#diamonddesires

Maggie forced a smile, nodding as pocketed the vial. “To new beginnings.” She offered, raising her glass.

Chelsea clinked it lazily. “To you finally learning your place and staying in your lane.”

The next half hour was unbearable. Chelsea prattled on about Tristan, about the new implants she was considering, about moving to Monaco where “there aren't any middle class riff raff.” Maggie nodded, laughed where appropriate, pretending to sip her own drink while keeping a watchful eye on Chelsea’s.

And then, finally, Chelsea began to fade. She rubbed her temple. “Ugh… did you make this too strong? My head feels…”

Her voice trailed off as she slumped sideways onto the velvet settee, legs folded awkwardly beneath her, blonde ponytail cascading over her shoulder. Her breathing slowed. Maggie waited a few heartbeats. Then crossed the room.

She knelt beside Chelsea, heart hammering. Up close, the ring was even more bizarre, unnaturally pink, with veins of glowing crystal beneath the surface. It pulsed faintly. Gently, Maggie slid it from Chelsea’s finger. And then it happened.

Before her eyes, Chelsea’s face began to shift. The glossy lips deflated slightly. The sharp, sculpted cheekbones softened. Her skin tone paled just a little, her tan retreating like waves from shore. Her hair darkened, inch by inch, from platinum to mousy brown. Her chest, once unnaturally full, shrank beneath the silk robe. Even her nails retracted, the long acrylics vanishing as if they were never there.

By the end, Maggie was staring at Claire, not Chelsea, lying unconscious on a velvet couch, draped in a robe that now hung awkwardly on her smaller frame.

Maggie’s hand shook as she held the ring up to the light. The unnatural pink hue frightening and yet captivating at the same time. Maggie almost couldn't turn away from it until the sound of the door opening broke her from its spell.

Maggie turned in horror as Tristan stepped inside the penthouse, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He stopped as soon as he saw her, the ring in her hand, and the unconscious girl on the couch who no longer looked like his fiancée. He slowly closed the door behind him.

“Well, you’ve made quite the mess.” He said, voice smooth as glass.

Claire stirred with a soft groan, the transformation seemingly made the sleep drops wear off. Maggie rushed to her side. Claire blinked a few times, her brow furrowed in confusion, then her eyes settled on her own hands. She sat up abruptly, the oversized robe slipping from her shoulders, revealing her slim, natural frame. Her hands darted to her chest, her waist, her face.

“What the hell did you do?!” She snapped, her voice sharp and furious.

Maggie stepped forward, confused. “Claire, I… I brought you back. I saved you. You were gone, trapped. That ring was controlling you, it changed you-”

“The ring wasn't controlling me you fucking moron! I wanted it!” Claire snarled, shooting to her feet. Her hair was a mess, her robe slipping, but her fury radiated like fire. “You stupid, sanctimonious little nerd! You think you were saving me? I chose this. I chose her. The blonde hair. The perfect body. The man. The money. The power. I wanted to be Chelsea! I loved being her!”

Maggie flinched. “But… you weren’t you. You were cruel. You were-”

“I was happy!” Claire hissed through gritted teeth. “When Tristan put that ring on me it spoke to me, she spoke to me. Chelsea. The ring made her for me, as my guide, as my aspiration. She showed me the life I could have. The life that I would have! I was worshipped. I had money, beauty, power, a hot fucking husband. I had everything. I didn’t need saving. I had been saved!”

Maggie's eyes were filling up with tears quickly, trying to hold back the deluge of sadness. “No it's not true! You're joking, it's all some sick prank. What about your art? Your dreams?”

Claire crossed her arms and sneered. “My art? Puh-lease, I was sick and tired of painting my shitty little pictures and barely getting by. If my dream was to live on leftovers and stay in a hostel that never had hot water in the pipes then sure I was living the fucking life! Like I said yesterday, I don't do jokes anymore. I knew it was a mistake coming back here.”

Maggie swallowed hard. She couldn't believe what she was hearing but it was clear that this wasn't Chelsea speaking. That it never had been. This had always been how Claire felt. Maggie's voice trembled as she raised the ring in her hand. “If that’s really what you want… then I won’t stop you.”

Claire’s breath caught. But before either of them could move, Tristan stepped forward from the shadows near the door, his eyes glinting with dark amusement and snatched the ring from her hand.

“It’s not so simple.” He said smoothly, voice like silk over steel. “Once it has been taken off, it can't just be put on again. It’s a security feature of sorts. It's meant to ward off indecisive women. No second chances.”

Claire rushed up to him, desperation in her eyes. “Please baby, I didn't do this. You know I am utterly devoted to you, to us, to being Chelsea. Please, there has to be something we can do?”

Tristan seemed visibly put off by her and gently moved her out of his personal space. “Afraid not… Claire.” He said, his nose turning up as if he smelt hot garbage, her original name seemingly disgusting him. “The wedding is off, but think about me! I have to find a new wife now. I will be a laughed at by the guys at my country club for months because of this.”

Claire's eyes were awash with anger, confusion, and desire. She grabbed the ring from his hand and tried it on each finger to no avail. “Maybe... maybe we just need to jump start it. Yeah it just needs-” She said turning on her heel towards Maggie. “A new body.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “No!”

