The Fantasy Made Too Real - Episode 1

Happy upcoming New Year to everyone. Most likely I’m taking a pause for a few days, so I decided not to put off the long story until Saturday. Besides, this is the first time I decided to use a different approach for creating images.

In the small holding cell of the Fort St. John police station, it was unexpectedly quiet — too quiet for a place where shifts, raids, and other people’s mistakes usually end. She sat on a narrow bench, knees pressed together, palms resting on top of them, and with genuine pleasure examined how her heavy breasts, pulled tight by a thin mesh, pushed out between the straps. The corners of her lips stretched into a wide, almost childlike smile — from the awareness of the absurdity and from the way this body felt: the weight, the pressure, the constant reminder of itself with every breath.

‘Fuck… they’re really mine now,’ the thought flashed through her mind, and her fingers pressed a little harder into her thighs, feeling the smoothness and softness of her skin, watching how the mesh top cut into it, how her breasts swayed ever so slightly with each breath.

She had come to her senses about five minutes ago, at first not realizing where she was and muttering something angrily under her breath. But she immediately fell silent when she heard how strange her voice sounded. She understood everything in that very moment, and all the questions that had popped up in her head instantly went quiet.

The lock clicked.

The metal door slid aside, and she, leaning forward slightly, smiled even wider as she looked at the man in uniform who appeared in the doorway.

Tall, young, but with obvious signs of what people call “attractive carelessness” when talking about those whom nature has gifted with model-like looks. But Officer Ryan McKenzie was not one of them. On him, the stubble, the messy hair, and the slightly sleepy look would make a sane woman feel uneasy rather than tempted to flirt.

Taking a sip of freshly brewed coffee, he scanned the cell as if trying to find someone else in there besides this girl, who kept staring at him with a wide smile.

Ryan squinted, took another sip, and finally looked at her.

— Good morning, officer, — she drawled with the same wide grin, then immediately coughed, laughed, and tried to force her voice lower — Or maybe… like this… UGH! Haha. Still sounds like a fucking mouse!

Her laughter filled the walls of the cell, as if someone had suddenly turned an old radio up to full volume — bright, slightly raspy, but absolutely genuine, without a trace of fear or shame.

Ryan winced and leaned back a little, as if the sound had hit him physically.

— Knock it off, — he said curtly. — This isn’t a club.

She was still chuckling, wiping the moisture that had come from coughing from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. The smile didn’t go anywhere, it just became more crooked, more alive.

— Sorry, — she breathed out. — It’s just… — she waved her hand through the air, as if trying to catch an explanation, — I didn’t expect this to be so… funny.

2

— Funny? — he echoed, raising an eyebrow. — You’re in a holding cell in Fort St. John. People don’t usually laugh here.

— Yeah! So that’s what this “town” is called, huh? Fort-Saint… what? — she tilted her head, genuinely trying to parse the name, as if she’d heard it for the first time and hadn’t really bothered to remember it.

Ryan slowly exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed — more tired. He had clearly already realized that the morning was not going according to the standard script.

— Fort St. John, — he pronounced clearly and deliberately. — Come on, get up. Time to process you.

He said it like he was putting a period on it, not continuing a conversation.

She blinked, still smiling and not moving an inch, looking at him as if he were some kind of museum exhibit.

A second passed. Then another.

Ryan waited. He knew how to wait — it showed in how he didn’t change his stance, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make unnecessary movements. He just watched. And that silence was slowly starting to weigh more than any words.

— I said get up, — he repeated, his voice flatter now, raised by half a tone.

She blinked again, as if only now realizing the pause had dragged on. The smile twitched slightly, but didn’t disappear.

— Wait, — she said unexpectedly calmly. — I’m just curious.

— About what exactly? — he asked.

— How much do they pay you to stay this convincingly in character? — she tilted her head to the side. — Or are you also—

She shifted her gaze, starting to quickly examine something in the cell, as if she might see anything there besides bare, scuffed walls and a narrow bench.

The pause turned awkward. Too long.

— Fuck, what the hell, are you high or something? — he said, stepping forward, — Or are you asking for it?!

She froze.

The smile was still on her face, but now it looked like something that had been forgotten there. The muscles in her cheeks tensed, her gaze slid aside on instinct, as if her body understood before her head that something had gone wrong.

