Part One: Sloane
My name is Sloane Sinclair, and I am untouchable.
I'm saying this to myself while I touch up my lip gloss because that's what queens do—they admire their own perfection. The reflection staring back at me is flawless: platinum blonde extensions cascading over tanned shoulders, smokey green eyes sharp enough to cut, cheekbones that could slice glass, and a body that makes boys walk into walls. My acrylics click against the counter as I purse my lips. Perfect. As always.
I hear the whine from next door before I hear the actual words. Something about keeping it down. Something about how some people are trying to concentrate. The nasally, grating voice of my brother, Spencer.
God, I hate him.
Not in a dramatic, sibling rivalry way. In a genuine, visceral, why does this creature share my DNA way. He's everything I'm not—awkward, forgettable, soft. He shuffles through the halls of Westbrook High like a ghost, which is generous because even ghosts have presence. Spencer has the social gravity of a damp paper towel. He wears cargo shorts. Cargo shorts. In this century. With white socks and sandals. I've seen more attractive fire hydrants.
"Sloane! Tell your weird friends to keep it down!" He's banging on my wall now. The audacity.
I turn to Blair, Quinn, and Harper—my girls, my court, my weapons of social destruction—and roll my eyes so hard I practically see my own brain.
"Is he serious right now?" Quinn giggles, adjusting her top to show more cleavage. Quinn is the sweet-sexy one, all curves and dimples and "oh I didn't realize this top was so sheer" energy. She's never accidentally anything in her life.
"Let's drag him in here," Blair says, and her eyes light up with that particular brand of evil that made her my BFF in the first place. Blair is ice—platinum, perfect, and absolutely ruthless. She once made a senior cry by commenting on her eyebrows. In front of her boyfriend. "Make him play some stupid game with us."
"Ooooh, yes!" Harper claps. She's the sporty one, all long legs and toned abs and the kind of casual physical dominance that makes boys nervous. "We could do, like, makeovers! Give him a whole makeover and post it!"
"Even better." I grin. "We make him think he's one of us for the night. Dress him up. Take pictures. Then post them everywhere on Monday."
The girls scream with delight. I march to Spencer's door and bang on it three times—the universal Sloane Sinclair signal for open this door before I make your life hell.
He opens it a crack. His face appears, suspicious and pale behind those thick glasses. "What?"
"You're coming to my room."
"Absolutely not—"
Quinn and Harper appear behind me. Three hot girls in lingerie versus one dweeb in a graphic tee. The math doesn't work in his favor.
"Consider it mandatory," I say, and we grab him.
He squirms and protests the whole way down the hall, but he's so weak it's almost sad. Almost. We dump him on my fluffy white rug and circle him like sharks.
"What are you going to do to me?" he asks, and the fear in his voice is delicious.
"We're going to play a game," Blair says, already poking through the boxes in the corner of my room. The boxes I never open. The ones full of old junk from before I was popular—before I became me. "Let's see what Sloane has hidden away..."
"Don't go through my stuff!" I snap, but she's already pulling things out. Magazines from middle school. A broken curling iron. Homework I definitely didn't do. And then, at the bottom, under everything, a box.
A weird box. Symbols I don't recognize. And the words ROLE WITH IT in faded, cheesy 90s font.
"Oh my god," Blair laughs. "What even is this?"
"Probably some garbage from a yard sale," I roll my eyes. "Throw it away."
"No way! We have to play!" Quinn bounces.
"Fine." I flop onto my bed. "But Spencer has to play too. Otherwise what's the point?"
We open the box. Inside: a spinner, a board with paths marked on it, and a thick deck of cards. The instructions are long and weird—something about "embracing your role" and "the game ensures compliance" and "what is taken cannot be returned." I barely skim them.
"Who cares about the rules?" I say, spinning the spinner. "Let's just draw cards."
Blair shuffles and deals. She draws one, reads it, and her face transforms into pure, delighted malice.
"Oh my god," she breathes. "This is perfect."
She flips the card around.