But it was too late as Claire shoved the ring onto Maggie's finger. Instantly Maggie felt a surge of heat travel from her hand to every inch of her body, igniting every nerve in its path. She cried out, falling to her knees as her body seized with the intensity of it.

“That'll do.” Claire said as she reached towards Maggie's hand to take the ring, hoping that she could hijack the dark magic. However as she reached forward, Maggie's fingers closed tight into a fist.

“No! You stupid bitch, let go! Let-” Claire started before Maggie's newly closed fist rose up fast, clocking Claire in the jaw and sending her falling back onto settee.

“Oh my god Claire, I'm sorry! That wasn't me!” Maggie said as the heat throbbing through her body turned to pleasure. The diamond pulsed on her finger and broadcast a voice that only she could hear.

Don't worry about her. She had her chance. You're mine now.

Then the changes began.

It started with her frizzy, shoulder length brown hair. It shimmered, rippling like silk in a breeze. The color bled away, strand by strand, replaced by a glistening platinum so pale it gleamed white under the suite’s chandelier. Her hair grew longer, fuller, cascading down her back in flawless, voluminous waves, each curl preened into perfect form without a single flyaway.

“No!” She cried, curling inward as her spine arched violently. “Make it stop!”

But you don't want it to stop. I can see into the darkest parts of your soul that you want this!

No it wasn't true, Maggie thought. She was a tomboy. She kept her hair short, practical. She wore hoodies, beat up sneakers, cardigans. She never cared about her hair. She’d rolled her eyes at girls who fussed about contour and lip liner.

Now her lips were swelling into plump, glossy pillows, forced into a permanent pout. Her chest ached, swelling outward with each breath until she could feel the weight of her new breasts strain against her top, except her top wasn’t her hoodie anymore. It was shrinking, changing, becoming something tight, pink and skin baring, pressing and lifting her like she was on display.

Her waist pulled in sharply, her sides collapsing into a cinched, unnatural curve. Her hips popped, her thighs filled, her sneakers vanished, replaced by cruel, towering stilettos that locked her feet into a sexy arch.

Don't fight me darling. Let me inside. Let me free the real you.

“No. No, I’m not this. This isn’t me. This isn’t real.” She choked, trying to raise her hand to her ring finger, to rip off the evil pink diamond, only to be distracted by the pink gorgeous daggers now affixed to the ends of each of her finger tips.

Her nails had always been chipped, half bitten, rarely painted but now they were weapons, instruments for pleasure and pain. She couldn't stop her mind from imagining them digging into some hot hunks back. The fleeting thought was enough to cause a heat to grow between her thighs.

Yesss that's it. Doesn't it feel so hawt to be a bitch like Chelsea?

“No. I’m not her. I’m not that girl.” Maggie gasped, bracing herself against the floor as her center pulsed with growing heat. “I’m not… I’m not Chelsea.” But the thoughts kept intruding. The voice kept whispering. Kept promising.

Of course you're not. You'll be worse. You’ll be me.

“I… no. That’s not me. You’re not me!” She groaned, but her hands were already cupping her new tits, squeezing them as if testing their weight. Her fingers curled and flexed. “God, they’re so big. So hot. Why does it feel so good?”

Because being sexy is powerful, and power is delicious. Addictive.

“I… fuck yesss! Mmmm I feel so nasty! No! Fight it Maggie!” She said to herself trying to resist the immense pleasure she was feeling. It was hard when she could feel how tight her body was now. How flexible and gorgeous it was. How she could feel Tristan’s lustful eyes on her or Claire’s jealous radiate off of her. Both made her feel untouchable for the first time in her life and it was intoxicating. She wanted to see what they saw but deep down she knew it would be the end of her if she did. The end of Maggie.

Just take a little look. I promise if you don’t like what you see, I’ll change you back.

The voice didn't really need to say much to persuade her. Her defensives had been failing the moment the ring was shoved on her finger. The temptation to see her new self was too much, too alluring. Her mind had conjured an image of what she might see, but even she wasn't prepared as she stood up off the ground and looked at the mirror across the room.

Her legs, long and smooth, now tan and toned, gleamed under the lights. Her ass jutted out, impossibly round and proud, like it was made to bounce in a tight skirt or grind on a man’s lap. Her face, her old face, was gone. In its place was a goddess. A smirk curled on her lips before she could stop it. She didn't want to stop it.

Go ahead, get closer to admire your perfection. See the big bad bitch you've become!

Maggie swayed toward the mirror, hypnotized by her own reflection. Her long platinum curls bounced with each step, her heels clacking against the marble like a countdown to damnation. She stood before her own image, breathless, the diamond ring pulsing faintly on her finger. Her lips, glistening and overfilled, parted in wonder.

“Oh my god…” She whispered, tilting her head. “I look like… sin.”

Let me show you the life you’ll have. The life you deserve.

The ring projected visions into her mind where she saw herself lounging poolside in a two piece white bikini that showed off her curves, sunglasses bigger than her face, cocktail in hand. Her skin gleamed like gold. Her nails were deadly and pink. Her mouth smirked at a server who dared to hesitate. Tristan sat beside her, shirtless and perfect, his arm draped over her like property. She was the prize.