“Wow… holy shit…” she thought, feeling something she had genuinely never felt before.

Her gaze locked on Ryan for a second, but as soon as he took another step, she immediately raised her hands in a defensive gesture and said:

— Okay-okay-okay! Getting up! — she quickly braced her palms on the bench and slowly stood. Her body reacted immediately and far too actively: her weight shifted, her hips tensed, her breasts swung heavily under the mesh, making her instinctively freeze for half a second and spread her arms out to keep her balance.

Ryan stopped mid-step, watching this strange scene. She stood there with her arms slightly apart, like a tightrope walker who had just stepped onto the wire for the first time and only now realized how thin it was. Her heels trembled slightly on the concrete floor from the unfamiliar work of ligaments and muscles that hadn’t yet adjusted to the new weight distribution. Her breasts, having swung heavily once, now stilled, but each following breath made them rise and fall ever so slightly, pulling the mesh top tight to its limit.

— Ta-da! — as if showing she had handled some difficult task, she flashed a quick smile and looked at the cop with a grin, tilting her head to the side while her torso leaned forward, — all done, officer!

3

— Good job, now follow me, — Ryan replied in a calm tone, writing all of it off as some kind of the girl’s quirks.

She slowly exhaled through parted lips, then lowered her hands and once again widened her eyes, looking down at her breasts, the nipples sticking out through the mesh.

— This is some kind of madness, — she breathed out, and for the first time there was something almost childlike and lost in her voice, — everything is both right and wrong at the same time...

Ryan snorted, then slowly turned, looking at the girl sideways, and took a step out of the cell.

— Follow me, — he muttered.

She stepped after him, but the moment she did, she almost kissed the concrete with her nose. A thin heel slid across the gray floor, her ankle strangely “collapsed” at a new angle, and her entire body weight shifted forward, making her hands instinctively fly up to keep balance. Her earrings swung, lightly tapping against her neck with a soft jingle, and the tattoos on her arms tensed along with the muscles.

— Shit! — burst out of her, and she froze, shifting from foot to foot, trying to catch her balance. Her breasts swayed again, reminding her of themselves with a heaviness that pulled downward, like a counterweight in this stupid circus act.

Ryan, who had already taken a couple of steps, stopped and looked back. His gaze slid over her — from her confused face down to her trembling hips in the tight glossy skirt. For a moment, something like sympathy flickered in his eyes, but it was immediately replaced by familiar fatigue.

— What, first time in heels? — he grumbled. — Or are you still putting on your little show? Come on, move. I don’t want to spend all day messing with you.

— Not the first, — she exhaled through clenched teeth, still trying to lock in her balance. — Just… go to hell with questions like that!

The phrase came out sharp, but along with it her leg trembled again. The heel slipped by a millimeter, and she had to abruptly fall silent, focusing on the most basic thing — not falling. Her knees bent slightly on their own, her torso leaned back, her breasts settled heavily and immediately reminded her of themselves with another jolt, as if her body were deliberately testing her limits.

— Then shut your mouth and walk, — Ryan said evenly, taking a sip of coffee and moving on without checking whether she was following.

She moved after him. One step — short. Another — even shorter. The heels answered with a dull knock that echoed upward, into her hips, into her lower back. The skirt restricted her movement, forcing her to keep her knees closer together than she wanted.

"Fuck it, this really isn’t turning me on at all..." she thought, taking slow steps across the floor, and that thought left an unpleasant emptiness inside.

Ryan reached the corner of the corridor and stopped by a metal door with a sign that read “Intake / Processing.” The door was slightly ajar, and the smell of cheap coffee and old paper drifted out from inside.

4

He pushed the door with his shoulder, letting her go in first.

— Go in. Sit over there, — he nodded toward a metal chair bolted to the floor, its blue paint chipped and peeling.

She walked inside, trying not to take steps that were too wide. The room was tiny: a desk, a computer with a cracked corner on the monitor, a stack of folders, a 2025 calendar with a photo of an oil rig under the northern lights. On the wall — a bulletin board cluttered with flyers reading “Safety First,” “Hotline for Victims of Violence,” and a faded poster saying “Say NO to human trafficking.”

Ryan sat down across from her, pulled out a folder. Opened it. Flipped through it. Frowned.

— Strange, — he muttered.