ROLE SWAP — Two players exchange roles. They must dress as each other, adopt each other's mannerisms, and fully commit. The game ensures compliance. What is swapped cannot be restored.
"What does 'cannot be restored' mean?" Harper frowns.
"Who cares?" I laugh. "It's just a dumb game. Spencer has to dress like me and act like me? That's hilarious. He'll look so stupid."
"I don't want to—"
"Too bad, Spencer." I grin at him. "You're gonna put on my clothes and my makeup and you're gonna look ridiculous. And I'm gonna film every second."
The girls cheer. Spencer looks like he wants to dissolve into the floor.
Perfect.
"Okay," Blair says, tapping the card with her French tips. "Sloane, you first. Go put on Spencer's clothes. All of them. Down to the underwear."
"Ugh, fine." I stomp to his room—gross, it smells like boy and Doritos—and grab his grossest outfit. The anime girl shirt. Cargo shorts. White socks. Sandals. I even grab his boxers because the card said all of them.
I change and look in his mirror. I look absurd. My perfect body hidden under all this fabric. My hair looks wrong. My face needs makeup. I look like... a dweeb.
When I come back, the girls crack up. Even Spencer cracks a smile, the little weirdo.
"Your turn, brother," I say sweetly.
The girls descend on him. Blair removes his glasses first, and I notice his eyes are green. Like mine. But wider. More innocent. Whatever.
Then the makeup starts. Foundation—his skin is surprisingly smooth, the little freak, barely any facial hair. Blush across his cheekbones. Eyeliner, eyeshadow. Blair glues fake lashes onto his eyes, and he blinks rapidly, looking confused.
"These feel... weird," he says. His voice sounds different. Softer. But that's probably just the weirdness of the situation.
"Hold still," Harper murmurs, painting his lips pink and glossy.
Now the nails. Blair presses my spare set of acrylics onto his fingers, one by one. Pop. Pop. Pop. They seal on instantly, perfectly, like they were always there.
"These are—" Spencer stares at his hands. The French tips with little rhinestones. My signature set. "Sloane, I don't—"
"Arms up," Quinn says, pulling my favorite pink crop top over his head. As the fabric slides down his torso, I see something that makes my stomach twist.
His chest. It's... swelling. Two soft mounds pushing against the fabric, filling out the crop top the way I fill it out.
"What the fuck—" I stand up, but the room tilts. I grab the bedpost. "What's happening to—"
"Sloane, you look, like, so weird right now," Harper says, but she's not looking at me. She's looking at Spencer. At his... her... changing body.
"Sloane..." Spencer whispers, touching his face, and his features are shifting. His jaw softening. His nose shrinking. His lips plumping into a perfect cupid's bow. His cheekbones rising, sculpting, becoming my cheekbones. His eyes getting bigger, wider, more catlike. More mine.
And his hair—his boring brown hair—is growing. Right before my eyes, lengthening and lightening, turning the exact shade of platinum blonde I paid thousands for. It cascades past his—her—shoulders in perfect waves.
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no—"
I look down at myself. My perfect tits are gone. My tight stomach is soft. My smooth legs have hair on them. My hands—my beautiful, manicured hands—are bare and calloused.
My clothes fit. Spencer's clothes fit me. Like they were always mine.
"Like, oh my god," Spencer says, and it's not his voice anymore. It's my voice. That bratty, confident purr I spent years perfecting. "This body is, like, sooo much better."
"Spencer, stop—" I try to step forward, but I stumble. These legs don't work the same. This body doesn't move the same.
"Spencer?" She laughs—my laugh, the one that makes boys melt. "Who's Spencer? Eww. That's, like, his name." She points at me with my own manicured finger. "I'm Sloane."
The other girls nod. Like it's obvious. Like she's right.
"Duh," Quinn rolls her eyes. "You've always been Sloane, Sloane."
I open my mouth to protest, to scream, to explain—but something is happening to my mind. The room is getting fuzzy. My thoughts are... shifting. I'm Sloane Sinclair, I'm the queen of Westbrook, I'm—
Spencer.