“Tristan.” She murmured, eyes half lidded. “Fetch me another drink, baby. This one’s lukewarm.”

The vision shifted.

A massive walk in closet. She walked slowly down the aisle between rows of designer clothes and stilettos, running her talons along the hangers. Every tag read Versace. Balmain. Dior. On a vanity nearby, tabloids lay open with headlines that screamed: MRS STEEL MELTDOWN OVER MAID’S HAIR STYLE. And below: TRISTAN STEEL BUYS WIFE THIRD PORSCHE IN A MONTH.

“I didn’t like the color of the other two.” She purred in her mind, her eyes locked on her reflection. “Is that a crime now?”

Her vision shifted again.

Her lithe legs were wrapped around Tristan's hard body as he pressed her against the wall of a penthouse suite overlooking Monaco. Her hand tangled in Tristan's hair as she giggled wickedly. Her plump lips pushing against his, their tongues doing a sensual dance inside their mouths, while her diamond ring flashed like a strobe with every movement.

“Ohhh, Tristan… I don’t care if it’s the fourth meeting you've missed today, you touch me when I ask you, you kiss me when I tell you and you fuck me when I demand it.”

His voice rumbled low and obedient. “Yes, mistress.”

Maggie’s thighs rubbed together unconsciously, a whimper slipping from her lips. Her pussy ached to have him inside her. Not any man, just him.

“I’ll be his obsession.” She moaned softly. “His spoiled little goddess.”

She saw herself throwing tantrums over the wrong lipstick shade, over assistants who dared look Tristan in the eye, over anything and everything, because she could. Because she loved it. The visions were more than promises, they were certainties. They were her destiny.

Now, my dear, tell me who you are.

“I'm Mrs. Mercedes Steel bitch, a queen, a goddess, a nightmare posing as a wet dream. I’m all that and so much worse.” She purred as the visions evaporated and she was back in the room, staring at her perfectly crafted reflection.

Her tongue wet her glossy lips. Her posture straightened. She tilted her head, admiring her reflection again, dragging a finger down the deep valley of her cleavage. Her shoulders rolled back, tits proud and heaving as her voice dropped into a sultry purr.

“Why did I ever resist this?” She said with a wicked grin as she turned her attention to Tristan. Mercedes' hips swayed as she stepped toward him, her stilettos announcing each step with calculated grace. Every part of her moved like liquid seduction. Every movement designed to ensnare him.

She stopped just inches from him, looking up at him with a coy tilt of her head. “You said you needed to find a new wife.” She purred, trailing a manicured nail down the front of his chest. Her voice dipped low, smooth and slow. “Will I do?”

His sunglasses slid from his face, revealing eyes that were no longer cold and detached, but hungry. Mercedes smirked. He was hooked.

Claire groaned behind them, trying to sit up, but neither of them turned. Tristan reached up and tucked a strand of Mercedes’ flawless hair behind her ear, fingers lingering along her cheek. “You’re not what I expected.”

She let her lips part just enough to tease a breath across his wrist. “Good.” She leaned closer, her perfume wrapping around him like a velvet chokehold. “Wouldn’t want to be boring now would I?”

Claire’s voice cracked through the heat of the moment like a desperate alarm. “No! No, this can’t be happening!” She shrieked, crawling over to Tristan's feet. “Tristan, please, don't listen to her. I can fix this. I’ll get surgeries. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll make myself Chelsea again, I swear!”

Mercedes rolled her eyes with an audible groan and turned to face her, acknowleging her for the first time since her transformation. “Ugh. Are you still here?” She said, her tone dripping with disdain.

Mercedes stepped in front of Tristan, planting one stiletto heel between Claire and him, her new body radiating dominance and ownership over him. “This isn’t your ring anymore, this isn't your suite anymore, and he sure as hell isn't your man anymore.”

The venom from Mercedes was enough to make her flinch backward but she kept her eyes looked on Tristan and tried one last plea. “Tristan, please! Please, don’t do this! You said I was perfect! Don't give up on us!”

Tristan’s expression didn’t change. Cold. Impossibly detached. He adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket and stared down at her like she was gum on his shoe. “You heard my fiancée.” He said, each word deliberate and cutting. “Get lost, loser. Before I call security.”

Claire froze, eyes wide, mouth trembling. A strangled sound caught in her throat, but no words came. She turned, staggering to the door, tears already spilling down her cheeks. The door clicked softly shut.

Mercedes turned slowly, one manicured hand trailing down her hip as she approached Tristan again, her smirk gleaming like a blade.

“Mmmm Fiancée. Sounds so delicious.” She purred, slipping her arms around his neck. She leaned in close, brushing her lips just shy of his, her breath warm against his skin.

“But Mrs. Steel…” Her voice dripped with promise. “Now that sounds even better.”

The End…?

The gate door opened and Maggie waited with a smile, expecting to see the same quirky best friend with her oversized sweaters and paint splattered jeans, her gap toothed grin, that unshakable laugh. The Claire who once swore she'd never wear heels higher than an inch or own a purse that cost more than twenty bucks.

