AN: I'm going to me making changes to 3 of the previous chapters tonight to tighten up the stories logic. I will Add a [rewrite] to the chapter title and a pinned comment to what I changed for anyone that cant be bothered to read it again.
Sorry for the inconvenience, but I've realised what I have written hasn't lined up with my head cannon to the degree I would like and has made it confusing for some readers.
thank you to those who have pointed it out
***
We walked around the mall for a while, windowshopping. My mind kept eyeing some of the female mannequins. Despite it being a reversed world, there was still a raunchy section for women, although a bit more tame compared to my own world. Then again, it wasn’t hard to figure out why. There were clearly quite a few lesbian couples wandering the place. Humanity desired companionship, and with such a skewiff gender ratio, it's not surprising to see so many lesbian couples. I watched as couples would point to underwear, say something to their partner to get a blush from them. And then walk off. Or into the store.
Quite a few underwear had caught my eye. Each time I’d take a side-long glance at Sophia. Imagining her in them. One of my favorite was a black and white lace set. I might just be biased on the black and white thing. But they definitely looked good. Maybe I’ll get them for her. Surely my parents wouldn't mind if I splurged on Sophia a bit.
But it wasn't just underwear I wanted to dress her up in. Skirts, pleated skirts, mini skirts, even pencil skirts. Shirts as well, ohh, football tops. I do like the way sports tops look on girls, maybe get her some of those too. I wonder what she’s looking for. Did she like the panties? Or is she going for some skinny jeans?
Half the stores went by before I had a terrible feeling of forgetfulness crept up on me. I turned to my entourage. “Err… Who’s following who?”
“What?” Sophie was the first to respond. “We’re following you. We’re getting clothes for you, remember.”
“Err,” I completely forgot. I was kinda just used to following ‘the girl’ around at the mall. Waiting for them to finish so we can go home. “You’re not getting any clothes?”
“Jason, have you not been looking all this time?” Sophia got a bit annoyed.
“Yeah?” I hesitated. “Well, I was looking at stuff… that would look great on you.” I answered honestly. That seemed to have stumped Sophia. “Look, honestly, I have no idea where to start.” I looked around the mall, trying to see if I could recognise any of the shops. Kensington & Hayes, Palais Noir, Obsidian Row, Le Paon Royal. Fuck, I had no clue what any of them meant.
“What are you after, and we can narrow down the search.” Jodie spoke up.
“T-shirts, jeans, trousers, a few shirts. In black or white. Ohh, I need some cargo trousers as well for biking.”
“Let’s try that one.” Jodie decided, The girls led me to one of the shops. Stepping into Palais Noir felt like walking into a fever dream designed by a pretentious art student.
The floor was mirror-polished black obsidian under moody neon lights, and the racks held things that barely qualified as clothing: fishnet capes, sheer organza tops that wouldn’t survive a sneeze, and glitter-dusted codpieces on velvet displays. A heavy bassline hummed through the floor, paired with the choking stench of incense and lavender water. I stood there in my oversized trench coat, utterly bewildered.
“Is this a costume shop? Did we wander into a medieval fetish boutique?” I asked the two.
Before they answered, the plum velvet curtains at the back parted with dramatic flair.
“Oh, Darlings, bonjour!”
Out swooped a woman in an asymmetrical lilac blazer, skin-tight trousers, and huge pink glasses. Clapping ring-covered hands together, she gave theatrical air-kisses toward Jodie and Sophia before her gaze locked onto me.
Her hands flew to her cheeks in exaggerated shock. “Stop. Don’t move a muscle! Is this young Lord Jason? Mon dieu, the cheekbones! The height! We are simply suffocating you in that tragic coat, sweetheart. Don’t fret, auntie Monique is here, and we are turning this little jewel into an absolute event.”
She glided directly into my personal space, “Erm…” I stepped back a bit, looking at Sophia or Jodie for help. The woman startled for a moment, not expecting my reaction. ‘Well that makes two of us, lady. I just want some jeans,” I said flatly. “Black or grey. And a few t-shirts.”
Monique froze, her theatrical smile twitching as her usual script derailed. “...Jeans? Oh, darling, no. Nobody wears jeans to an afternoon debut! But don't worry, I have a pair of shimmering crushed-velvet cigarette pants with pearl-accented seams that will hug your thighs like poetry—”
“What the fuck is a shimmer… cigarette pants?” I asked.
The words came out flat and thoroughly baffled.
The showroom went dead. Monique stared at me, mouth open, looking like her brain had suffered a catastrophic system reboot.
Behind me, Sophia muffled a sudden burst of laughter against her hand, while Jodie leaned against a pillar, taking a sip of water with a thoroughly entertained smirk.
