The fabric clung with almost indecent precision: taut over powerful thighs, outlining the firm curve of muscles without giving an inch, the belt defining narrow hips, almost indicating exactly where to grab. Every fold of the fabric seemed designed to accentuate, to suggest, to remind.

My gaze slipped lower, inevitable, just for an instant, but it was enough.

The memory hit me like a visceral jolt: what it hid under those tailored pants, stiff and scorching, that had invaded me twenty-four hours before with inexorable force. Every thrust that had opened me, filled me, the pulsing heat expanding inside me, the way my muscles had clenched around him, holding him, begging him wordlessly.

A treacherous heat rose from my lower belly, slow and unstoppable, a liquid wave making me clench my thighs under the skirt—

Here.

Now.

In front of his mother.

I forced myself to look away, but my body remembered, and didn't want to forget.

Stop thinking about it.

Focus on the old bitch.

Right then Andrew looked up from his phone. Our eyes met again for a second.

I looked away first, settling my eyes on Eleanor, pretending to focus on her to not betray myself, to not let my face reveal the turmoil shaking me inside.

Sophia, at my side, looked serene and composed.

And in that instant the thought crossed me like a sharp blade: maybe that spot really should go to her.

She wasn't wearing a mask that could crumble any moment.

She hadn't sneaked in with a constructed identity, wasn't stealing an opportunity with a lie that could blow up in everyone's face.

I felt it throbbing in my head, that sudden guilt spreading like black ink: what I was doing right then was wrong. Deeply, irreparably wrong.

Amanda's suit pulled at the waist, an alien fabric reminding me every second of the pretense I wore. The fake name weighed on my tongue every time I pronounced it mentally, like a stone stuck in my throat. The makeup made me feel an imposter under that unforgiving light, like wearing a second skin that wasn't mine.

If they discovered the truth, it wouldn't be just a whispered "thanks, goodbye." It'd be a scandal sweeping everything: public humiliation, an indelible mark following me for years, a stain on my résumé no talent could erase.

And I'd deserve every single blow.

Yet.

Under that grip of guilt still burned a desire that wouldn't extinguish.

I wanted it.

I wanted it with a desperate hunger, that scared me.

It wasn't just the shiny oval table under cold lights, glass walls framing Manhattan like a trophy, signing a contract that would erase daily invisibility.

It was the concrete possibility that spot would give: working on huge cases, billion-dollar mergers, disputes ending up in papers and really changing the legal landscape. Cases where a wrong detail could cost millions, but a right insight could win everything.

Cases where I could finally prove who I really was, not the secretary noting appointments, but a lawyer able to see beyond, to impact, to matter.

Yet every time the thought ignited, it came right back, sharp as a blade: if Madison Reed succeeded… if "she" signed that contract, worked on those cases, received the recognition, praise, respect… it wouldn't be Matthias getting them.

It'd be Madison.

An invented name, a made-up face, a body not entirely mine.

The success would be hers, not mine.

The victory would be a lie's.

And I, the real me, would stay in the shadows, watching "her" shine with my talent, my mind, my sweat.

That thought crushed my chest until it hurt. But the desire kept me standing, pushed me forward step by step, even if every step was a betrayal to myself.

Two forces tearing me in opposite directions: the hunger to be seen, to matter, to finally win… and the awareness that, if I won, it wouldn't be me reaping the fruits.

Sophia turned to me, an encouraging smile. I returned it, lips curved, eyes feigning calm, but inside I felt only the dull noise of that never-ending struggle.

Eleanor turned to her son with a slow movement.

"You said you wanted to ask one last question to both."

"Yes, mother." Andrew replied, setting his phone on the table. Eleanor gestured with her hand, like saying "please, go ahead."

Andrew scratched an eyebrow, thoughtful, green eyes passing from me to Sophia and back, evaluating, like he was already deciding something inside.

"Suppose a client with high net worth," he began. "A complex family trust: New York real estate, offshore assets in the Cayman Islands, and a minor beneficiary with possible future claims. How would you structure a trust revision to minimize exposure to federal estate tax, considering recent changes to generation-skipping transfer tax and clawback risk under Section 2036?"

