(Saturday morning)

The late May sun filtered gently through the half-closed blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and illuminating a chaos that looked like the backstage of a drag show right before the curtain rose: makeup scattered everywhere, brushes strewn about, wigs perched on the nightstand like stage trophies, and my two friends racing against time to turn me into a believable woman.

The clock on the nightstand read 9:47.

Less than a little over two hours remained before the final cutoff for interviews at Harrington, Locke & Partners.

At 12:00 sharp, they would lock the studio doors.

No extensions.

Last day.

Last slot.

I was sitting on a stool in the middle of the room in sweatpants, half my face already perfect thanks to Amanda's steady hands, the other half still the usual Matthias. On my head was the professional hair net that flattens hair—the kind drag queens use before putting on the wig; for now, it was empty, looking like a giant condom.

Amanda held my chin with two fingers and swept the blending brush. "I still can't believe you're actually doing this."

I smiled, trying not to move my face too much. "Neither can I."

Samy, kneeling on my bed, was rummaging through a black bag, pulling out silicone breast forms like it was Christmas. "Listen up, princess," he said, looking up suddenly. "What really happened in that bathroom last night?"

My stomach flipped. I tried to stay calm. "Nothing special."

Samy gave me a dark look. "You're not telling me the whole story."

I couldn't help it: I thought back to that fuck, to that platinum blond who'd made me explode in less than ten minutes. I could still feel his cock inside me, the sweet burn, the way he'd fucked me until I trembled. Even now, sitting there, I got a shiver.

Amanda paused with the eyeliner in mid-air. "Actually, when you came back you were flushed... you looked like you'd run a marathon."

"I told you," I insisted, maybe too quickly. "I saw a guy who looked like my ex making out with someone else. It upset me. End of story."

Samy flopped onto the edge of the bed, legs crossed like a TV host. "Bullshit. You got laid. I can see it from that satisfied look. Details. Now."

"Samy!" Amanda and I exclaimed in unison.

He raised his hands. "What? I always tell you my adventures!"

"No one asks for the full menu," Amanda muttered, going back to my makeup.

Samy rolled his eyes, then grabbed two pairs of silicone breasts. One was a respectable full C-cup, the other... well, calendar-girl material.

"Okay, be mysterious. But this isn't over." He showed me the two sets. "Now: serious professional woman or 'hello boys, look at these'?"

Amanda glanced over. "Wow, they look real. Whoever made them is a perverted genius."

"Give me the more modest ones," I said before Samy could open his mouth. "I need to impress with my brain, not two melons."

Samy feigned offense. "Hey, princess, sometimes melons open doors the brain doesn't even see!"

Amanda laughed. "Not in a Manhattan law firm."

"Exactly," I cut in. "I want them to take me seriously. At least for the first five minutes."

With Amanda's help, I put them on. The silicone was cool at first, heavy, and stuck perfectly to the skin. When I looked sideways in the mirror... fuck, it looked real.

Amanda noticed the makeup had smudged a bit on the right side of my face. "Hold still. I'll fix the eye."

One of my few physical advantages is that I have the perfect build for this: shoulders not too broad, narrow waist, no overdone muscles. Neither skinny nor gym-rat: the right size to pass as either man or woman without too much effort.

Samy grabbed three wigs and showed them to me like a carpet salesman. "Which one do you prefer, princess? Blonde, brunette, or chestnut?"

"Chestnut," I said immediately. "With my complexion and dark eyebrows, it's the most believable."

"Agreed," he replied, already excited.

Then he sat on the bed again, sighing dramatically. "You know, Matt, I miss doing cosplay for comic cons."

I laughed. "I remember. Three years in a row dressed as Disney princesses."

"Hell yes!" Samy cheered. "And the second year I hooked up with two editors from a publishing house in exchange for... very sinful favors." He burst out laughing.

Amanda, while adjusting the chestnut wig that fell to my shoulders, shook her head. "You two together are dangerous. Good thing they never caught you."

She finished pinning it, stepped back, and looked at me with her mouth open. "Wow. You're... a stunning woman."

I hesitated. "You sure?"

"Look for yourself."

