Charles Linden Stiers swayed his wide hips to the thump of the bass, the pink-and-white striped maid’s uniform swishing against his thick thighs. The fabric was cheap polyester, a little faded from too many washes, but on him it felt like a costume he’d chosen himself-and in a way, he had. He twirled the feather duster like a baton, sending a lazy cloud of dust into the shaft of afternoon sunlight that cut across the guest bedroom. The room didn’t need cleaning; no one had slept here in months. But Charles liked the rhythm of it, the small ritual of straightening pillows and smoothing covers that would only rumple again under his own weight when he napped later.

He caught his reflection in the full-length mirror by the wardrobe: deep brown skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat, full cheeks rounded in a private smile, dark hair twisted into a careless bun that had already surrendered half its pins. The body was LaWanda’s-or had been. Now it was his, bought and paid for with a quarter-million dollars wired to an account in her name the morning after the swap. She’d taken the money and the lean, silver-haired male shell he’d left behind, and she’d vanished to wherever people go when they suddenly become someone else entirely.

Charles didn’t miss the old body. Not really. That version of him had been all sharp angles and tailored suits, a man who ran five miles every dawn and ate kale because it was efficient. This body moved differently-slower, heavier, but with a rolling grace he was still discovering. The shapewear beneath the uniform hugged him like a secret: high-waisted, ruthless compression that turned soft curves into smoother, deliberate lines. Every breath reminded him it was there, a gentle restraint he’d grown oddly fond of. He liked the way it made him conscious of himself, of the sway in his step and the weight of his breasts when he bent to plump a pillow.

The music-some old-school R&B track LaWanda had left on the house playlist-hit the chorus, and Charles let the duster fall to the carpet. He danced instead, hands sliding over his hips, feeling the give and resistance of flesh under firm spandex. The mansion’s quiet wrapped around him: twelve bedrooms, a library no one read in, a kitchen big enough for a staff that no longer existed. He’d fired them all the day after the swap. Why share the space when he could have it to himself?

He spun once, twice, laughing low in his throat-a richer sound now, velvet where it used to be crisp. The room wasn’t perfect. A corner of the duvet still hung crooked; dust motes drifted like slow snow. None of it mattered. Tomorrow he could fuss over it again, or not. There was no one to impress, no board meetings, no charity galas where people measured his waistline with their eyes.