— What exactly? — she immediately chimed in, perking up while trying to settle onto the chair. — Did the script change?

He lifted his eyes to her. Long.

— Usually it’s simpler here, — he said. — A couple of questions, a check, and out the door. But you… — he tapped a finger on the page, — you’ve got a note attached from a senior.

— Usually? — she drawled, the mischief creeping back as she fixed the hair that had fallen over her face. — What, am I not the first one? Damn, you guys are something! Someone else just as crazy as me ordered something like this too, right?... Actually no, don’t tell me. No, wait, tell me!

Ryan didn’t smile. Not even the corner of his mouth twitched. He just looked at her like he was deciding whether it was even worth continuing this conversation or if it would be easier to call someone from the night shift and dump the responsibility on them.

— Anyway… go stand over there, — he nodded with his eyes toward the gray wall, while opening a drawer in the desk and lazily starting to rummage through it.

She froze for a second, as if thinking over another strange thought or a snide remark, and then stood up. Slowly. More carefully this time. The heels demanded attention again, and she had to take two short steps instead of one normal one. Her back straightened on its own, as if her body already knew that standing was safer than moving.

— So serious, — she tossed over her shoulder, trying to sound light. — Was it Brandy? Oh, I mean, Brandon Barreli, right?

Ryan just gave a short snort at that.

— I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about right now, — he lifted his head from the drawer and looked at her as if checking whether there was a hidden camera behind the joke. — Barreli… Was? Jesus, girl, be honest — do you actually want to sit here even longer?

"Girl. Fuck!" she flinched with her whole body, feeling her cheeks flush bright red and a warm, almost burning tingling spread low in her belly.

She tried to clench her fists, but the key word here was “tried,” because her long scarlet nails immediately made themselves known, digging into the soft skin of her palms, and she just as sharply spread her fingers again, as if scared of herself.

5

— Hey, — Ryan’s voice sounded closer than she expected. — You okay?

The question was more procedural than caring.

— Perfectly, — she answered too quickly, cleared her throat, and turned toward the wall so he wouldn’t see her burning cheeks, — and Gregory… Gregory Morgen. You’ve surely got me… — she faltered, but only for a second, then spun around fast, planting herself against the wall with a wide grin and finished, — I mean him. You know him, right?

She stared intently, her head slightly tilted, as if waiting for this “actor” to crack any second, ruin everything, and for the directors of this show to burst out from behind the door and start yelling angrily at this useless “cop” who had completely blown his role.

But Ryan didn’t smirk. He just calmly looked at her. Even with a hint of interest.

— Gregory Morgen, — he repeated evenly, without any tone. — Yes.

She blinked. Inside, a light irritation appeared, almost like hurt feelings: come on already, give up.

One second. Another. From some strange nervousness and anticipation, her hands still reached for the straps. She hooked them with her fingers and pulled them higher onto her shoulders, awkwardly, a bit sharper than she meant to. The mesh fabric of the top stretched tight, her breasts swung heavily from the movement, and her nails scratched the skin near her collarbones, leaving a thin, unpleasantly sharp sting. She winced, exhaled, and only then let go of the straps, pretending it had been a completely normal, meaningless gesture.

— Aaaand… — she drawled, breaking the pause and raising an eyebrow, almost defiantly. Then she smirked with her usual confident grin, the one that used to make cops like this either nervously justify themselves, or nervously laugh, or fuss.

— Aaaand now you’re going to do what I tell you, — Ryan said calmly, standing up and stepping toward her, holding a camera in his hands, — no performances. Back to the wall. Feet together. Arms at your sides.

Now she was actually offended. She automatically lifted her chin, immediately feeling her long hair slide over her shoulders and tickle her back, making her shiver — this time from anger.

— Seriously? — she breathed out with an annoyed expression. — I think you’re overdoing it!

Ryan only raised the camera and took a quick shot, capturing her displeased face, and immediately the flash hit her eyes with a white spark. In the same second she involuntarily blinked, biting the inside of her cheek.

— Hey! — she jerked, but immediately stopped, because heels on a concrete floor didn’t forgive sudden movements. The earrings on long chains swung and coldly tapped against her neck. — Do you even know how to warn someone?