But what stepped off that plane was a stranger.

Platinum blonde. Lips blown up into glossy, heart shaped pillows. Breasts spilling from a too tight white corset top that looked more lingerie than casual wear. Tan legs poured into a skin tight pencil skirt. Long pink acrylic nails clacked against her phone as she typed without even looking up.

Maggie wasn't even sure it was her but she was the only passenger to arrive out of the gate from seemingly a private jet. “Claire?”

The woman looked up, paused, and smiled. But it wasn’t Claire’s old smile. It was perfect, practiced almost surgically smooth. She looked Maggie up and down as if she was examining dents on her car.

Maggie blinked, stunned. “Wh–what happened to you? You look... expensive.”

Claire tossed her hair. “Oh, you mean the glow up?” She held out her hand, flashing a massive pink diamond ring that shimmered like something out of a dream. “Got engaged. To Tristan. Everything changed the day he proposed.”

Behind her, a tall man in a sleek black suit stepped forward, his arm draping possessively over Claire's shoulder. He was almost absurdly attractive, chiseled cheekbones, dark sunglasses, smug smirk. He didn’t say a word.

Claire ran her tongue across her teeth. “One second I was this clueless, artsy girl stumbling around Venice, and the next? Tristan slid that ring on my finger and I just realized what was important in life. Money, fashion, looking hawt. Being Mrs. Chelsea Steel.” She giggled and locked arms with Tristan, eyes filling with lust.

Maggie’s mouth went dry. “Chelsea? You’re joking, right?”

Claire, or rather Chelsea, narrowed her eyes just slightly. “Of course not. Do I look like a Claire anymore? And I don’t really do jokes anymore. Too try hard. Anyway, get the bags will you?” She said flippantly as she and Tristan walked off towards the exit, leaving Maggie with the mountain of suitcases to deal with.

By the time she corralled the bags out to her car, Chelsea and Tristan were speeding off in a private car. A moment later Maggie got a text from Chelsea that was just the address of their hotel. She had been demoted from best friend to servant it had seemed.

The next day Maggie managed to convince Chelsea to grab coffee with her at a cafe they used to frequent often. Claire had loved to spend hours sitting in the rickety wooden chairs talking about her newest obsession. Chelsea however seemed to want to leave as soon as she arrived.

"Ok darling, I have a very small window today between salon appointments and wedding planning so what did you want to talk to me about?" Chelsea said rather disdainfully as she sat across from Maggie and scrolled idly through her phone, occasionally tapping out a reply with those long pink nails.

Maggie cleared her throat. “So… do you remember the mural we snuck into the art building to finish? The one you said was your favorite thing you'd ever painted?”

Chelsea didn’t look up. “God, no. Sounds tragic.”

Maggie tried again. “How about that animation short you used to talk about doing, remember? About those two sisters who time-traveled? You said it was the story you always wanted to tell.”

Chelsea blinked, finally looking up with an arched brow. “Babe, do I look like someone who tells stories about time traveling virgins? Ugh. What is this? A walk down loser lane? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Maggie finally broke. “No! Snap out of it Claire. I know you’re in there. Somewhere. You loved those things. You were funny. And awkward. And kind. You're-”

Chelsea snapped her phone shut and leaned in slowly, eyes cold. “You’re delusional.”

Maggie’s voice cracked. “I just want my best friend back.”

The smile vanished from Chelsea’s face, replaced by a slow, cruel smirk. She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms under her inflated chest. “Wow. This is actually pathetic. You've always been a loser but this is a new low.”

Maggie’s breath hitched.

Chelsea leaned in, venom in her voice now. “Tristan was so right. You’re just a jealous, bitter nobody. You always were. Clinging to me like a parasite because I was talented, because I left this dump of a town to find myself while you stayed here to haunt it with your mediocrity. It’s actually kind of gross.”

Maggie flinched as if slapped. “Claire… please…”

“It’s Chelsea.” She snapped, with icy precision. “Claire is dead, Maggie. She died the second Tristan slipped that ring on my finger and I became his. You can cry, you can beg, but she is never coming back.”

Maggie’s eyes welled with tears. “I don't believe you! There's something evil going on and it's all Tristan's doing! You have to fight it!”

Chelsea grinned with an icy intensity. “My god, you have lost it haven't you? You just can't stand that my life is about to begin while yours is withering on the vine like a rotten tomato. You even look like one right now with your puffy eyes. I feel embarrassed just sitting here.”

Maggie’s cheeks were slick with tears now. “How can you be so cruel?”

Chelsea’s smile widened. “Because your sadness is just so delicious. You look like a kicked puppy. God, I should’ve recorded this. Tristan would love it. Actually...” She reached for her phone. “Smile, Mags.”

Maggie stood, knocking over her chair.

Chelsea didn’t even flinch. She simply uncrossed her legs and stood with regal, effortless poise. “Coming back here was a mistake. Tristan said it would be beneath us. I just wanted to see if there was anything left to miss.”

She leaned in close, lips almost brushing Maggie’s ear.

“There wasn’t.”

She turned and strutted out, heels clacking like gunshots on the tile. At the door, she paused, looking over her shoulder with a look of complete, glossy indifference.

