Corporate Ethics

— Were you even listening to me? — said the woman in the business suit in a firm tone, still trying to convince everyone — and mostly herself — that she was still Thomas Vincent, the 45-year-old CEO of VynTek Solutions, and not this young blonde, barely older than twenty-five, with her hair neatly pulled back, a slim waist, and breasts noticeably pressed under a perfectly tailored blazer.

She stood by the glass wall of the conference room, her palms open, as if one step away from slamming the table — if not for the frightening realization that even in this simple gesture, she now felt the fragility of slender female fingers and that heavy yet soft weight of her breasts shifting under the fabric of her shirt.

— Tammy... — Kevin Morrison, senior partner at the investor fund, drew out the name with strained politeness, — seriously, sweetheart, we are listening to you. But you can’t just ignore how you look now.

Her face twitched at that “sweetheart.” Her temples started pounding again, just like the day she first woke up in this skin.

— I am Thomas Vincent! — she said clearly, swallowing hard. — I built this company. I still think, speak, and act like...

— …a forty-five-year-old man, right? — Courtney Brown, the PR director, cut in with a mocking tone, flipping through her tablets. — But on the outside, sorry, you’re just a girl in her daddy’s suit. It’s throwing people off — clients included.

Thomas — or, as the system now registered her, Tammy Vincent — froze, feeling the tie dig slightly into her neck.

— What? You want to get rid of me?

— No! Of course not. We’re not trying to fire you, Tammy, — Kevin said gently. — But you need to accept that in this new role... your presentation needs to match it too.

— You look... — Courtney added, leaning forward, — like a bad employee. Hair pulled back, not a hint of makeup, not even heels. We can’t send you into investor meetings looking like this.

Tammy glanced at her, catching a flicker of satisfaction in Courtney’s eyes. Courtney, as expected under the very same dress code Thomas himself had implemented years ago, wore the perfectly curated uniform of corporate femininity. A tight, just-above-the-knee black skirt hugged her hips, glossy nude pantyhose, and shiny high stilettos. A white blouse, loose hair, and of course, makeup — the cornerstone of a woman’s presence in this world.

— This is your revenge, isn’t it? — Tammy said, staring directly at Courtney. Her voice was nearly calm, but the tension in it could cut glass.

— Revenge? — Courtney feigned surprise. — Oh my God, girl, what are you talking about? I’m just trying to help! We’re both women now, and we’ve got to support each other. Help each other figure out the right way to present ourselves. Especially in public.

She smiled faintly, but in her eyes, Tammy caught it again — that disgusting look of: “I’ve won.” Her stomach clenched — not from fear, but from that strange, uncontrollable, almost painful shame. Like she was no longer an equal. Like they’d already decided — it’s over. Thomas is gone.

— Tammy, Thomas, — Henry Stone interjected, the oldest among them and Chief Operating Officer, his voice starting with an almost fatherly tone, — it’s hard for all of us. But we’re asking you not to sabotage the situation. Loose hair, heels, makeup... This isn’t vanity. This is business. Your past achievements — no one’s questioning those. But when we’re standing in front of a slim girl with a straight back and big tits — in a man’s tie and no mascara — we lose focus. And not just us.

Tammy slowly turned to him, letting out a strained laugh, but there wasn’t a hint of amusement in it. Only tension. Only despair, mixed with humiliation.

— Excuse me... you're losing focus because I didn’t put on mascara?

— Yes, — confirmed Courtney without a shred of irony. — Exactly. Because you’re a woman now, but you act like you’re not. And that’s exactly what’s throwing everyone off. Our company has always positioned itself as one of the oldest and most traditional, Tammy — you know that perfectly well, — she continued calmly, as if discussing something purely practical, like a quarterly profit report. — And now the CEO’s chair is taken by a young blonde, no makeup, wearing pants and a man’s tie. You can say you’re Thomas a thousand times, but all the clients see is a girl who’s afraid of being a woman.

Tammy slowly lowered her gaze. Her hands clenched into fists. Fuck all of this. It had been weeks since that weird drug turned her into a young female version of herself, and as if that wasn’t enough, now this shit had started at work too. And something told her this was just the beginning.

— Well, got anything to say, sweetheart? — Henry spoke again in that grandfatherly tone, like he was talking to a granddaughter.

Tammy said nothing, feeling her palms start to sweat. Her whole body felt cold — but not from fear. From humiliation. From the way he said it. “Sweetheart.” Goddamn it, he wasn’t even hiding the fact that he didn’t see an equal anymore. Just some dumb young woman. Some “surprise girl” sitting in the chair where they were all used to seeing Thomas — stern, confident, authoritative.

— I... — she started, but her voice broke. Too high. Too soft. She coughed, trying to force out that lump of humiliation choking her throat.

— I’ll... think about it, — she finally managed, clenching her teeth. — And... take action.

— Oh, what’s there to think about, you’re so young and... striking, — Courtney jumped to her feet, no longer hiding her smile. — With that body, you’re basically meant to shine! That’s your trump card now, Tammy. If fate handed you this — play what you’ve got. And you, girl, have got plenty, — she added with a suggestive tone, opening her folder and pulling out a thin, glossy brochure.

— What’s that? — Tammy asked dryly, feeling her jaw tighten from held-back anger.

— Our dress code for women in executive positions. Updated. With pictures. Just like you asked for, remember, Thomas? — Courtney said with a smirk, handing over the brochure. On the cover — a female figure in a pencil skirt, white blouse, a defined waist, and a perfect hairstyle. Confident pose. Legs in heels slightly crossed. Lips — bright red.

Tammy took the brochure mechanically. Flipped through a couple of pages. Every detail sparked something burning inside: the line “skirt length — two fingers above the knee,” the line “mandatory element — heels of at least 7cm,” the line “makeup — moderately bright, highlighting femininity.” Even the lipstick recommendations — “warm coral for fair-skinned blondes.”

— This is supposed to be me now? — she breathed out.

— This is us now, — Courtney said with a wide smile.

Henry stood up, walked around the table, and gently placed a hand on Tammy’s shoulder.

— Tomorrow morning Stephanie, our image consultant, will come to your place. She’ll help you pick out your wardrobe, hairstyle, and train you on the basics. Don’t worry. We’ll cover everything.

Tammy froze. The shoulder under his hand felt numb. It was like it wasn’t her standing there, in a fitted blazer, pants beneath which she could feel smooth, hairless legs. In a woman’s body. With soft boobs, heavy in her bra. With that voice that made her sick to her stomach.

— And... — Courtney added, like finishing her off, — please, take care of your nails. Tomorrow isn’t just a meeting — it’s a press lunch. There’ll be close-up shots. We can’t have a CEO with... dirty fingernails.

Tammy gripped the brochure so tightly it almost cracked, but stayed silent, knowing she’d walked straight into her own trap — a set of rules she’d once created for this place.