6

— You even know how to listen? — Ryan didn’t raise his voice, quickly scanning her fingerprints with the device and walking back to his workstation, plugging the camera in with a cable, — spouting all kinds of bullshit. First Barrelli, then Morgen! As if there’s anyone who doesn’t know them! The richest fucking people on the planet. Sit down already, what are you staring at?!

She froze for a second. Just stood there, feeling the white spot still floating in her vision after the flash. Her heart was beating faster than she’d like, and that only made her angrier.

— Don’t yell at me, — she snapped back, but without the old pressure. Her voice came out thinner than she had planned.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she walked to the chair. The skirt rustled softly as she sat down and immediately rode up, but she didn’t even notice.

Ryan clicked the mouse, dragging files around. Names, dates, previews of her face taken just moments ago with the camera flickered across the screen. He worked fast, confidently, as if he’d done this hundreds of times and she was no different from anyone else.

— Barreli, Morgen… — he muttered under his breath. — Hell, even fucking Bezos.

— Do you seriously think I’m just going to take this and… — she cut herself off when Ryan shot her an angry look. The earrings swayed again, reminding her of themselves with a cold touch.

— You done? — he asked evenly.

She blinked. Then again.

— That’s it! We’re done! — she barked, slamming her palm on the table so hard the papers lying there almost scattered.

Ryan didn’t answer, just calmly looked at her in a way that made sweat break out somewhere between her shoulder blades.

— You just struck a table in an official workspace, — he continued evenly, like he was dictating. — Recorded on camera. Want to add that to the file?

She opened her mouth — and closed it again. Her palm was still pressed to the table, the skin beneath it throbbing unpleasantly.

— I… I… — she started, breathless, nervously darting her eyes around as if trying not to realize the obvious, — Professor Cl… Kra… fuck! Why can’t I remember your name?! This isn’t fun anymore! I said — we’re done!

The last word tore out of her too sharply, almost hysterically. She heard it herself — and that only made it worse. The room filled with silence, thick like cotton stuffed into her ears. Even the system unit behind Ryan seemed to hum louder than usual. And Ryan’s stare felt like it was burning her right where she stood.

But it didn’t last long. The speakers of the old computer made a soft sound.

Beep.

The screen in front of Ryan blinked. Then again. The loading bar quickly filled from left to right.

— Oh. That was fast, — he said calmly.

7

She flinched at his voice harder than at the system beep and snapped her gaze up at him. Something in her breasts tightened painfully, her breathing went off — short, shallow, as if her body was trying to breathe for two people at once. Her palm was still on the table, and now she could clearly feel the blood pulsing under her skin, her fingers trembling, how that tremor gave her away completely.

— What… — slipped out of her. — What do you mean “fast”?

Ryan didn’t answer right away. He just looked at the screen, then at her — more precisely, at her face — then back at the screen, and then lazily leaned back against the chair.

— So, Svetlana, you do have a work permit, right? — Ryan asked in such an everyday tone, as if he were checking whether she had change for a hundred.

Svetlana blinked. Then again. For a second the words couldn’t find their way in her head — it was still buzzing from “Svetlana,” from the way he said that name without a hint of doubt, like he’d said it hundreds of times per shift.

— A… work permit? — she slowly repeated, stretching the syllables, trying to catch where the trap was hidden. Then she squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head, tried to stand — and immediately plopped back down, forgetting about the heels, her breasts, her hair, and everything that was hers right now. — Wait-wait-wait! Stop! Fuck! Are you… are you actually stupid or what? Do you even understand who you’re talking to?!

The words came out harsher than she expected. Too loud. Too hysterical.

— Yeah, — he said quietly. — Svetlana Tseban, 25 years old, born in Moldova, three arrests for illegal prostitution in the U.S. and one for disorderly conduct, — he shifted his gaze to the tattoo on her breasts, and the corner of his lips twitched in a barely noticeable smirk, — and apparently a big fan of deep conversations… in the literal sense.

Svetlana jolted as if he’d flicked her with a finger. Slowly lowered her gaze to her breasts, to where black letters in ornate script spelled out “I love it when my mouth hurts.”

For a second it felt like the tattoo was burning her skin, and her breasts — whose nipples, for some reason, instantly swelled after those vulgar words from the cop — became noticeably heavier and more sensitive.