“We’re leaving town tomorrow. Forever. Try not to get in the way.”

Then she disappeared into the street, all curves and confidence, leaving Maggie alone in the ruins of what used to be their friendship. How had her kind hearted, artistic best friend turned into such an ice queen.

Her walk home had her questioning everything. Had she simply imagined a different version of Claire all this time? Had Chelsea always been there, trapped under the paint covered overalls?

By the time she got home and collapsed onto her bed she was nearly convinced that Claire had just been a figment of her imagination. Some imaginary friend that she projected onto Chelsea. That there could be no way that someone could change so quickly, so sharply.

Her gaze drifted over to her notebook laying on the ground, its cover destroyed with doodles. She reached out and picked it up, flipping through its pages, the drawings inside bringing a wave of memories. Reaching the back cover she looked at the picture of her and Claire, the day she left on the trip that would change her forever.

No fake tits, no bitchy blonde hair, no expensive outfit, no extravagant ring. It all started with Tristan and that stupid ring, she thought. It was a throwaway aside but something about it gave her pause. Something Chelsea said at lunch suddenly came back and hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Claire is dead, Maggie. She died the second Tristan slipped that ring on my finger and I became his.”

Maggie had taken it as a metaphor in the moment but maybe there was more to it.

She sat up on the bed and pulled up Claire’s Instagram. For months, the posts had been quiet. An odd picture here and there, always of art, rarely was Claire featured herself. But then, three months ago they stopped completely. Getting curious, Maggie then searched for Chelsea Steel, Claire’s soon to be married name, and was attacked by a deluge of posts.

“Queen for a day? Try Queen for a lifetime!” Chelsea captioned one, as she lay on a beach in a skimpy two piece.

Maggie winced.

In the next post, Chelsea was in a dozen different outfits. “Couldn't decide which one I like the most. So, I had my man by the store.” The caption read.

Another post. “You should feel bad for being less beautiful than me. But I won’t judge you for it. I just don’t relate.”

In three months she had posted nearly 300 pictures and videos that all were about her. However as Maggie rolled back to the very first post it became clear what kicked off her new personality, what had birth the bitch Chelsea.

It was a simple pic, a close up of her hand, wearing the pink diamond ring. Its caption reading “Everything changed today. Thank you, my love, my king! I finally feel perfect.”

Claire had told the truth, everything had changed three months ago but the speed of the changes is what unnerved Maggie the most. It was what made Maggie suspicious that the ring was more than just an ostentatious piece of jewelry.

Maggie zoomed in, eyes narrowing. The ring was ornate, baroque almost, with curling metalwork shaped like vines strangling the central stone. It was beautiful in the way a spider’s web was beautiful, delicate, shimmering, and ominous.

She right clicked the image and selected reverse image search. It took a only a few seconds but what appeared surprised her.

It showed a very old image of what was clearly the same ring, it's name listed in Italian as L’Anello della Contessa, The Ring of the Countess.

Intrigued, Maggie clicked deeper. History blogs, Reddit threads, ghost hunting forums, even a translated fragment from an old book of occult jewelry. The deeper she went, the colder her skin felt.

Maggie swallowed hard and clicked back to Chelsea’s post. Same twisted band. Same bleeding pink gem. It was the same ring. She sat back in her chair, heart pounding.

It seemed beyond impossible, crazy even, to think that her best friend had been corrupted by some magical ring but it was hard to dispute the evidence in front of her. Claire hadn’t just changed, she had transformed. Rewritten.

Maggie looked at the screen, at the way Chelsea posed, ring proudly thrust into the foreground. She remembered the laugh, the cruel, mocking thing it had become. She couldn’t let Claire be erased by this thing. She had to get the ring off her finger.

Whatever it took. Even if she had to play the fool to do it. She took a deep breath, then began typing. She stared at the message. It made her slightly sick to the stomach to read it. She hoped it would be enough fawning to entice the drama queen. The response came almost instantly.

Maggie’s heart thudded like a drum. She raced to the kitchen. From the back of a drawer, she retrieved a small amber bottle. Sleeping drops. A leftover from her insomnia days.

“Hang on, Claire.” She whispered. “I’m going to get you back.”

“Are you trying to make me look like some frumpy senator’s wife?” She snapped, jerking her shoulder away from one poor stylist who had dared to suggest a more “classic” neckline. “This is a wedding, not a funeral for my cleavage.”

“Sorry, ma’am!” The girl squeaked but that was just the start of her troubles. The entire staff in the room went quiet.

“Ma’am?” Mercedes said, turning around slowly, coolly, towards the girl who was shrinking by the second. “Do I look like a sixty year old who needs help getting off the bus? You will address me as Mistress Steel!”

“Of course, my mistake, Mistress Steel!” The girl said, pleading with her eyes for forgiveness but Mercedes wasn't in a charitable mood. 

She rolled her eyes, clicking her fingers causing one of her helpers to appear suddenly with a glass of pink liquid. She took her time to sip her rosé with a long, slow smirk. “Bored now. Get lost and go back to whatever shanty town you're from, I don't have time for mistakes. Someone remove her.”