Monique’s brain seemed to complete its emergency reboot. She blinked rapidly, forced her smile back into place with sheer professional willpower, and gave an airy, dismissive wave.
“Mon dieu, such… colourful rustic vocabulary!” she gasped, laughing nervously as she fluttered over to a nearby rack. “You simply haven't seen the vision yet, darling. High fashion is a shock to the uninitiated! Look at this—” She whipped an emerald-green, sheer silk top off the brass hanger, practically translucent, with an entirely open cowl back and pearl ties. “It arrived from the capital yesterday. Every tastemaker on the continent is begging for it! It screams modern, vulnerable nobility.”
I looked at the shirt, then looked at Monique. “It screams you forgot the other half of the fabric.”
“Sweet boy! This is the latest vanguard from the Milanese autumn frontier. The capital of fashion. You want taste, this… is taste.” Monique continued to try pushing the top towards me.
I grabbed Monique’s shoulders, looking down into her in the eye. “Monique. Please just find me something normal. T-shirts, shirts, black, white, a few of each. Black jeans, joggers, trousers, loose but not baggy. And some trainers. My two favourite colours are black and white. Mainly because I like how they contrast next to each other. Can you work with that?”
“But…” Monique gasped, clutching the silk to her chest as if I’d physically struck it. She spun desperately toward Sophia and Jodie, waiting for the women to step in, scold the unruly boy, and tell him what he was allowed to put on his body.
I pulled her back to me “I will not even entertain the idea of wearing this shit. Monique. Do I need to take my Customs elsewhere?”
Monique clutched the rejected hanger to her chest, her mouth opening and closing like a stranded koi fish. She glanced desperately toward the two women, practically begging for someone to step in and put this unruly boy back in his place. Read the latest chapters at novelping(.)com.
Neither of them moved.
Behind me, Sophia had lowered her hand. The amused smirk was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, wide-eyed stare. Her usual polished, teasing poise had slipped; she was looking at me the way someone might look at a caged panther that had casually unlatched its own door. In high society, young men flattered, deferred, and blushed. Hearing a boy speak with that low, uncompromising authority—watching him completely shut down an elder without once glancing over his shoulder for permission—clearly short-circuited her brain in the best possible way. The subtle flush rising in her cheeks wasn't embarrassment; it was fascination.
Beside the display pillar, Jodie took a slow, deliberate sip from her bottle. Her posture was completely relaxed, but there was a fierce, proprietary gleam in her eyes. She didn't look scandalized; she looked like a chess player who had just watched her pawn jump straight to queen.
“You heard him, Monique,” Jodie said, her voice smooth and carrying the cold, effortless weight of an aristocrat who didn’t repeat herself. “Stop trying to dress him for a parade and bring out the private stock. High-grade denim, structured dark shirts, and riding cuts that actually fit broad shoulders. And let’s not keep him waiting.”
Monique swallowed hard, glancing between my deadpan scowl and the united front behind me.
“...Of course, Your Grace,” Monique murmured, the theatrical camp draining completely out of her voice. “Right this way, young lord.”
***
The four of us retired to the private fitting suite in the rear—a lavish, circular lounge framed by three-way gilded mirrors and plush velvet chaises.
“First, darling, let us shed that heavy coat so we can truly appreciate what we are working with.”
“Ah, finally,” I mumbled under my breath.
Unzipping the heavy trench coat, I tossed it onto the nearest chair without much care. Beneath it, my worn gym top clung tightly to my chest and shoulders, damp from the morning’s exertion and tracing the athletic taper down to my waist.
Monique’s hands flew to her mouth, her manicured fingers pressing together as a sharp gasp escaped her. “Mon dieu… young lord. The muscle, the stature, the sheer breadth of your shoulders! Such definition… I have never seen a man built like this before!”
“Erm, really?” Though her words carried high praise, it felt more like an indicator of how low the local standard was rather than a genuine ego boost. “Thanks, I guess.”
Then, a playful idea struck me.
I looked past Monique and caught Sophia’s eye. She was leaning against the threshold of the dressing suite, her gaze fixed unabashedly to the contours of my chest, a slight greedy smile tugged on her lips as her teeth held onto her bottom lips.
A wicked grin formed on my face. The game from earlier was in no way over.
Rolling my shoulders back, I let my chest swell against the thin fabric of my top and let out a dramatic sigh of exhaustion.
“You wouldn't believe the brutal regimen I’m subjected to just to build the physique my darling Sophia expects,” I purred smoothly, adopting a wounded tone while holding her gaze with brooding eyes. “Lifting heavy iron every morning. Endless cardio. Protein shakes. And yet, she claims the work is far from finished. Always insisting I’m not broad enough. That I lack stamina.”
Monique gasped—a sharp, dramatic shriek of absolute scandal.
