Egyptian Queen

– And I’m sorry I’m not an Egyptian queen! – I blurted out, nearly throwing my phone on the desk like it was somehow to blame for everything going wrong in the world. Colleagues at nearby desks in our open-space office exchanged glances – some with fake politeness, others with open confusion, and a few with the kind of face you’d make if I’d just confessed to eating cat food for breakfast. Only Yegor, the one decent guy in the entire team, smirked.

– Well, queen, don’t get too upset, – he chuckled without looking up from his monitor, where lines of code were flashing. – Maybe in your next life you’ll get lucky.

I didn’t say anything. Just scoffed quietly and rolled my eyes, even though everything inside me was boiling. This day was a marathon of failures – late in the morning, then got chewed out by my boss, who seemed irritated by my very existence, and the cherry on top was a call from a supplier who’d suddenly run out of the parts we needed, and oh, surprise, our order had been accidentally lost.

– Yeah, right, poor them... – I muttered bitterly, reaching for my mug of lukewarm coffee, when I suddenly noticed that my hand looked... off. My fingers were slightly longer, my nails longer, and my skin—darker. What the hell? I slowly lifted my hand, staring at the palm, watching as it transformed before my eyes. My shirt, as if alive, began to slip off my shoulder, revealing smooth, bronze skin polished by sun and time—skin that an office geek with a chronic lack of sun definitely shouldn’t have.

At first I thought I was tripping. Bad lighting maybe. A weird monitor shadow. Maybe the coffee had gone bad. But when something in my chest started to expand, and the shirt pulled tight, its buttons groaning like a rope under strain – I got seriously scared. Every second, I felt the fabric giving way, failing to hold… what? The weight? The size? Breasts…?!

I jerked back, and the shirt slid off one shoulder completely—but the shoulder was no longer mine. It was smooth, tanned, with a golden sheen, like someone painted it with oil and a soft brush. I gasped, but instead of my usual dry-throat cough, I heard a deep, rich, almost feline breath. High-pitched and... seductive?

My fingers trembled as I slowly raised my hands and looked at them. They were a woman’s hands. Not just feminine—regal. Long fingers, with a manicure the color of the Egyptian sun, nails flawless like straight from a salon. Heavy gold bracelets were already on my wrists. I hadn’t put them on. Ever. But there they were. Like they’d always been there.

I jumped up—well, tried to—but my center of gravity had completely shifted. My boobs bounced, softly hitting my ribs, and I instinctively grabbed them, hissing from the shock, not just from the tits, but from the sudden realization that my legs were pressed tightly together not from fear or tension—but because they were wrapped in… a skirt. Short, mid-thigh, shimmering slightly, like it was woven from sunbeams collected over the Nile. Underneath—tights. Black, dense, nylon, stretched all the way up, squeezing the skin.

I looked down and froze. Knees—slender, smooth. Hips—wide, rounded, like someone had sculpted me using the golden ratio of female form, not for me, but for admiring male eyes. On my feet—gold heels, ankle strap. When I moved, the heels clicked softly against the laminate, a reminder that every step now was not just movement, but a performance.

– What’s up, queen... caught a bug or what? – Yegor smirked, finally turning from his screen. His eyes slid over me with lazy interest, like he’d seen it all before. – Or is it the coffee?

I stood frozen. Did he not see that I… That I JUST…?!

– Yegor, what the hell are you saying?! You... you don’t see it?! – I gasped, my voice strained, and to my horror, it came out low, husky, and unmistakably feminine, with that kind of tone that made every sentence sound like it should be part of a perfume commercial.

He blinked — once, then twice. Slowly. Then he squinted, and his face took on that look of deep boredom, like I’d forgotten how to log into the corporate VPN again.

– You're always so dramatic, Amira, – he drawled, turning back to his screen. – Forget the suppliers and drink real coffee, not that cinnamon crap you love.

It took me a second to even register what he’d said. “Amira”? Who the fuck is Amira? I wanted to snap, to yell that I was his Amira! But... wait. Was I?

My hand — slender, adorned with golden bracelets and a perfect manicure — was still stretched out in front of me. My breasts... God, they were rising and falling with every breath, practically spilling out of a white top that was a walking violation of the company dress code. I could feel the chill of the AC cutting through the thin fabric, hitting right on my... nipples. They stiffened. Why the hell could I feel that so clearly?!

I moved slowly, trying not to fall in these damn heels, walking toward the mirrored cabinet in the corner of the room — the one I’d never paid attention to before. Just another piece of office furniture. But now... Now I had to see. I needed confirmation, even if it felt more like a final sentence.

And there she was. Or more like — there I was.

Tall, slim, with smooth bronze skin, long legs wrapped in sheer black tights, and — Jesus, it really was a million-dollar face. A black fringe, framed by a golden cobra headband, set off eyes painted with surgical precision. Bright, predatory eyes, with a bottomless stare that could make you fall in love or drop dead. Makeup flawless. Lips red like pomegranate. A neckpiece fit for a tomb more than an IT office — and yet, there it was. And so was I.

I slowly turned my head and saw… a photo on my desk.

It was me — or rather, that Amira. In Egypt, standing in front of pyramids, wearing a long white dress, smiling, with that same cobra on her forehead. To the left of the photo — a mug that read Queen of Debugging. To the right — a potted plant I’d brought in myself when I first started this job. On the screen — my tasks for the day. My name — Amira Nasir. That was it. Everything around me confirmed that I’d… always been this way.

– I’m losing my mind, – I muttered, returning to my desk, feeling the hem of my skirt slide up over my wide hip, the way every fold of fabric responded to movement. Even the air felt different, especially between my legs, under the skirt, and that weird perfume scent — which, apparently, was now mine.

– You lost it when you took on three projects at once, – muttered Anya from the adjacent department without even looking up. – I hope you didn’t forget your call with the London office in ten minutes?

I opened my mouth to say this was all a mistake, that I wasn’t really… But then the mail notification popped up. I looked at the screen and couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Amira, once again, brilliant job! Tell Yegor to take a page out of your book. Can’t wait for our meeting ;) Best, Richard.”

Yegor... take a page out of my book?! Who the hell is Richard?! What meeting and what the fuck is with that winky face?! I felt the panic rise up like a tidal wave. I looked at Yegor, and he smirked again, like he was reading my mind.

– You sure you're okay? – he asked, a bit more gently this time. – Or did you forget to take your “high-productivity” vitamins again?

I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to think. I was in a woman’s body. Not just any woman — apparently some kind of actual Egyptian queen, judging by the look, now fully embedded into modern life as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And apparently, in this world, in this reality, the way I looked was just... normal. I was, for fuck’s sake, actually Amira, and no one even questioned it?!