She immediately covered them with her wrist. The soft flesh yielded under the pressure, and that touch only intensified the wave of heat that rolled from her breasts downward, into her belly. Svetlana clenched her teeth, trying to suppress the unwanted reaction of a body that seemed to live by its own rules, completely ignoring her will.

— I am Gregory Morgen, — she said, jerking her hand away as if burned. Her wrist hung in the air, useless and somehow stupid. She tried to speak slowly, pronouncing every word. — I paid more for this experiment than your entire town is worth. You’ll be licking my boots for talking to me like that.

Ryan didn’t even blink. Only the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

8

— Wow. Just… wow, — he drawled, and his gaze lazily slid upward to the ceiling while his fingers scratched the back of his head like he’d just heard an especially exhausting joke. — Are you actually serious right now?

They sat like that for a couple of seconds, staring at each other, until Svetlana suddenly snapped and, with clumsy steps, headed for the exit, throwing the door open so hard it slammed loudly against the stopper.

Ryan didn’t flinch. Didn’t say “stop.” Didn’t follow her. He just watched her over the rim of his coffee mug, the way you watch someone who’s decided to ram straight into a wall on their own — curious how loud it’s going to be.

— Oh, fuck all of you… — came from the corridor, mixed with the sharp clacking of heels.

The first step came out too confident — and was punished immediately. The thin heel caught in a gap between the tiles, her ankle folded at an angle, the skirt pulled her hips so tight she had to make a ridiculous little shuffling lunge to avoid crashing down.

— Shit! — she hissed, sharply grabbing the wall with her palm. Scarlet nails scraped the paint, leaving thin, pale streaks behind.

The earrings on long chains swung and coldly struck her neck, and the unusually long hair started to feel like pure mockery, as if it were deliberately blocking her view when she jerked her head to the side.

— This… this is fucking not funny anymore, — she muttered under her breath, taking two more short steps. Her breasts shifted heavily under the mesh and made her automatically press her elbows to her sides, as if that could somehow keep everything “in place.”

The corridor turned out to be longer than she wanted. A corner, another door, signs, some cheap posters. Nearby — a vending machine that looked like it had witnessed the fall of empires. The smell of sour coffee, paper, dust, and something technical, “garage-like.”

She pushed the outer door and immediately froze.

There was nothing of what she had seen during the secret tour. No hidden cameras on cranes. No streets of something that even remotely resembled a “Town,” where everything was supposed to be built for the experiment like a set, even if it looked like a real city.

In front of her lay real middle-of-nowhere.

Gray sky. Low buildings. A couple of parked pickup trucks, so dirty they looked like they’d been deliberately rolled in oil sludge. In the distance — some industrial structure, pipes, lights. And the air… sharp, cold, smelling of diesel and dampness. Somewhere a truck rumbled dully.

Svetlana stepped onto the porch — and immediately regretted it. The heel slid along the icy edge.

— You’ve got to be fucking kidding me… — she forced out, grabbing the railing. The railing was sticky-cold, and she jerked her hand back, clenched her fingers, grimacing.

She peered around as if, if she squinted just right, the correct image would appear: “TOWN, ENTRANCE,” guards in uniform, a welcome banner about “rehabilitation and neuroplasticity.”

9

But around her there was only Fort St. John — and it wasn’t trying to pretend to be anything else.

— What… what the fuck is this…? Where’s your goddamn… “Town”? — she said out loud, as if saying it would force reality to fix itself.

A car door slammed to the left, making her flinch. Some guy in a work jacket looked at her and immediately froze with an unfinished cigarette right at his lips.

He was pushing forty, weather-beaten face, three-day stubble, eyes used to long shifts and short breaks. A regular shift worker — the kind Fort St. John had by the thousands. He had clearly just come in from the site: jacket smeared with grease stains, boots with clay that hadn’t dried yet, the smell of diesel and sweat.

Svetlana noticed it, first knitting her brows — but when a cold gust slipped under her short skirt and raised goosebumps on her skin, she realized how she must look right now.

Really realized it.

Realized that she wasn’t in the fantasy where Gregory liked to imagine himself as a helpless girl, getting more turned on by that than by any real woman on his yacht or in his Monaco penthouse. Not even in that strange but logically understandable “Town,” which Gregory had learned about about a month ago from one of his friends with government connections, funded by massive budgets, where he’d seen a chance to experience something he hadn’t experienced yet. Something real. But what was happening now was already too real.

