‘ The doors opened.
And there he was.
Alexander Morrowgate.
He was even more intimidating in person.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit.
His face was expressionless, but his eyes-those cold, dark eyes-raked over Kevin from head to toe with clinical precision.
Kelvin felt like he was being dissected.
“So,” Alexander said.
His voice was low, smooth, and utterly devoid of warmth.
“You’re my new fiancée.” Kelvin remembered Manager Victoria’s instructions.
Smile.
Don’t speak too much.
Soft voice.
Don’t get caught.
He forced his lips into what he hoped was a feminine, demure smile.
“Yes,” he said, pitching his voice higher than usual.
“I’m Kelly Austin.
It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Alexander stared at him for a long moment.
His eyes lingered on Kelvin’s face-on his lips, his jaw, his neck.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked into the room.
“Follow me,” he said over his shoulder.
“We have rules to discuss.” Kelvin followed, his heart racing.
‘Rule number one’, he thought.
‘Don’t get caught.’ ‘Rule number two.
Don’t fall for him.’ (That was impossible anyways because Kelvin was straight.) ‘Rule number three.
Get the money and leave.’ How hard could it be?