I turned to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe.

Holy fuck.

The makeup was perfect: big eyes, subtle false lashes, nude-pink lips. The wig fell softly, the breast forms gave a natural cleavage—maybe even too much. I looked like... a female version of myself who could easily work in a Manhattan firm.

Samy came closer with a mischievous grin. "Now one thing's missing: the ultimate test."

"Which is?" Amanda and I asked together.

"Call your straight roommate crush, Patrick 'Trick' O'Connor, and see his reaction."

Amanda grinned. "Genius idea."

I glared at them. "You're cruel."

Samy shrugged with that devilish grin that promised nothing good. Amanda bit her lip to keep from laughing.

But in the end I sighed, raised my voice, and called my roommate.

"Trick!"

Silence.

"Trick, can you come here a second?"

"Coming!" he replied from afar, sleepy voice.

Samy covered his mouth, ready to explode. Amanda covered her eyes with her hand, but I could see her laughing through her fingers.

And I stood there, heart pounding a thousand beats, waiting for my straight roommate to come in and decide if Madison Reed could really fool the world.

The door opened. Trick came in wearing his usual gym tank top, buzzed hair, fair skin, and a toothpaste-ad smile.

When he saw me, he froze.

"Holy shit..." He turned immediately, red as a tomato. "Sorry, I thought Matt was in here!"

Samy clapped like he'd just seen the finale of a Broadway musical. "Bingo! Test passed with honors, princess! Look how our Trick blushed... Madison Reed, welcome to the world: you just embarrassed a personal trainer!"

I approached Trick and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it's me."

He turned slowly. His gaze first landed straight on the cleavage (impeccable silicone effect), then rose to my face.

"Matt, it's... you?"

I smiled, a bit embarrassed. "Yep."

"Holy fucking shit, you're a real hottie. And those tits... wow, they look real."

I laughed. "Want to touch them?"

Trick's eyes widened again, then he looked at Amanda (who was staring at him with arms crossed), shook his head vigorously. "No, no! I respect women, even if... I mean... they're fake, but the principle's the same."

Samy jumped in, of course. "That's why you straight guys are so cute around women." Then, with his devilish smile: "Anyway, male splendor, thanks for coming. Shame not the way I hoped."

Amanda and I in chorus: "Samuele!"

"What?" he replied innocently. "Among friends we joke."

I thanked Trick, still a bit red in the face. "Sorry for the stupidity. I'll explain everything later, promise."

He left shaking his head, muttering something like "I don't understand anything anymore."

When the door closed, I looked at my two accomplices.

"Okay!" I said, taking a deep breath. "Madison Reed is officially ready to conquer Harrington, Locke & Partners."

We'd been in the car for about twenty minutes, trapped in New York traffic that seemed designed to torture me. Amanda drove her old Honda with Olympic calm, while I, in the passenger seat, stared at the phone as if it might explode any moment.

After the transformation, we'd had just an hour to prepare and send "Madison Reed's" resume. Professional photo taken with the phone (thanks to Samy for the quick retouch), slightly inflated experience, fake but believable references. Click "send" and done. No turning back now.

We'd dropped Samy at the restaurant on the way—he had the lunch shift. "Good luck, princess," he'd said with a kiss on the cheek before getting out. "And if they discover you, say you were forced. 'You know, some ugly guys kidnapped me, did my makeup and dressed me as a woman to infiltrate the firm. Help me, please!'"

We all burst out laughing, but underneath the joke had a grain of truth—funny, but with that hint of seriousness reminding us how crazy the whole plan was.

Traffic crawled. I tapped my fake nails nervously on the armrest.

Amanda glanced at me. "Hey, everything okay? You know you're not obligated to actually do this. It's insane, we both know it. Risky as hell."

I looked at my reflection in the window: black skirt suit (loaned by Amanda, a bit tight at the waist but perfect), white blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the fake cleavage, medium heels I still wasn't fully mastering. I felt like an impostor... but also strangely euphoric.

"I know," I said, voice higher than normal—I was already practicing Madison's. "But I sent the resume. They'll want to see who this Madison Reed is, right?"