The name surfaces from somewhere deep. No. No, I'm Sloane. I'm—
Spencer Sinclair. Dweeb. Loser. Invisible.
The memories are coming faster now. Playing video games alone in my room. Being ignored at school. Watching Sloane—from afar, always from afar—wishing I could be like her. Wishing I could be her.
No. I AM her. I'm Sloane Sinclair and—
But the memories won't stop. Years of being invisible. Years of envy. Years of wanting.
And then, just like that, the game box on the floor dissolves. Not collapses, not crumble—dissolves, like it was never there at all. The cards, the spinner, the board, all of it, fading into nothing like morning fog.
The girls blink.
"What were we just doing?" Harper asks, looking confused.
"I don't... know?" Quinn tilts her head. "Something with a game? Or..."
They trail off. They've forgotten. The game is gone from their minds like a dream upon waking.
But I remember. I remember. I'm Sloane Sinclair, I was Sloane Sinclair, I—
I'm Spencer.
The realization hits me like a truck. The game. The role swap. I was Sloane and now I'm Spencer and she took my life and—
"Hey, Spencer?" New Sloane is looking at me, smirking, and the smirk is mine. The cruel confidence is mine. "You okay? You look, like, super weird right now."
"I'm not Spencer!" I shout. "I'm Sloane! I'm Sloane Sinclair and you're—you're my brother and you stole my—"
The girls stare at me. Then they look at each other. Then they start laughing.
"Oh my god," Blair wheezes. "Did the dweeb just say he's Sloane?"
"That's, like, so creepy," Quinn makes a disgusted face.
"Spencer," New Sloane says, and her voice is sweet and poisonous, "are you pretending to be me? That's, like, beyond pathetic."
"I'm not pretending! I AM you! I'm Sloane Sinclair! I was born on March 15th! My favorite color is pink! I lost my virginity to Tyler Mason at—"
New Sloane raises an eyebrow. "I lost my virginity to Danny Reeves at freshman homecoming, actually. In the back of his dad's BMW."
She's right. She's right. That's what happened. Not Tyler. Danny Reeves. Why did I say Tyler?
My memories are... blurring. Slipping. Like trying to hold water in my hands.
"My best friend is Blair—" I start.
"Blair is my best friend," New Sloane says, and Blair wraps an arm around her waist, glaring at me.
"Weirdo," Blair says to me. "Total weirdo."
"I can prove it!" I'm desperate now. "Ask me anything! I'll prove I'm Sloane!"
New Sloane smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile I used to give to girls I was about to destroy. The smile that said I already won, I'm just letting you figure it out.
"Okay," she says. "Let's play a game."
---
Part Two: Spencer
I'm Spencer Sinclair, and for seventeen years, that meant being invisible.
But I'm not invisible anymore.
I look at myself in Sloane's—my—mirror, and I see perfection. High cheekbones. Flawless skin. Big green eyes that could make anyone do anything. Platinum blonde hair cascading over my shoulders. And this body—god, this body. The curves. The tits. The ass that makes boys walk into walls.
"Like, oh my god," I say, and the voice that comes out is Sloane's voice. My voice. Bratty and confident and powerful. "This body is, like, sooo much better."
And I mean it. Every word.
Because here's what nobody knew about Spencer Sinclair: I didn't want to be a boy. I never did. I watched Sloane—in her pretty clothes, with her pretty friends, living her pretty life—and I ached. Every day. Every time she called me "dweeb" or "loser" or made me feel small, I imagined what it would be like to be her. To be big. To be seen.
I just never thought it would actually happen.
But standing here, in Sloane's bedroom, in Sloane's body, I feel something I've never felt before.
Whole.
The game box dissolves on the floor. The other girls blink, confused, already forgetting. But I remember. I remember being Spencer. I remember being invisible. And I remember the card—the role swap card that changed everything.
What is swapped cannot be restored.
Those words echo in my mind, and I smile.
Good.