At that, one of the makeup artists dropped a brush and rushed over to remove the girl who was starting to cry. Mercedes didn’t flinch. Instead she felt a wave of satisfaction wash over her like it always did in these situations. It made her wet to dress down others, wetter than even Tristan's big cock.

She let a silent moan escape her lips as the girl was led out of the room forever to be forgotten by Mercedes. “God, you’re all so exhausting, leave me, all of you. Now.” Mercedes snapped. The stylists scattered back like dancers trained to avoid their queen’s wrath. They scurried out quickly while Mercedes stalked to the mirror, heels echoing across the marble, and looked at herself, placing one hand on her hip.

She was perfect. Her gown hugged every curve, cinched so tight that her hourglass figure defied physics. Her makeup was a masterpiece.  Smoky, sultry eyes, lashes like knives, lips in a luscious nude gloss, pouting just enough to say come worship me. Her staff had done an excellent job but she would never tell them that. There was a knock at the door, interupting her self admiration.

“Enter and make it worth my time.” She said sighing, sightly irritated.

Callie, her default maid of honor, slinked in, clutching a clipboard while looking pale and sweaty. Mercedes barely knew Callie, she had simply plucked her from the various stores she liked to frequent and spend lavishly in. Callie was far from being a called a 'friend'. Mercedes didn't have any friends, had no need for them. Callie had been one of the few shops girls Mercedes hadn't made cry and so she thought she could make a competent personal assistant and glorified doormat.

“Um, Mercedes? The caterer needs final approval for the hors d’oeuvres selection. Also, the pianist just said he won’t play the rearranged Beyoncé version of the bridal march unless he gets a written arrangement, and-”

“No.” Mercedes cut her off, walking up close. “Do I look like I’m in the mood to approve canapés? Do I look like I manage sheet music?”

Callie stammered. “N-no, it’s just-”

Mercedes leaned in. “If I hear one more word about food, music, or anything that doesn’t involve how stunning I look, you’re going to be scraping glitter and acrylics off the bathroom floor with your teeth. Clear?”

Callie nodded, eyes wide.

“Good girl.” Mercedes smiled, turned away, the rush of of being a bitch sating her once again. She flicked her hand in dismissal. “Now vanish.”

As the door shut, Mercedes gave a soft giggle and twirled once in her heels. “God I love being the center of the universe.”

A soft creak of wood echoed from behind the full length velvet drapes. Mercedes didn’t turn. She only smiled, her eyes locking with her pair in the mirror. “I’m surprised it took you until now to get to me.”

From the shadows, Claire emerged, pale, and dressed in black. Her hair was a mess, her face drawn and furious.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for months.” She said, her voice ragged but steady. “But today felt… appropriate. I was supposed to marry Tristan today.”

Mercedes turned slowly, tilting her head with an indulgent grin. “The key word being was. What are you even doing here? You know the ring is a one time thing. You had your chance and you blew it.”

Claire stepped forward. “I didn’t do anything! You meddled and stuck your nose where it didn’t belong and you got rewarded for it!”

Mercedes looked at her nails almost like she was bored. “Yes it’s all very tragic, do you have a point?”

“My point is that I know I’ll never get it back. The power. The beauty. Him.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “But just because I can't have it all doesn’t mean you get to either.”

Before Mercedes could reply, Claire lunged.

Her hands went straight for Mercedes’ left hand, fingers clamping around the glittering ring. Mercedes gave a gasp, stumbling back with a theatrical wince. “No! Stop, please!” She cried, eyes wide, breath coming fast.

Claire twisted the ring violently and yanked it free. It slid from Mercedes’ finger, tumbling into Claire’s palm.

“No! I can’t go back to being Maggie! I can’t, I… I…” Mercedes said clutching her head but then started to cackle darkly. “…I can’t believe you thought that would work.”

Claire frowned. “Why… why aren’t you changing back?”

Mercedes straightened. Her back arched with practiced elegance as her arms folded slowly across her flawless chest. She smiled.

“Oh, sweetie…” She purred. “That little trinket doesn’t have the power anymore.”

Her eyes flashed bright pink, glowing for a moment like embers. Claire flinched. “I do.”

Mercedes took a single step forward, and Claire stumbled back.

“You really thought I was just going to let some loser like you or some do gooder like I used to be, take away this delicious power? Turn me into a pathetic nobody again?” Mercedes hissed, voice low and rich like melted honey over steel.

She advanced slowly, each step deliberate, the train of her gown dragging behind her like royalty on the warpath.

“Other women throughout the centuries never fully embraced the ring. Not like me. I let it fill every inch of me. Let it feed on my soul until we were entwined fully.” She smirked.

Claire’s hands trembled around the ring. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Mercedes said, her voice dipped in cruelty. “Then why do you look terrified?”

Claire staggered back, staring down at the gem. Its pink glow was gone, dull now, cloudy, like cheap glass. Her jaw clenched as her fingers wrapped tight around the inert ring. “You think you’ve won. Maybe you’ve absorbed whatever power it had, maybe you’re stronger now, but I’ll find a way to take it from you. Even if it takes years.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes with a long, theatrical sigh. “Ugh. The worst part is I believe you. You’ll be this little gnat, buzzing around my perfect life. Clinging. Plotting. Interrupting photo ops. You'll be quite the chore.”