There was another silence.

Sophia and I looked at each other, a second of hesitation, to decide who answered first.

Andrew watched us.

"So? Who wants to start?"

I broke the silence.

"You go first," I said to Sophia, accompanying the words with a polite smile, that I hoped masked the turmoil inside me.

It was an instinctive gesture, almost automatic: even if right then I wore a suit, lipstick, and wig, even if my appearance was a woman's, the body remained unequivocally male, a bone structure that makeup and clothes couldn't erase completely. Gallantry remained imprinted in the bones, in the muscle fibers, in that code of politeness taught to me as a kid and that had never dissolved, not even under layers of foundation and pencil skirt.

Sophia looked at me surprised for a second, then nodded gratefully and stepped forward. She answered confidently, voice resolute, but… she got the approach wrong. She focused too much on offshore assets without considering clawback risk and possible inclusion in the grantor's estate.

No one said anything, neither "wrong" nor "correct." Just discreet nods, quick notes on sheets.

"And you, Madison?" Andrew asked, eyes now on me.

I took a breath.

I answered precisely: priority to decanting the trust into a new domestic one, use of a GRAT for appreciating assets, strategic allocation of generation-skipping transfer exemption (GST exemption), and a side letter to protect the minor beneficiary without triggering grantor estate inclusion.

Silence.

Andrew nodded slowly, pleased.

"Thank you for your time. You'll hear from us soon."

Sophia and I nodded polite and composed goodbye, then headed to the door. I opened it myself, holding it with a gallant gesture to let her pass first. We exited into the hallway, heels echoing softly on the cold marble.

Right in that instant Andrew emerged from the conference room behind us. The door closed with a laconic click. He passed us without slowing, phone already pressed to his ear, step decisive and hurried, headed toward who knows what other urgent commitment. He didn't even glance at us.

But his scent hit me like a sudden gust, the same as the night before.

Out of the building, Manhattan air hit us suddenly: fresh, sharp, with that light bite carrying the smell of warm asphalt and metal overheated by the sun.

I inhaled deeply, letting oxygen enter all the way to the bottom of my lungs, expanding my chest in a conscious movement. My breath grew broader, deeper, and for a moment my chest seemed to lighten just enough to remind me I was still there, alive, standing, able to inhale and exhale despite the chaos boiling inside me.

Sophia stopped beside me on the sidewalk, wind ruffling her brown hair.

"May the best win." She said, extending her hand.

"May the best win." I repeated, shaking it with an equally sincere smile.

But inside, the whirlwind didn't stop: guilt, excitement, fear.

If I won, it wasn't really a victory.

If she won, I'd lose everything, and maybe, that was right.

Sophia walked away, I stayed there, alone on the sidewalk, staring at the building towering over me.

An insistent horn made me jump, snapping me from my thoughts. I looked toward the street: it was Amanda, waving from the Honda window, urgently pointing where she'd parked, a spot found by miracle amid Manhattan chaos.

I crossed quickly, legs still unsteady on heels, opened the passenger door with a brusque gesture and dropped into the seat, like my body had finally submitted to the accumulated exhaustion.

I closed the door with a thud that seemed to seal that crazy day.

"So?" Amanda asked right away, eyes full of curiosity. "Can you tell me what happened in there? I've been texting you for over half an hour, but nothing. No replies."

"Sorry," I said with a tired voice. "Like an idiot I left my phone at home."

Amanda huffed, but relief lit her face in an instant, eyes losing that sharp worry.

"Oh, that's why. I was worried sick… thought something serious happened. Like they discovered you, or worse."

"You okay?" She repeated, softer, her hand brushing my arm gently.

"Sort of," I replied staring at the dashboard without really seeing it, just blurred spots, while inside everything boiled.

"Sort of?" She echoed.

I couldn't hold it anymore.

All the built-up tension, the hours of makeup that had turned me into someone else, the endless wait in that cold room, Eleanor with her poisonous ways that had made me feel small and wrong, Sophia so honest and deserving, and then him… Andrew, with those eyes that had pierced me again, crashed over me like a violent wave, overwhelming me without warning.