"Spencer, stop—" The old Sloane—the new Spencer—tries to step forward, but she stumbles in her oversized cargo shorts. She looks so small. So pathetic. Flat chest under that anime tee. Bare face. Short, messy hair.
God, she looks like a dweeb.
"Spencer?" I laugh, and the sound is musical. Perfect. "Who's Spencer? Eww. That's, like, his name." I point at the thing she's become. "I'm Sloane."
The girls nod like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Duh," Quinn rolls her eyes. "You've always been Sloane, Sloane."
And she's right. I have always been Sloane. On the inside. Now the outside just matches.
"I can prove it!" New Spencer shouts, and there's desperation in her—his—voice. "Ask me anything! I'll prove I'm Sloane!"
I smile. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile I learned from years of watching Sloane destroy people. The smile that says I already won.
"Okay," I say. "Let's play a game."
I grab an empty wine cooler bottle from the nightstand and set it in the middle of the floor. "Spin the bottle. But with a twist. We ask questions. If you can't answer, you drink. If you answer wrong, you drink twice. And if you answer right—" I look right at new Spencer. "Well. That won't happen."
"That's not fair—"
"Life's not fair, Spencer." I put extra emphasis on the name. His new name. His real name now. "Blair, you go first."
Blair spins. It lands on... me. New Sloane. Perfect.
"Okay," Blair smiles, thinking. "Sloane, what's my middle name?"
"Marie," I say without hesitation. Because I know. I have Sloane's memories now, layered over my own like frosting on a cake. Two lives, blended. But the Sloane parts are stronger. Brighter. More me. "Blair Marie Prescott. You hate it because it sounds, like, sooo basic."
Blair laughs. "True. Your turn, Sloane."
I spin. It lands on new Spencer. My smile widens.
"Spencer," I say sweetly. "What's Sloane's birthday?"
"March 15th!" he says immediately. "I'm Sloane! I know my own—"
"Wrong," I say, and I don't even have to think about it. Because I know. "My birthday is March 12th. March 15th is Mom's birthday."
New Spencer's face falls. "That's not—I thought—"
"Drink," I say firmly.
He takes a sip of the wine cooler, hands shaking.
"My turn," Harper says, spinning. It lands on new Spencer again. "Spencer, what's Sloane's favorite movie?"
"The Devil Wears Prada!" he says. "No—wait—Mean Girls? Clueless?"
"All wrong," I shake my head, pretending to be sad. "It's Heathers. 1989 classic. Winona Ryder, Christian Slater. I've seen it, like, forty times. I can quote every line." I lean forward. "'My teen angst bullshit has a body count.'"
The girls laugh. New Spencer takes another drink.
We keep going. Question after question. And every single one, I answer perfectly—because I know. I know Sloane's life better than she does now. I know her first kiss (Danny Reeves, behind the bleachers, seventh grade). I know her biggest fear (being forgotten, being invisible—ironic, right?). I know her secret insecurity (the tiny scar on her left knee from when she fell off her bike at age nine and cried for an hour). I know everything.
And new Spencer? He gets every question wrong. His memories are fading, I can tell. He's grasping at things that are slipping through his fingers like sand. Every answer is more uncertain, more desperate, more wrong.
"What was Sloane's first pet?" Quinn asks him.
"A... a cat? Named... Princess?"
"Fish," I say. "A betta fish named Chanel. She flushed her down the toilet when she died and cried for three hours."
"I didn't—" new Spencer starts, then stops. His brow furrows. "I don't remember that."
"Of course you don't," I say, and my voice is gentle now. Pitying. "Because you're not Sloane. You're Spencer. You've always been Spencer."
"No—"
"What's Sloane's locker combination?"
"I... 14... 32..."
"24, 17, 9," I say. "Spencer, just stop. This is, like, so embarrassing."
He's crying now. Not big, dramatic sobs—just quiet, pathetic tears rolling down his plain, forgettable face.