— …Holy fuck, — the shift worker muttered quietly, more to himself, but the word made the girl standing at the entrance of the small police station twitch.

She felt sick. But she wasn’t going to give up.

— Hey! — she shouted at him, trying to pack her voice with all the confidence that used to make people drop their eyes and apologize. — Where’s the boss around here?!

The shift worker slowly smiled — wide, lazy, teeth showing — like he’d just seen something very funny and at the same time very useful. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, carefully flicked the ash onto the snow by his boots, and only then answered, unhurried, stretching the words:

— The boss? — he repeated slowly. — And what the fuck do you need the boss for, doll? You sure as hell didn’t come here for a work permit. You need our trailer. You’ll warm up there, earn some cash, and you’ll even say thanks.

He said it almost lazily — and immediately took a step forward.

Svetlana stepped back on instinct. The heel slid along the icy edge of the porch, and cold air instantly crept under her skirt, snapping goosebumps across her skin. Her breasts shifted heavily downward, tugging at the top — if you could even call it a top, more like a fishing net.

10

— Don’t come any closer, — she forced out, holding up her palm. The scarlet nails looked absurdly threatening against his grease-stained jacket.

The shift worker only smiled wider and stepped even closer, as if the warning sounded like an invitation.

— Oh come on. What, you new here? — he leaned in slightly, openly sizing her up from head to toe so bluntly it made her physically nauseous. — You look like I’d fuck you right now—

— I’m not… I’m not… — the words stumbled. “I’m Gregory Morgen” got stuck somewhere in her throat, because right now it would’ve sounded ridiculous, especially after the way he’d just rolled his hips.

He took another step.

— Fuck off! — she snapped and sharply turned back toward the station door.

She bolted — as much as you can “bolt” in a skirt that squeezes your hips and on thin heels that seem to live their own life. But still, a few moments later she was back in the room where Ryan sat, as if he hadn’t changed his position at all.

— Why are you back already? — he said calmly. — Changed your mind about making a run for it?

— What the fuck is going on here?! — Svetlana screamed, and her own shout slammed into her ears. She stepped up to the desk, her heels clacking loudly, like stamping seals on every word. — There’s some… some… He… he’s inviting me to his fucking trailer! Do you even understand what that means?!

Ryan slowly took a sip of his coffee.

— And you act like you don’t know, — he finally said. — This is Fort St. John. Oil, gas, shift work. Girls come here “for the season” all the time. That’s not why you’re here?

— WHAT?! NO! I told you I’m Gregory Morgen! This is all supposed to be a stupid fucking show!

Ryan didn’t even flinch at her shouting. He only narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to spot a crack in glass. Then slowly, unhurriedly, he set the mug down on the desk.

Svetlana stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply. She leaned over the desk, bracing herself on her palms — and immediately felt her breasts slide heavily downward, pulling the fishing-net mesh tight to an unpleasant limit. The anger boiling inside her flared even brighter.

— Listen here, cop! — she hissed through clenched teeth. — I don’t know what kind of game you’re all playing here, but if this keeps going, I’ll make damn sure that for the rest of your life you, that bearded piece of shit outside, and everyone behind this get buried alive — and before that, lose everything they give a fuck about. Got it?!

The room went quiet again.

Svetlana was breathing hard, feeling it herself — how her heavy breasts under the mesh rose and fell with her breath, as if telling everyone: “Whatever you’re discussing here, right now I’m the main fucking thing.”

11

— Phone! Give me the fucking phone! — she finally barked, pushing herself off the desk and trying to straighten up so sharply that her heels slammed against the floor again. She wobbled for a second, swore angrily through clenched teeth, and still straightened up, thrusting her chin forward.

Ryan silently looked her over from head to toe; irritation flickered across his face. After all, no matter how patient he was, everything had its limits.

— No, — he said simply, his brows drawing together.

— What do you mean “no”?! — she snapped. — Are you fucking insane?!

— No, — he repeated in the same tone. — And if you raise your voice one more time, I’ll write you up for assaulting a police officer.

Svetlana froze. Her chin was still raised, but no longer threatening — more out of inertia. Her breasts under the mesh kept rising heavily, and her legs began to tremble slightly, though now it wasn’t from the heels anymore.