She stepped forward, slow and measured, her heels clicking like punctuation. “Of course, I could always have you killed. A woman like me needs only to snap my perfectly manicured fingers and you'll be little more than a memory.”

Claire stiffened, breath catching as Mercedes closed the gap between them. But then Mercedes smiled like a cat sizing up a mouse. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“There are few things I miss about my old life.” She continued while circling Claire like a vulture. “But having a bestie is sadly one of them. Girls like Callie and my other so called bridesmaids are a joy to push around and torture but it would be so much more delicious if I had someone to enjoy it with me.”

“What I need…” She purred. “Is a maid of honour.”

Mercedes eyes shone pink once again and with lighting speed her hand shot up and grabbed Claire's forehead.

The reaction was instant. A pulse of hot, electric pink surged from the point of contact and blasted through Claire’s body. Her back arched as if hit with divine lightning, a moan tearing from her lips. Her legs buckled, her fingers spasming open as the dead ring tumbled from her grasp.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as a loud moan escaped her mouth, signalling the start of her changes. Mercedes watched on in evil glee, shaping her with her wicked power.

“Mmm you should be thanking me babe, you’re the first person I’m trying my new power on. Is it as good for you as it is for me?” Mercedes said as her eyes glowed even brighter, the pink light casting an unnerving pall over the two of them.

The air around Claire rippled, bending to the magic flooding her system. Her black dress writhed like it was alive, seams squirming, fabric reshaping with indecent haste. The dull black turned soft, then blushed, bursting into a shiny, unapologetic hot pink. The hem rose higher to show off as much skin as possible. Likewise the neckline plunged as her chest began to swell beneath the tightening fabric.

Claire let out a breathless moan. “Ohhh… god… yessss! This feels so fucking good! Make me her again!”

Her hands ran down her sides as her waist shrank dramatically, the contours of her hourglass figure redrawn in real time. Her breasts surged, pressing high and proud against the pink latex bodice.

“Mmmm, yes! Yes! Make me a perfect little bitch again!” She cried. “Tighter. Higher. More.”

Her skin flushed, turning luminous, kissed with a flawless tan as her fingernails lengthened into sharp, gleaming pink talons. One foot lifted involuntarily as her black boot vanished, replaced by a pink stiletto that grew up her ankle like a vine. The other followed suit with a snap.

Her hair shimmered, roots brightening, bleaching outward like a spreading fire of beauty. Within seconds, the rats nest she had moments ago gave way to a lush waterfall of platinum curls, bouncing around her shoulders with obscene volume and shine.

Her face transformed next, brows arching into a catlike frame, cheekbones sculpting high, lips swelling into juicy pillows coated in glistening pink gloss. Her lashes thickened into dark fans, framing eyes that rolled back, no longer dull with bitterness but gleaming with delicious vanity.

Mercedes removed her hand from Claire's head and took a step back to admire her handiwork. Claire ran a hand over every inch of herself that she could, like she was admiring the craftsmanship of a sculpture. She took a step towards the mirror, her face awash with awe but then broke into a wicked grin. “Oh fuck, I feel like champagne and sin.”

Mercedes tilted her head. “You’re welcome... Chelsea.”

Chelsea turned from the mirror, posing “Mmm I know I should still hate you for what you did but look at me! You didn’t just bring me back, babe. You improved me. Look at this body. Look at these lashes. I’d fuck me if I saw me walking down the aisle.”

Mercedes smirked. “A tempting offer, but don’t forget who made you darling. I’m still the alpha.”

Chelsea sauntered over with a sway in her hips and a devilish smirk on her lips. “Absolutely babe. Like God, you look… devastating. That dress, that hair, that attitude. No wonder Tristan practically drools when you speak.”

Mercedes let out a soft, amused breath. “He does more than that.”

“He better be worshipping that pussy of yours like it’s the holy grail. God knows I would.” Chelsea said as their eyes locked. For a moment, the room went still. The tension was thick, hot, electric, pulsing between them.

Chelsea’s smile softened slightly, as she stepped slowly closer to Mercedes. “You know what got me off the most when I first had the ring?” She murmured, “It was seeing myself in the mirror, seeing how hot I was, seeing how fucking evil I was. I used to stare for hours getting myself off while Tristan was working at the office.”

Mercedes stepped in, closing the gap. “Oh I know my pet. Tristan is only worth keeping around for the money he provides. In a few months when I get bored, I’ll divorce him and his fortune will be mine. Women like us know there’s nothing hotter than a bad bitch who does and gets what she wants.”

Their lips were inches apart now. Breath mingling. Eyes flicking between lips and eyes. Chelsea’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And what do you want… Mistress Steel?.”

Mercedes lunged first.

Their mouths met in a kiss that was part challenge, part worship. Soft at first, just the brush of lips, heat exchanged like secrets, then deeper. Fiercer. Mercedes gripped Chelsea’s waist, nails digging into pink satin, pulling her flush. Chelsea’s hands tangled in Mercedes’ ponytail, tugging it with a gasp as their bodies locked together, two perfect bodies forged from magic and spite.