"But I am Sloane," he whispers. "I was Sloane. I was the queen of Westbrook. I had friends and a life and—"
"You had nothing," I say, and I mean it. "You were nothing. You were a dweeb who lived in Sloane Sinclair's shadow. And now you're still a dweeb who lives in Sloane Sinclair's shadow. The only difference is now you know what it's like to be me." I lean in close. "And you'll never be me again."
The girls look at new Spencer with a mixture of disgust and pity.
"This is, like, so creepy," Quinn whispers to Blair.
"I know," Blair whispers back. "He's, like, obsessed with Sloane or something. Pretending to be her? That's serial killer vibes."
"Should we tell someone?" Harper asks.
"I'll handle it," I say, standing up and smoothing my skirt. "Spencer. Go to your room."
"But—"
"Now." I put every ounce of Sloane's authority into my voice. His authority. Whatever. "You're being weird and creepy and you're ruining girls' night. Go. To. Your. Room."
He stands there for a long moment, chest heaving, fists clenched. I can see the fight in him. The desperate, dying ember of resistance.
Then it goes out.
His shoulders slump. His head drops. He shuffles out of my room, in his clothes, looking exactly like what he is: a dweeb. A nobody. A nothing.
And I close the door behind him and turn back to my girls.
"Now," I say, flipping my hair, "where were we?"
---
The next morning, I take my time getting ready.
I have Sloane's entire routine memorized. Not because I spied on her, but because I am her. The memories are there, crystal clear, alongside my own. Two lives, blended into one. But the Sloane parts are stronger now. More present. More me.
Skincare first. Cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, SPF. Then primer, foundation, concealer. Contour and highlight. Eyeshadow, liner, mascara, lashes. Lips lined, filled, glossed.
I look in the mirror and I'm perfect. Better than Sloane ever looked. Because I appreciate it. Because I know what it's like on the other side.
I pull on a thong—feels amazing between my cheeks—and a matching bra. My school skirt, short and pleated. A tight sweater that shows off my tits. Knee-high socks and platform boots.
I check myself from every angle. Flawless.
"Like, are you still sitting there?" I sigh, turning to Spencer, who's been hovering in my doorway with those sad, hungry eyes. "Don't you have, like, homework or something?"
"Mom says you have to drive me to school," he mumbles.
"Ugh. Fine. But you're sitting in the back. And don't, like, talk to me in front of anyone. I have a reputation."
At school, I walk the halls like I own them. Because I do. Boys stare at my ass in my skirt. Girls compliment my hair, my makeup, my outfit. Teachers smile at my name on the roll call.
And Spencer trails behind me, invisible. Just another face in the crowd. Just another dweeb.
I see him at lunch, sitting alone at the loser table, picking at his food. He catches my eye, and I see it—the desperate, hungry hope. The belief that maybe, maybe, I'll acknowledge him. That I'll give him some sign that we share a secret. That I'm not really his sister, that he's not really my brother, that somewhere underneath all this, we're still connected.
I look away.
He's not my problem anymore.
---
After school, Tyler Mason finds me at my locker.
"Hey, Sloane," he says, leaning against the wall in that casual, effortless way that makes every girl at Westbrook weak. He's tall, muscular, dark-skinned, with a smile that could melt ice. "You looking good today."
"Like, obviously," I say, snapping my locker shut. "I always look good."
He laughs. "True. So... you want to hang out tonight? My parents aren't home."
I look him up and down. Slowly. Deliberately. Making him wait.
"Mmmmh," I say, biting my lip. "Maybe. Pick me up at eight?"
His face lights up. "Yeah! Yeah, for sure. Eight."
"Don't be late," I warn, and I walk away, putting extra sway in my hips. I know he's watching. I always know when someone's watching.
---
Eight o'clock, Tyler's car pulls up. I slide into the passenger seat, my skirt riding up my thighs.
"Hey," he says, eyes roaming over my body.
"Hey yourself." I cross my legs. "Your place, right?"
"Yeah." He pulls out, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for my thigh.
I let him touch me. His fingers are warm against my skin. Big. Calloused. Male.
Everything I'm not anymore. Everything I want.