— What kind of… assault?.. — she breathed out. — I didn’t even—

— That’s enough, — Ryan cut her off. — I’m not discussing this. I’m warning you.

She swallowed. Her throat was dry, while her breasts, on the contrary, pulsed hotter than usual. Yeah… this was not how Greg had imagined all of this.

— I… I need one call, got it? — she said much calmer now, though a threat still lingered in her voice.

Ryan looked at her for several seconds. Silent. The silence dragged on longer than she wanted, and in that time Svetlana felt too much: how the trembling crept up from her knees, how the heat in her breasts wouldn’t go away, how the mesh scraped her skin unpleasantly with every breath.

— And who do you want to call? — he finally said. — Your psychiatrist?

It was like she’d been doused with cold water.

— What?.. — she blinked, not immediately understanding what exactly in those words had exploded inside her. — Say that again…?

— I asked, — he said evenly, — who exactly you’re planning to call. Because what you’re saying and how you’re behaving looks… — he paused briefly, — like you escaped from a psychiatric hospital.

— You… — she started and cut herself off, hearing how pathetic her breath sounded now. More like some stray draft that had slipped in through a crack.

Her legs were visibly shaking now, impossible to ignore. She shifted her weight, trying to keep herself steady; a heel scraped softly against the floor, and that miserable sound made it even worse.

— I’m not crazy. I—

— Gregory Morgen, — Ryan finished for her with a smirk, — I’ve never heard bigger bullshit in my life, and I’ve heard a lot, — he nodded toward the chair across from him, — sit the fuck down already.

That “already” finished Svetlana off.

12

— Fuck you, — she breathed out, but her voice came out cracked, weak. Her legs were shaking so badly it was pointless to hide it. She did sit down in the end. Abruptly, almost plopped down. Her heels clicked, the skirt immediately crept up. She yanked it down with an angry, jerky motion, feeling her breasts settle heavily as the mesh dug into her skin.

— You know what, — she said, lifting her eyes to him. — Since you’re so smart… look it up online. Morgen. Gregory Morgen. You know how to fucking Woogle, right?

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

— Why? — Ryan asked calmly, tilting his head slightly, as if she’d just been asked to explain something obvious.

That finished Svetlana off completely.

— Because you’re stupid, — she breathed out, and in that “stupid” there was less anger than exhaustion and despair. — Because those assholes said it straight away: the body can be changed, the face — no. The face, you get it?

She poked a finger into her cheek and immediately winced, forgetting about her long nails.

— Ow… fuck, — she hissed, and instantly got even angrier, now at herself. — Shit!

Ryan was silent for a couple of seconds. Then he slowly rolled his chair over to the computer.

— For a foreigner, by the way, your English is excellent, — he said casually.

Svetlana slowly raised her gaze to him.

— Maybe because I’m not a foreigner? — she asked quietly, then, tilting her head to the side, added, — so, what is it? Or are you going to say the internet doesn’t work in this shithole?

Ryan didn’t answer. He was already calmly tapping at the keyboard, but Svetlana couldn’t see what he was typing because the screen was turned away from her — and that irritated her almost physically.

— It works, — he said finally. — Sometimes even better than people’s brains.

Svetlana snorted, but without anger. She sat back against the chair, trying not to move unnecessarily. Every movement reminded her of the body: the skirt trying to crawl up again, the heels biting into her feet, her breasts pulling heavily downward, as if deliberately breaking her posture.

— Gregory… Morgen… — Ryan muttered, reading out loud. — Villas… yachts… girls…

— Look at the face! — Svetlana snapped sharply, and that impatient, commanding tone — the one used to being obeyed the first time — cut through again.

He clicked the mouse. The screen was still turned away from her, and it was driving her almost to an itch under the skin.

— The face… — he muttered more quietly now, looking from the monitor to her and back.

— Well! See! That’s me!

Svetlana leaned forward herself, forgetting about everything — and immediately paid for it. Her breasts swung heavily, the mesh stretched unpleasantly tight, the skirt crawled up again. But she didn’t move, trying to present her face as close as possible.

His gaze slid back to the screen, then to her face, stopped, lingered longer than before. Then he leaned back slightly, as if thinking something over, and clicked the mouse again.

— So, Gregory… — he said neutrally, studying her or pretending to. — Gregory… Morgen…