Dinner’s Ready, Darling

Three months. That’s how long Matt had been out of work. Three months of “recharging” on the couch while Rachel picked up double shifts and watched their house slowly turn into a disaster zone. He’d called it a “mental health break.” She’d called it “bullshit.”

“You need to start pulling your weight,” she snapped. “Cleaning the house, cooking meals, doing laundry—every day until you find a job.”

Matt let out a light chuckle. “What, you want me to be your housewife or something?”

Rachel’s eyes burned. “That’s exactly what you’re going to be—unless you’d rather be single and sleeping in your car.”

Matt’s face went pale, the smile fading as he realized he’d just seriously fucked up.

By the next morning, Rachel had scheduled a full-body wax. She made him lay there, red-faced and squirming, while the esthetician ripped away every trace of masculinity below his neckline. He cried out more than once. Rachel just scrolled through her phone, smug and silent.

The salon came next. His shaggy hair was bleached, toned, and sculpted into long, platinum waves that spilled past his shoulders in glossy layers. Extensions made sure it hung down to his waist by the time they left. Rachel insisted on a deep bronze tan, lash extensions, and a full face of contour and highlighter.

By the third day, Rachel had finished molding him into Madison—a smooth, curvy, picture-perfect housewife with swaying blonde hair, sky-high heels, and a pair of heavy, fake tits that jiggled with every step, making it impossible to see the man he used to be.

Rachel stood in the kitchen doorway now, arms folded, watching the result of her revenge busy at the oven. Madison’s leather dress was so tight, she had to take shallow breaths just to stay upright. The black leather clung to her hips like it had been painted on, with a row of lacing cinching her waist mercilessly. Her long, silky legs shimmered in sheer black stockings dotted with tiny polka dots, and her heels—black stilettos with glossy red soles—clicked against the wooden floor with every tentative step.

“Don’t forget the wine, sweetheart,” Rachel said sweetly.

Madison turned, her perfectly lined eyes flickering with resentment before she forced a pouty smile onto her lips. “Of course, babe,” she replied, her voice soft, high, and coated in faux sugar.

Her manicured fingers, tipped in glossy crimson almond nails, reached for the bottle on the counter. Rachel watched her hips sway as she walked, every motion exaggerated, every movement a performance.

“You’re doing such a good job, Maddie,” Rachel cooed, stepping behind her to adjust a lock of blonde hair, her hands sliding down to caress the curve of Madison’s waist—then boldly cupping her chest, fingers squeezing the heavy silicone beneath the tight leather. “My sexy little housewife... I could get very used to coming home to this.”

Her lips brushed Maddie’s ear. “After dinner, maybe I’ll have you on your knees—where housewives belong.”

Madison’s cheeks flushed a deep red as she quivered and whimpered, barely able to keep her grip on the bottle.

Rachel smirked. Maybe she didn’t need a husband after all.