Her pink glasses slid halfway down her nose as she whipped around to face Sophia, her expression pale with aristocratic horror. In high society, demanding that a delicate, cherished male bulk up or alter his natural frame was the equivalent of a guy back home telling his fiancée she was out of shape and needed cosmetic surgery. It was vulgar. It was monstrous.
“Lady Evergreen!” Monique stammered, clutching her satin collar with trembling fingers. “You… you tyrant! Subjecting a precious young lord to grueling manual labor? Placing demands upon his sacred form? The Society for the Protection of Gentlemen would have you publicly censured!”
Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. A deep, vivid crimson blush rushed up her neck, painting her cheeks and ears in sheer, mortified panic. Her usual polished, teasing composure dissolved instantly into frantic damage control.
“I—what? No! That’s an absolute lie!” Sophia stammered out, her hands waving defensively as her eyes darted between the horrified stylist and an intensely amused Jodie. “I never said any such thing! Jason, stop this right now!”
She glared at me, her blue eyes flashing with a mix of utter embarrassment, mock fury, and a flustered heat she was doing a terrible job of hiding.
“I like your chest exactly as it is!” Sophia blurted out, realizing a second too late what she had just admitted.
Beside the mirror, Jodie pressed the back of her hand against her lips, her shoulders trembling with silent, breathy laughter as she watched the Evergreen heiress get completely unravelled by her own betrothed.
A smug grin spread slowly across my face. I looked down at myself, tapped a knuckle against my pec, and looked right back up into her mortified eyes.
“See?” I said softly, giving Monique a sad, knowing nod. “It’s only like this because of the regime. The woman’s a tyrant, Monique. She won’t let me rest until she can bounce a coin off them.”
Monique let out another scandalized gasp, clutching her heart as if she were about to faint, while Sophia looked like she was actively calculating whether she could commit murder in an upscale boutique and get away with it.
Monique and I went through a dozen shirts, trying on all different sizes. Jodie threw a cushion at my head at the start, when I was obliviously pulling off my top to change. A very stern, “Changing room now!” send me running off to the curtained cubicle. We finally narrowed down two sizes. One just loose, and the one I had on, which was completely form fitting but didn't feel restrictive at all. Something called a tapered equestrian weave. It left all my contours on display.
I flexed in front of the ‘mirror’ while in eye sight of the ladies. Then turned to Sophia. “Well, then, Slave driver.” I asked. “Which one do you want? Modesty, or eye candy?” Continuing a modest flexing for her to make a proper informed decision.
Sophia froze. Her lips parted, her cheeks flaring pink all over again. “Erm, I, I, don't mind. It's up to you, Jason.” having me throw the choice at her feet with complete, blunt apathy made her throat bob.
My facial expression alone was asking her if she was being for real. Then I turned to Monique. “I’ll take modesty for when I’m with Sophia, and eye candy for when I’m not.”
“What!?” Sophia was the one to exclaim. Get faster updates on g.com.
“What?” I shrugged. “I want the eye candy one, but you’re clearly not comfortable enough to want to see me in it.”
“That’s…” She stared at me, I stared back, waiting for her to step up, challenging me. “Fine, I want eye candy.” she said it, face going a bit red.
“You heard the woman, Monique. Only the finest eye candy for hers truly. I’ll still take some of each, I kinda need a new wardrobe.” I asked Monique, who looked like she was about to faint from the sheer, scandalous forwardness of the entire exchange.
Jeans were another issue, Monique and I argued about definitions for a good while. Apparently writing off 15 of the 17 styles of jeans she had as simply skinny jeans and claiming no man ever looked good in skinny jeans was the most offensive thing she ever heard.
Finally though, we came to pay. Heading back into the store, a few more customers had entered now, and apparently there were a few more members of staff. Jodie took the bags off of us. The bill came up and I took a glance at Jodie for reassurance. But finally I fished out the card and handed it over to pay. Another tidbit that threw Monique off, especially as Sophia was standing right next to me, yet the money was coming from me. I wrapped my arm around Sophia, as we stood there, waiting for the transaction to go through. I now wore a white tight T shirt, with black sleeves. And charcoal black jeans, white sneakers, with a black soul. Thinking about it, was I going the goth daddy route in this world? What would I need to do to play into that?
“Jason?” Sophia called me out. I noticed Monique was trying to give me my card back with the receipt. I apologized and took it back. “What were you thinking about?” Sophia asked, leaning in with that familiar, predatory curiosity.
Back home, pulling a stunt like this would have landed me a slapped face, a sexual harassment claim, or at best, an earful in public. But if these past couple of hours had taught me anything, it was that the social playbook in this reality was spun completely on its head. Sophia spent her whole day putting on that stoic, unbothered heiress routine. Yet the moment I showed some spine and took charge, that polished exterior crumbled into flustered, mesmerized intrigue. She didn't need some delicate little doll cowering behind her family name. She craved a guy who could push her right back—and deep down, she was practically dying for someone to ruffle those feathers.
