She walked the corridor with measured steps, heels clicking against marble floors polished to mirror-shine. Past the portraits of Heavenchild ancestors, past the vaulted windows flooding the hallway with golden afternoon light, past the security cameras she knew were watching and the guards she knew were not.
A door on the left. Unremarkable. Staff quarters, according to the estate's floor plan.
She entered.
The room beyond was dark. Heavy curtains drawn, ambient light killed, shadows pooling thick as ink across every surface.
Someone preferred it this way.
The change began before the door finished closing.
Her spine lengthened first — vertebrae realigning with wet, audible cracks, the sound masked only by the soft click of the lock. Her shoulders drew back, hips widening dramatically while her waist cinched inward to an impossible, sculpted hourglass that no mortal woman could achieve.
