Lora, bring the coffee!

The bench was cold, and she could feel it. The skin of her thighs, barely covered by a tight black skirt, was freezing, but that was far from her main problem.

Lora, or rather Max, though what did it matter now, sat there, teeth clenched, fingers gripping her leg. Her new hand—graceful, slender, with a flawless manicure she hadn’t done herself but somehow had—was trembling from the strain. The other hand hovered in the air, clenched into a fist.

"Lora, bring the coffee. Lora, sort out the mail. Lora, don’t you have anything decent to wear? Lora, you can’t talk like that, girls don’t do that!"

Inside, everything was boiling. She squeezed her fingers tighter, nails digging into her thigh. The sensation was strange: the skin was softer than before, but a bruise would probably stay.

A week. Just a week in this body, and she already felt more like a woman than she’d ever imagined possible in this life. She used to think she knew what it meant to be a woman—at least, Max did, back when he was himself. But now, with his body completely different and his return to his old life largely out of his control, he suddenly realized how utterly different it was to live in this body. To everyone, he was now "Lora," the junior employee temporarily under "Max’s" command—Max, whose body the real Lora now occupied.

And the worst part? No one thought anything was wrong with it.

She sighed, and her breasts bounced slightly as she took a sharp breath. Still not used to it. Every time she leaned forward, she caught herself instinctively trying to balance differently, not expecting the weight on her chest. Her hand automatically tugged the hem of the skirt down, though it was pointless. The black fabric was mercilessly short. She could feel the cool air sliding over her skin, barely covered by a thong. No more familiar pants and boxers underneath, where everything was covered and safe. Now it was always this… practically nothing.

"If someone had told me a month ago that my biggest problem would be figuring out how to sit without flashing my ass to the world, I’d have laughed in their fucking face."

But now she knew: sitting wide-legged, sprawling out like before? No chance. All she could do was keep her knees pressed together, squeezing them like her life depended on it. Because, in a way, it did.

— Lora! — came the sharp voice of "Max" from behind. — Are you bringing that coffee today or what?

She clenched her teeth.

Of course. Of fucking course. How could it be otherwise?

She turned around, and as if on cue, the light earrings swung in her ears, brushing her neck slightly. Another reminder: "You’re her now."

— I’m coming, — she forced out, trying not to let the rage seep into her voice.

She did everything "Max" told her to. Followed every order, but now, after a week, her patience was wearing thin. Especially after "Max" had dropped that hint about "Lora" needing to go on a date.

— I’m not insisting, of course, but… — he’d leaned over her with that smug look Lora herself used to wear when she was Max. — I think you could use a distraction. You wouldn’t want people starting to suspect something’s off with you, would you?

She gritted her teeth.

— You do want your body back, don’t you?

Oh, how she wanted to smash his face in. But instead, she clenched her fist, nails digging painfully into her palm. All she could do was glare up at him, pressing her hands to her sides until the black silk blouse clung to her body. Fucking clothes. Fucking pencil skirt. Fucking medallion.

"Go on a date… God fucking damn it…"

— I’ll think about it, — she hissed, grabbing a slim clutch from the table—barely big enough for her phone and the damn lipsticks she apparently had to carry now too.

— Does that mean ‘yes’? — "Max" smirked smugly.

— It means I’ll think about it.

She wanted to storm out of the office, but in that skirt, moving fast was impossible. Instead, she lifted her chin defiantly and walked out, feeling the employees’ eyes sliding down her back.

She could’ve said she didn’t give a shit. That she didn’t feel the narrow high-heeled shoes digging into her feet. That she didn’t have to fight the urge to rip it all off and say fuck it. But she did care. It was too humiliating.

"If she doesn’t give me my body back by the end of the week, I’ll just fucking kill her… screw the consequences, screw the law!"

But could she? If it were that simple, if she had that damn medallion… But she didn’t. The medallion was with "Max"—or rather, the real Lora, who was perfectly happy with her new body, her new life, and the power she’d gained from Max’s position, the guy who once just wanted to fuck the new girl. And the medallion? "Max" had tossed that useless piece of shit a couple of days ago, drunk after some meeting, deciding once and for all that this was better.