Amanda laughed softly. "Well, you can always not show up. I doubt they'd sue you for ghosting. Madison doesn't exist... I mean, maybe she does somewhere in the world, but I doubt she's a lawyer with your freckles."

I stared at the road, cars inching along in Manhattan traffic, brake lights flickering like an irregular heartbeat. My heart pounded in my chest. It wasn't just the interview. It was everything: the risk of being discovered, the crazy idea of entering the firm as Madison.

I took a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs like it was the first time in hours.

"Amanda... last night I had sex with a stranger."

She slammed on the brakes—the car lurched forward slightly before stopping completely. For a second I thought the sedan behind us would rear-end us: the horn blared immediately, a long, irritated blast, like a "what the hell are you doing?!" shouted without words.

Amanda rolled down the window, waved an apologetic hand, and shouted: "Sorry!"

Then she turned to me, mouth open. "You what?"

"Um... it all happened so fast. I was in the bathroom, he came in, we looked at each other... and boom. Sex. In the club bathroom."

Amanda burst out laughing, a loud laugh that filled the car. "Damn, that's a twist! Samy has a bloodhound nose for these things. I suspected something too—you were too flushed—but I didn't imagine you'd actually done it."

I blushed under the foundation. "Why am I telling you now? I didn't want Samy to know. You know how he is: he'd turn into a machine gun of questions, wanting every dirty detail."

Amanda nodded, still chuckling. "True. But this is a big distraction, huh. Exactly what you need right now."

"Yeah," I admitted. "It was last night... and it still is."

She raised an eyebrow, mischievous grin. "It was? You mean..."

"Amanda!" I glared at her, but couldn't help laughing.

She raised her hands from the wheel for a second. "Hey, you used the past tense! I just assumed." She laughed again, shaking her head. "So tell me: was he cute? Was it sweet?"

I sighed, thinking back to those green eyes, that arrogant mouth.

"He was... really sexy." My voice lowered with embarrassment. "Tall, gym body, platinum blond, dominant. Not exactly sweet. More... brutal. Perfect."

Just then, my gaze landed on a large billboard on the side of the road: Harrington, Locke & Partners, the main partners' faces, professional smiles, Manhattan skyline behind them.

And there, front and center, was a man who took my breath away.

"Wait... Amanda, look at that one on the billboard." I pointed. "He looked like him, the one with ginger hair. Like... identical."

She glanced as we passed. "Hmm, nice! If it was like that, you hit the jackpot, princess."

For a moment I was perplexed, turning in the seat to get a better look, but the car had already passed it. It really looked like him. The face structure, the green eyes...

But the hair was natural ginger, neat, impeccable, not platinum blond like in the bathroom. And no light beard: clean-shaven, perfect, one hundred percent corporate.

Coincidence? Or was I projecting because I was nervous?

I shook my head, trying to push the thought away. Impossible. New York is full of handsome men with green eyes. Just a weird resemblance.

I didn't have time to process further. Amanda pulled up in front of a glass and steel building that screamed money from every window.

"Well, princess," she said, turning off the engine. "We've arrived."

I looked out the window. The building loomed, imposing, with the gold plaque: Harrington, Locke & Partners.

Shit.

Outside, there were about a dozen women: young, mature, all elegant, perfect suits. Some stunning, confident, walking in or out with determined steps.

"I'm making a huge mistake," I murmured. "I can feel it. Have you seen them? They're gorgeous."

Amanda took my hand. "Hey, they're not here for a beauty contest. They're here for their talent, for what they can do. And you, Matthias—sorry, fantastic Madison—are amazing at it."

Her words warmed my chest. Amanda had this power: she always made me feel less alone, less wrong. To me, she was my good witch, the one who could lift the weight of the world from your shoulders with a single sentence.

"If you want, I'll come in with you," she offered.

I shook my head. "You'd be offended if I go in alone?"

She smiled. "No, of course not. But try not to mess up the pronouns when you talk to them."

Right.

I opened the door, got out with legs still trembling a bit in the heels. I adjusted the bag on my shoulder, took a deep breath.

I looked at the building for a second, then headed toward the entrance.

My heart was exploding in my chest.