Hitting Her High Notes (1/2)

Dylan had been sending out samples for months, and the response was always the same at first—excited emails, meeting requests, promises of potential. His voice turned heads before he ever walked into the room.

But that’s where it all fell apart. The second they saw him, the interest faded. Polite smiles. Quick excuses. One producer even admitted, a little awkwardly, “Honestly, I thought you were a woman from the vocals.”

Dylan wasn’t trying to sound feminine. That was just his voice—clean, bright, addictive. But apparently, that only worked when it came out of the right kind of body. He was close to walking away from it all—scrapping the demos, shutting down the accounts, moving on from a dream that clearly wasn’t built for someone like him.

Then came the message.

Silas Wolfe—indie producer with a reputation for sculpting stars from nothing. The man had platinum hits under his belt and rumors of iron control behind the curtain. Dylan didn’t care. Silas liked his voice. Silas wanted a meeting. Silas offered a contract. He signed it that night.

The next morning, they sent a car. Dylan thought they were headed to a studio. Instead, he found himself in a high-end medical clinic with white marble floors and smiles that were just a little too wide. He barely had time to ask a question before a stylist was measuring his waist and a nurse was prepping an IV.

Silas stood nearby, watching it all unfold. “Just a few minor cosmetic adjustments,” he said smoothly. “Nothing to worry about.” Dylan tried to ask what that meant, but the sedative was already pulling him under.

He woke up groggy. Numb. Something was off—his chest felt heavy, tight, his skin oddly sensitive. He couldn’t quite tell what was wrong, only that something definitely was. The mirror took a moment to make sense.

A heart-shaped face stared back—framed in long, cascading black waves, delicate features and flawless skin. The nose was slim and sculpted, the lips full and slightly parted, the brows perfectly shaped. Long lashes curled upward, giving her a soft, drowsy sensuality. Then lower...

Her chest rose and fell beneath a thin medical gown, stretched tight over breasts that hadn't existed yesterday—round, heavy, perfectly placed. Her waist pulled in sharply above hips that curved out far wider than before, thighs smooth and bare beneath the rumpled sheet. The figure in the mirror was flawless, exaggerated, obscene in all the right ways.

The woman in the mirror blinked, eyes wide with disbelief—until Dylan realized the reflection staring back was him.

He sat stiffly on the edge of the clinic bed, the silk robe clinging to a body he barely recognized. The door opened. Silas stepped in, suit sharp, smile sharper, eyes dragging down Dylan’s form like a man admiring something he owned. “You turned out even better than I imagined,” he said, voice low and smooth. The stare lingered—hungry, unashamed—and when Dylan finally opened his mouth to speak, Silas stepped closer and pressed a single finger to his pouty new lips. “Save that voice for singing, princess,” he murmured.

The album dropped four weeks later. The sound? Infectious. Hooks laced with sugar and venom. Pop radio couldn’t get enough of her. Streaming numbers shot through the roof. Dylan—no, Daniella—was suddenly the hottest thing in the business.

Now Daniella was swinging her legs out of the car, her towering platform boots settling onto the pavement. The glossy black heels were polished to a mirror shine, laced tight around her ankles and perfectly matched to the smooth, high-gloss latex stretched over her legs. Her oversized red designer sweatshirt hung low, bold and eye-catching against the black interior of the car.

Her hair was perfect—sleek, black, falling smooth around her face. Her lips glossed, lashes curled, nails sharp and jet-black. She looked every inch the star the world expected her to be.

She was halfway out when his hand found her waist. Strong. Firm. Claiming.

She inhaled sharply. A shiver ran through her—not from cold, but from the sudden reminder that she wasn’t navigating this alone. Silas was always there. Always watching. Always touching.

“Come on, baby girl,” he murmured low against her ear. “One more interview, then I’ll take you home.”

She didn’t respond. She just stood, letting him guide her toward the waiting cameras with a perfectly timed sway in her hips and a perfectly trained smile.

She got what she wanted. A voice on the airwaves. Her name in the songwriting credits.

But as Silas' fingers rested a little too long on her waist, Daniella still wasn’t sure if the way she got here… was worth it.