His house is nice. Big. Empty, like he promised. He leads me to his bedroom, and I take it all in—the football posters, the weights, the masculine mess of it.
"So," he says, sitting on the bed, patting the spot next to him. "Wanna watch a movie or something?"
I don't answer. Instead, I straddle him, pushing him back against the pillows.
"Or," I purr, "we could skip the movie."
His eyes go wide. "Sloane, I—"
"Shh." I press a finger to his lips. "I've been thinking about this all day. About you."
I lean down and kiss him. His lips are soft, warm. He freezes for a second, then melts into it, his hands coming up to grip my waist. I can feel his cock hardening beneath me, pressing against my thigh.
Mmmmmh.
"You're so hot," he breathes between kisses. "God, Sloane, you're so fucking hot."
"I know," I say, rocking my hips against him. The friction sends sparks through my body. My nipples are hard under my sweater, my pussy throbbing against his cock through our clothes. "But why don't you show me how hot you think I am?"
He doesn't need to be told twice.
His hands slide under my sweater, lifting it over my head. I'm wearing my best bra—black lace, push-up, my tits spilling over the cups. He stares at them like they're the eighth wonder of the world.
"Holy shit," he breathes.
"You like?" I reach back and unclasp it, letting it fall away. My tits bounce free—perfect, round, nipples pink and hard.
"Fuck, Sloane—"
He dives in, mouth hot on my nipple, and I moan. It echoes through the room, wanton and shameless. His tongue circles my areola, his teeth graze the sensitive bud, and I arch into him, grinding my hips against his cock.
"Mmmmh, yes," I gasp. "Just like that."
His hands squeeze my ass, pulling me harder against him. I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants me. It makes me wet. Soaking through my thong.
"Tyler," I whine, reaching down to palm his cock through his jeans. "I want this. I want you."
"Fuck, baby, I want you too—" He fumbles with his belt, and I push his hands away, doing it myself. Sloane's memories guide me—all those boys she teased, all those almosts. But this time, I'm not teasing.
This time, I'm taking.
His cock springs free, thick and dark and hard. I wrap my hand around it, stroking slowly, feeling him pulse in my grip.
"Shit," he hisses. "Sloane—"
"Shh." I lean down, letting my tits brush against his chest, my lips at his ear. "Let me make you feel good."
I slide down his body, my tongue tracing a path down his abs, until my face is level with his cock. I look up at him through my lashes and take him into my mouth.
"Fuck—" His hips buck, but I press them down, bobbing my head slowly. I can taste his pre-cum, salty and musky. I swirl my tongue around the head, then take him deeper, until I can feel him at the back of my throat.
"God, Sloane, your mouth is—" He groans, fingers tangling in my hair. "Don't stop, don't stop—"
I don't. I suck him harder, faster, using every trick in Sloane's repertoire. And some of my own. Because I know what feels good. I know what I used to imagine, back when I was Spencer, watching from the shadows.
I pull off with a pop, gasping for air, lips swollen and slick.
"Your turn," I purr, crawling back up his body.
He flips me over, pinning me to the mattress. His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my skirt up, fingers hooking into my thong.
"Wettest pussy I've ever felt," he murmurs against my neck, and I shiver.
"Then do something about it," I challenge.
He does. He tears my thong off—literally tears it, so fucking hot—and slides two fingers inside me. I gasp at the intrusion, then moan as he curls them, hitting that spot just right.
"Oh my god," I writhe. "Tyler, please—"
"Please what?" He smirks, adding a third finger.
"Please fuck me."
He doesn't hesitate. He positions himself between my legs, cock nudging at my entrance. "You sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
He pushes in, and I feel it. Every inch. The stretch, the fullness, the pleasure-pain of being filled for the first time. My back arches off the bed, my nails dig into his shoulders, my mouth opens in a silent scream.
"Shit, you're tight—" he groans.
"Shut up and move."
He does. He pulls out, then slams back in, setting a rhythm that makes my tits bounce and my head spin. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting each thrust with my hips.