I looked down at her with another wicked grin. My hand slipped from her hip down to her ass and gave it a good squeeze, getting a cute little yelp out of her. There was absolutely no attempt by me to be subtle about it. Much to Monique’s wide eyed fascination. Even some of the members of the public behind us gasped.
“You know. Now, upon your demand, I am wearing eye candy for you.” I teased.
“You…” Sophia tried to protest.
“Ah, ah, ah. I ain't finished yet. Just remember that later when we go shopping for you. Now I get to put you in something slutty, and you’ve got zero room to complain?”
An absolute, dead silence blanketed the shop.
Monique’s mouth fell open, her jaw dropping so violently I half-expected it to unhinge. Behind those oversized pink frames, her eyes bulged out in sheer, unadulterated horror, flicking back and forth from my palm planted firmly against Sophia’s rear to the arrogant smirk plastered across my face. Watching a guy foot the bill with his own plastic was already a wild departure from their norms, but seeing a man brazenly grab a handful of butt right at the checkout while barking out commands like he owned the place? Her mind suffered a total, unrecoverable system crash.
Next to me, Sophia froze in place, staring up at me like I’d suddenly started spouting gibberish. Her brain came to a complete screeching halt the moment that word dropped—slutty—a notion so utterly unheard of coming from a guy to a prospective Duchess that she didn't even have the mental framework to comprehend it. Guys were meant to be dressed up, coddled, and protected; they didn't lay down the law, and they definitely didn't threaten to parade an Evergreen heiress around in revealing attire. Her skin burned a brilliant, fiery red, caught in a wild clash between sheer disbelief, flustered outrage, and a sudden, undeniable jolt of thrilling interest.
A couple steps back, Jodie kept completely quiet. She merely pressed her hand over her lips, her shoulders quivering with silent, breathless hilarity as she stood there watching the whole high-society status quo blow up right at the counter.
Without letting go of that scandalous grip, I gave her backside a firm, guiding nudge forward.
“Come on, Duchess. Feet moving.”
Sophia gasped—a tiny, strangled sound in her throat—as her legs responded before her mind could catch up. I stayed right behind her, using my hand squarely on the curve of her hip and ass like an insolent rudder, steering the future head of House Evergreen toward the double glass doors. With my height and broad shoulders looming over her, anyone looking from across the showroom would see an athletic boy in fitted white twill casually driving a flushed noble heiress out into the sun.
Behind us, Monique looked on the verge of fainting dead onto the obsidian tiles, while Jodie trailed along with a slow, smug swagger, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.
The heavy glass doors parted, and the cool autumn breeze of the Grand Galleria washed over us.
The moment our shoes cleared the threshold and hit the polished stone of the open promenade, Sophia spun violently on her heel, slapping my wrist away with a sharp crack.
“Unhand me!” she hissed, her voice trembling with mortification.
Her cheeks were blazing a furious crimson, clashing violently with her aristocratic poise. She darted a frantic, panicked glare left and right across the bustling walkway, checking whether any passing matriarchs, guards, or corporate magnates had witnessed her being physically herded like a prize heifer by her own betrothed.
“Have you any conception of how outrageous that appeared?” she hissed, her trembling fingers aggressively smoothing down her coat to regain some semblance of aristocratic poise. “A guy—right out in the open—steering me by the… by my ass?”
“Looked like two people leaving a boutique,” I offered with a lazy, careless shrug. “And you didn't seem to mind the hands-on approach until we stepped outside.”
Sophia gagged on her breath, her lips parting and shutting as a fresh wave of crimson washed over her cheeks. She attempted to glare daggers through me, but her composure faltered, stuck in a strange middle ground between pure embarrassment and utter shock.
Behind her nervous glances around the concourse, her reaction wasn't actual rage—it was a flustered, intoxicating thrill. For months, She and her mother wanted a real union filled with passion, a connection where both parties were invested, yet the previous Jason had only offered passive, sullen distance.
This man, though, was anything but distant.
He was wildly pushing back, inappropriate and shocking with his teasing with an intensity and raw physical presence she had never envisioned from an intended match.
She crossed her arms firmly beneath her bust, exhaling a quick puff of air to clear a stray fringe from her face, even as her fierce noble scowl began to fracture.
“You are completely impossible,” she grumbled, turning her head toward the walkway to hide the reluctant, subtle curve of her lips. “If Mother's guards had caught that performance, they would have intervened just to save face.”
“I'd love to see them try,” I chuckled. “So, where's lunch? Dealing with that designer burned through all my energy.”