My eyes filled with tears suddenly, uncontrollable, sliding down my cheeks, taking away layers of foundation and mascara. My breath broke in my throat, and I burst into tears, silent sobs at first, then stronger, shoulders shaking, hands clutching the seat edge like it was the only thing anchoring me to reality.

Amanda stiffened in the seat.

"Hey, Matthias…" she said scared. "You're really worrying me. What happened in there? Did they reject you? Is that why you're crying?"

I shook my head, but sobs shook my shoulders, making it impossible to speak right away. Tears kept falling, hot on my cheeks.

"No…" I managed between sobs. "On the contrary. I'm one of the finalists… even if it's not at all certain they'll take me."

Amanda stared at me confused for a second, eyes wide, then a slow, incredulous smile appeared on her face, first shy, then full of relief.

"You big dummy," she murmured, voice full of affection. "You scared me!"

She stroked my shoulder gently, her warm hand transmitting a bit of serenity.

"Come on, tell me everything."

Right then, Amanda's phone buzzed on the dashboard.

"Now who is it?" She grumbled, grabbing it with an exasperated sigh.

"Oh, a video call from Samy. Want me to hang up? I'll say you haven't come out yet?"

"No," I said, wiping tears with the back of my hand, feeling the makeup smear everywhere, a sticky mess on my fingers.

"I need a distraction." I sighed, forcing a smile that probably looked like a grimace.

"Answer."

Amanda accepted the call and pointed the phone at us.

Samy appeared on screen, in waiter uniform, a busy kitchen background behind him, probably on break, hidden near the back door. "So, how'd it go for the princess?" He started without preamble, with that drama queen tone that always drew a smile from me, even in the worst moments.

"He just got out." Then she turned the phone to me.

"Did they buy you as a woman?" Samy asked.

"Yes," I replied with a voice still a bit broken.

Samy widened his eyes, bringing a hand to his mouth.

"Amanda, hold the phone steady! Oh my God, why's your makeup all messed up? Don't tell me you did dirty stuff with someone in there… you look like me after a drag show, wrecked but satisfied!"

I burst out laughing, despite everything, an exonerating laugh, that made my shoulders shake and dried a bit the remaining tears.

"You're always the same pervert."

"You know I'm the queen of perversion."

He replied, winking with that mischievous grin.

"But tell me, did they take you or not?"

"Well… it's not sure yet," I admitted. "They'll let me know."

Samy made an exaggerated grimace.

"Mmmh, usually that's the classic excuse for 'we're not interested,' but maybe I'm wrong." Then he sighed. "As exciting as this whole thing is, I don't know how good it is for you, princess. Deceiving in that place… it's a dangerous game."

I sighed too, feeling the weight of those words.

"I don't want to think about it anymore. At least I showed those snobs that outside their firm there's someone who knows their stuff."

"Well said!" Samy exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Fuck them all."

"Anyway," he continued, "we're not seeing each other tonight, right?"

Amanda nodded. "Me, like I told you last night, working."

"Unfortunately I have to cover for a colleague with a fever," Samy said. "You, Matt? Want to stop by the restaurant, I'll be at the Brooklyn one?"

"Thanks, but I think I'll stay home."

"Okay, then tomorrow night. The queen's on stage at nine at Spotlight Lounge."

He reminded us, referring to his drag show with that sparkle in his eyes.

"And maybe we'll bring that hunk Trick too. I'll change his mind on orientation."

Amanda snapped: "I have more chances than you, you little bitch!"

Samy laughed hard that filled the inside of Amanda's car.

"Oh, there's interest in the personal trainer here?"

"Fuck off!" Amanda shot back.

Samy burst into a thunderous laugh. I tried to resist for a moment, but in the end I gave in too: a laugh gushing from my chest and dissolving in one go all the dark tension I'd carried inside for hours, and in the end Amanda laughed too.

For a moment, in that car, with tears still fresh on my cheeks and heart a bit lighter, I felt at home again, surrounded by people who really knew me, who accepted me for who I was, follies included.