They stumbled together, pressing against the vanity, the clink of crystal perfume bottles scattering across the marble.

Mercedes broke the kiss with a purr, her lips swollen, breath fast. “Careful, kitten. If you mess up my lipstick before the ceremony, I will make you redo it.”

Chelsea smirked, biting her bottom lip. “Well then let me kiss some lips that won’t smudge.”

Chelsea sank to her knees and disappeared under Mercedes dress. Her hands were greedy, her long, pink taloned fingers clawing up Mercedes’ thighs with a hunger that left faint red trails on her flawless skin. Mercedes’ slick, aching pussy was on display like a moment to sexual perfection.

“Mmmm, make it quick but make it dirty.” Mercedes growled, her voice dripping with command as she leaned back against the vanity, her manicured nails clawing into the marble. Chelsea didn’t answer with words, instead her lips crashed against Mercedes’ pussy, wet and ravenous, her tongue diving in, plunging deep, curling and twisting to taste every inch of her.

Mercedes’ hips bucked, a guttural moan tearing from her throat as Chelsea’s mouth went to work, sucking hard on her swollen clit, teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of filthy pleasure spiking through her. 

“That’s it, you little slut, worship your mistress.” Mercedes hissed, her platinum waves spilling over her shoulders as she arched back, one hand gripping the vanity, the other yanking at her own hair. Chelsea’s tongue was relentless, flicking and swirling with a frenzied pace.

“Don’t forget to give yourself a helping hand.” Mercedes moaned and to her delight she could feel Chelsea’s smirk against her clit, loving the suggestion.

Chelsea’s hand dropped under her own pink dress, and slipped into her own eager pussy with a satisfying slurp. Chelsea moaned wantonly into Mercedes’ slick box. Chelsea’s other hand was just as depraved, gripping Mercedes’ thigh to spread her wider, nails digging in like she was claiming territory.

Mercedes’ moans turned to sharp, desperate cries, her body trembling as Chelsea’s tongue pistoned faster. “You dirty little bitch.” Mercedes gasped, her eyes half rolled back, her body teetering on the edge. 

“Eat me like you fucking mean it.” Chelsea obeyed, her face buried deep, her nose pressed against Mercedes’ clit as her tongue fucked into her,m. The pleasure was overwhelming, a raw, primal assault that had Mercedes’ body arching as she chased the release that was barreling toward her.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” Mercedes groaned, her voice breaking as the pleasure coiled tight, her pussy clenching around Chelsea’s tongue. Chelsea didn’t let up, her tongue lashing faster, her lips sucking harder, her fingers slamming into her own wet pussy with relentless rhythm. 

The orgasm hit like a tidal wave, Mercedes’ body convulsing as she screamed, her juices flooding Chelsea’s mouth, dripping down her chin as she kept licking, kept sucking, drawing out every shuddering pulse until she herself started to vibrate from an orgasm so good it made her fall out from under the dress.

She licked her lips slowly, savoring the taste, then wiped her chin with the back of her hand, rising in her pink stilettos with a sway that screamed sin. “Did I make you cum hard enough, Mistress Steel?” She purred, her voice thick with wicked satisfaction.

Mercedes steadied her breath, smoothing her gown with a lazy flick, her composure returning like a queen stepping back onto her throne. “You’re a filthy little pet.” She said, her tone cool but laced with dark approval. “I think I’ll keep you around.”

Chelsea laughed, a low, dirty sound that matched Mercedes’ own. “Oh, babe, I’m just getting started.”

“Well for now you can serve me by finding that useless bitch Callie and taking over her duties. You are my maid of honor after all.” Mercedes said, smiling wickedly.

Chelsea smiled back and sauntered to the door, her hips swinging, her dress clinging to every curve. She paused, glancing back with a smirk. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Mercedes met her gaze in the mirror, her lips curling into a dangerous smile. “Don’t get cocky, kitten. You’re mine, and you’ll stay that way.” Her eyes flashed pink to emphasis her point. Chelsea didn’t know if it was a threat or a promise but either way it made her wet. She couldn’t wait to further ‘serve’ her mistress.

Mercedes turned back to the mirror once Chelsea had left. She studied her reflection. The silk veil. The dramatic gown. Her posture wasn’t that of a nervous bride or a trembling romantic, it was the stance of a woman who was untouchable.  Her smirk curled slowly as her fingers ran down the side of her waist, admiring the cinch. Admiring the control.

She leaned in slightly, her voice a whisper, just for her reflection. “You’re a goddess now. A weapon in heels. A queen maker.”

Her eyes glittered. “Chelsea was just the first… and god, didn’t she turn out deliciously?” She spun slowly, admiring the curve of her hips, the weight of the train behind her, then faced herself again, more intimately now.

“I could make a dozen Chelseas. A hundred. A sisterhood of bad bitches. Glossy, cruel, unstoppable. All loyal to me.” She leaned in, whispering directly to her reflection now, like a prayer.

“Today isn’t my wedding day.” Her eyes flared pink again, brighter this time.

“It’s my ascension.” She said with one last loving look at herself before she sauntered out of the room.