"Yes, yes, yes—" I chant, voice rising with each stroke. "Harder, fuck me harder—"
He obliges. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, along with my moans and his grunts. I can feel my orgasm building, that tight coil in my belly getting ready to snap.
"Tyler, I'm gonna—" I gasp. "I'm—"
"Do it," he growls, thumb finding my clit. "Come for me, Sloane."
And I do. I come so hard I see stars, my pussy clenching around his cock, my whole body shaking. He follows a second later, spilling inside me, hot and thick.
We lay there afterward, panting, sweaty, satisfied. I can feel his cum dripping out of me, pooling on the sheets. It's filthy and perfect and mine.
"That was..." he starts.
"Amazing," I finish, smiling up at him. "Round two in ten?"
He laughs, shaking his head. "You're insatiable."
I shrug, tracing patterns on his chest. "I know what I want."
And I do. For the first time in my life, I know exactly what I want.
I want this. Being Sloane. Being desired. Being powerful. Being me.
---
When I get home, Spencer is waiting in the living room. Sitting in the dark. Looking pathetic.
I turn on the light and he flinches. He's been crying, I can tell. His eyes are red, his face is blotchy. He's wearing those same stupid cargo shorts and that same stupid anime shirt.
He looks exactly like what he is: a nobody.
"Well?" he asks, voice small. "Did you... did you and Tyler..."
I smile, slow and satisfied. "Did we what, Spencer? Use your words."
"Did you have sex with him?"
"Yes." I kick off my boots, stretch my perfect body. "Multiple times, actually. And it was incredible." I walk closer, looking down at him—down, because I'm taller now, I'm everything now. "He fucked me so good, Spencer. He made me come over and over. And you know what I thought about the whole time?"
He shakes his head, eyes wide.
"I thought about how grateful I am. That I'm not you anymore. That I'm not a pathetic, invisible dweeb." I lean down, lips at his ear. "I thought about how good it feels to be Sloane Sinclair. And how bad it must feel to be you."
He flinches. I straighten up, laughing.
"Don't wait up for me tomorrow," I say, heading for the stairs. "Tyler wants to take me to the city. We might stay overnight."
"Sloane, please—" He reaches for my arm.
I look at his hand on my skin. Then at him.
"Touch me again, Spencer," I say quietly, "and I'll tell everyone at school you're obsessed with me. That you tried to grab me. That you're a creepy little pervert who can't keep his hands off his own sister." I pause. "Who do you think they'll believe? Sloane Sinclair? Or the dweeb who claims he used to be a girl?"
He pulls his hand back like he's been burned.
"That's what I thought." I head upstairs. "Night, brother."
---
Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months.
I settle into Sloane's life like I was born for it—because I was. Homecoming queen. Top of the social hierarchy. Every boy wanting me, every girl wanting to be me. It's everything I ever dreamed of and more.
And Spencer? Spencer fades. Not physically—he's still there, still shuffling through the halls, still sitting alone at the loser table. But the fight goes out of him. Slowly, then all at once.
I catch him watching me sometimes. In the hallway. At lunch. Across the dinner table. Not with hatred. Not with resentment.
With longing.
He wants what I have. He wants me. Not in a romantic way—in a desperate, achy, I-used-to-be-you way. He wants his life back. His body. His identity.
But he's never going to get it.
I'm at my locker one day, swapping out books, when I feel someone hovering nearby. I turn, and there's Spencer, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack.
"What?" I ask, not unkindly. Not kindly either. Just... neutral.
"I, um." He swallows. "I need help with my history essay. And I figured, you're smart, so—"
"Who told you I was smart?"
"Your—I mean, your grades. They're, um. Good."
I study him for a moment. He's so pathetic. So small. So utterly defeated.
And something stirs in me. Not pity, exactly. Not sympathy. Something more like... satisfaction. The knowledge that I've won. Completely. Utterly. Irrevocably.
"Fine," I say. "My room. After school. Don't be late."
His face lights up. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret it." I slam my locker shut. "And bring snacks. I like Doritos."
