The lunch invitation had come out of nowhere. Mrs. Helen Sommers-Olivia’s mother, the woman who had never once smiled at me in the three years I’d been dating her daughter-had called and asked me to meet her alone at a quiet little restaurant on the edge of town. No Olivia. Just the two of us.

I went because saying no to Helen always felt like starting a war I couldn’t win.

She ordered for both of us. Spoke politely. Watched me the entire time with those sharp, assessing eyes. Halfway through the meal the room started to tilt. My tongue felt thick. The edges of her face blurred. I tried to stand, muttered something about needing air-

-and then there was nothing.

When I came back to myself I was standing in a bedroom that was not mine. The mirror on the closet door showed a stranger.

Short blonde hair. A white lace-trimmed maid’s headband. A short black dress with short sleeves, the kind of uniform that belonged on a maid in an old movie. Over it, a crisp white apron edged in frilly lace at the straps, the chest, and the hem. Sheer white tights. Black flats. My hands-slender now, nails neatly filed-were clasped in front of me the way a servant’s hands are supposed to be.

Helen stood behind me, reflected in the glass, calm as ever.

“You are Leoma now,” she said. “My maid. You will answer only to that name. You will do everything I tell you, when I tell you, without argument.”

I opened my mouth to shout, to demand answers, to tell her she was insane.

The words never came. My body simply… obeyed. The resistance was still there, screaming inside my head, but my limbs and my tongue belonged to her.