He nods eagerly, scurrying off, and I watch him go with a small smile.
Good. He's learning his place.
---
After school, he's sitting on my bed, textbooks spread around him, Doritos on the nightstand. I'm at my vanity, removing my makeup, and he's watching me with that hungry, desperate look I know so well.
"You're doing it again," I say without turning around.
"Doing what?"
"Staring." I meet his eyes in the mirror. "You're always staring at me, Spencer. It's, like, super creepy."
"Sorry." He looks down at his textbook. "I just... I can't help it. I remember what it was like. Being you."
"You were never me." I turn around, crossing my legs. "You were Spencer. You just... borrowed my face for a night. That's all."
"That's not—" He stops himself. He's learned not to argue. Not to protest. It never goes well for him.
"Come here," I say, and I don't know why. Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I'm curious. Maybe I just want to see what he'll do.
He stands and walks over, stopping in front of me. He's taller than me now—he's taller than me, which is the most surreal thing about all of this—but I'm still the one with all the power.
"Kneel."
He does. Immediately. Without hesitation.
Interesting.
"You know," I say, reaching out and tilting his chin up, "I used to watch you. Back when I was—back when I was Spencer. I used to watch Sloane and think, I want that. I want to be her so badly."
His eyes widen. "You... you remember?"
"I remember everything." I let go of his chin. "Both lives. Both sets of memories. I remember being invisible. I remember wanting. And I remember getting exactly what I wanted." I lean forward. "Do you know what that's like? To want something so badly it consumes you, and then to get it?"
"I..." His voice is barely a whisper. "I think so. Yes."
"Good." I lean back. "Then you understand why I'm never giving it back."
"I know," he says quietly. "I... I've stopped asking."
"Have you?"
He nods. "I've accepted it. This is who I am now. Spencer. The dweeb. The nobody."
"And who am I?"
"Sloane." No hesitation. "Sloane Sinclair. The queen of Westbrook."
"Mmmmh." I smile. "Good boy."
He flushes at the praise. Actually flushes.
Oh, this is fun.
"You know," I say, standing up and stretching, "I could use someone. Someone to run errands. Fetch things. Do my homework. The boring stuff."
His eyes light up. "I could do that."
"I know you could." I turn around, examining myself in the mirror. "The question is, do you want to?"
"Yes." The word comes out fast. Desperate. "Yes. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Sloane."
I turn back to him, looking down at his kneeling form. He's so pathetic. So eager. So completely and utterly mine.
"Okay," I say. "But you have to follow my rules. Rule one: you do what I say, when I say it. No questions. No complaints. Rule two: you don't talk to me at school unless I talk to you first. I have a reputation. Rule three: you never, ever tell anyone what happened. About the game. About who I used to be. As far as anyone knows, I've always been Sloane Sinclair. And you've always been my dweeb brother. Got it?"
"I got it."
"Say it."
"I've always been your dweeb brother. And you've always been Sloane Sinclair."
"Good boy." I pat his head like he's a dog. "Now get out. I have a date with Tyler."
He stands, gathering his things, and I can see it in his face. The longing. The jealousy. The desperate, achy need.
But also something else. Something new.
Devotion.
He's not just accepting his place anymore. He's embracing it. He's becoming what I always was, back when I was Spencer—the person who watches from the shadows, who wants and wants and never gets.
Except I got out. I got everything I ever wanted.
And he's left with nothing but me.
"Hey, Spencer," I call as he reaches the door.
He turns. "Yeah?"
"Bring me coffee tomorrow morning. Iced vanilla latte, oat milk, extra shot."
A small smile. The first I've seen from him in weeks. "Yes, Sloane."
He leaves, and I turn back to my mirror, examining my perfect face, my perfect body, my perfect life.
I am Sloane Sinclair. I am the queen of Westbrook High. I am untouchable, undeniable, unstoppable.
And Spencer? Spencer is my loyal, devoted, pathetic little simp.
Just the way I like it.
Just the way it's always going to be.
Forever.
