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Bertha smirked, tapping her fingers against the console as an idea struck her. Nicolle was a *powerhouse* now, a sales shark who carved up men’s wallets with a flick of her wrist. But what if she… wasn’t?
What if all that drive, all that cunning, all that *hunger* for success had been stifled before it ever had a chance to take root?
A slow, wicked grin spread across Bertha’s face.
She typed quickly, fingers dancing over the outdated keyboard. *Nicolle Taylor fundamentally believes a woman’s place is in the home.*
She hit *execute*.
The chamber shimmered, reality groaning as the world around Nicolle struggled to *accommodate* the contradiction. She had been a ruthless, high-powered real estate queen. She had been a woman who could sell a mansion with a knowing smirk and a sharp-edged laugh. But that kind of woman—the woman who commanded boardrooms and negotiated million-dollar deals—could *never* have truly believed that her only purpose in life was to be a dutiful wife and homemaker.
Something had to give.
And so, it did.
Nicolle stiffened, eyes fluttering shut as a wave passed over her. The air around her *twisted*, rippling outward in invisible, insistent waves. Bertha’s console *flickered*—the data on the screen shifting, her past being rewritten before her very eyes.
Her tailored white blazer vanished, swallowed by a soft, floral-print house dress that skimmed her now even *slimmer* frame. It cinched sweetly at the waist, demure but feminine, with short sleeves and a modest neckline—practical, classic, unmistakably *domestic*. Her sleek nude pumps softened into a pair of pastel ballet flats, perfect for running errands, chasing after children, or standing in the kitchen for hours.
The gold cuffs on her wrists *disappeared*, swallowed by something simpler—her wedding ring gleamed just a little *brighter*, a symbol of the only deal she had ever made that mattered.
Her nails, once precisely manicured, lost their high-maintenance perfection. They were shorter now, neatly trimmed and bare—*a mother’s hands*, ones that scrubbed dishes and folded laundry rather than signing multimillion-dollar contracts.
Her bronzed, sun-kissed glow softened into something different. Still beautiful, still healthy, but the calculated polish of a woman who had the time and money for luxury spa treatments was *gone*. This was the tan of someone who spent her afternoons gardening, chatting with neighbors, taking her children to the park—*not* one carefully maintained between pilates and power lunches.
And *oh*, the phone in her hands. Bertha’s eyes flicked to it, watching as Nicolle’s gleaming, top-of-the-line business phone *shrunk*, shifting into something smaller, simpler. No longer the sleek, oversized model of a corporate professional, but a device with a floral case and a lock screen that now displayed *her family*. A smiling husband. Children clinging to her arms.
Reality *rumbled*.
Her *job* was gone.
There had never been an ambitious, cutthroat real estate shark. There had never been a Nicolle who preyed on desperate divorcés, never been a Nicolle who wore blazers with nothing underneath, who walked into a room and *owned* it.
Instead, there had always been *this* Nicolle—a woman who *could* have been all of that, had she ever *wanted* it. But she never did. Because she had never believed she *should*.
She had been raised to believe that a woman's highest calling was to be a wife and mother. And so, she had *never* entertained the idea of a career. She had *never* chased ambition, *never* imagined herself in an office, *never* considered success outside of her home.
The world around them blurred for a fraction of a second, history *reordering itself* to make room for the shift.
Dennis gasped.
“W-what the hell just happened?” His voice cracked, his eyes darting between Bertha and his wife—who stood, perfectly composed, hands neatly folded in front of her.
Bertha stretched, tilting her head as she examined Nicolle’s new profile. *41 years old. Homemaker. Married to Dennis for 22 years. Mother of four.*
Four.
Dennis’ hands trembled as he looked at her, and Bertha knew *exactly* what was going through his head.
Judy was *gone*.
Their single teenage daughter—their *only* child—no longer existed. Instead of Judy, she had birthed four children, all younger than the teenager she had once known. Their house was no longer one of a dual-income, upper-middle-class couple, but of a traditional family where Dennis worked long hours and Nicolle managed the home.
And Nicolle?
She blinked, adjusting her dress, smiling sweetly at her husband. “Dennis, honey, you look pale. Do you need to sit down?”
Her voice was *different*. Still warm, still bright, but… softer. More deferential. Less sharp.
Dennis staggered back a step, staring at her like she was a stranger. He turned to Bertha, panic flaring in his eyes. “Make her who she was before we showed up. *Fix her*.”
Bertha only smiled, propping her chin on one hand. “Fix *what*, Dennis? She’s happy. She has *always* been this way.”
Dennis looked at his wife—at her neat dress, her soft smile, her patient, loving expression.
What if all that drive, all that cunning, all that *hunger* for success had been stifled before it ever had a chance to take root?
A slow, wicked grin spread across Bertha’s face.
She typed quickly, fingers dancing over the outdated keyboard. *Nicolle Taylor fundamentally believes a woman’s place is in the home.*
She hit *execute*.
The chamber shimmered, reality groaning as the world around Nicolle struggled to *accommodate* the contradiction. She had been a ruthless, high-powered real estate queen. She had been a woman who could sell a mansion with a knowing smirk and a sharp-edged laugh. But that kind of woman—the woman who commanded boardrooms and negotiated million-dollar deals—could *never* have truly believed that her only purpose in life was to be a dutiful wife and homemaker.
Something had to give.
And so, it did.
Nicolle stiffened, eyes fluttering shut as a wave passed over her. The air around her *twisted*, rippling outward in invisible, insistent waves. Bertha’s console *flickered*—the data on the screen shifting, her past being rewritten before her very eyes.
Her tailored white blazer vanished, swallowed by a soft, floral-print house dress that skimmed her now even *slimmer* frame. It cinched sweetly at the waist, demure but feminine, with short sleeves and a modest neckline—practical, classic, unmistakably *domestic*. Her sleek nude pumps softened into a pair of pastel ballet flats, perfect for running errands, chasing after children, or standing in the kitchen for hours.
The gold cuffs on her wrists *disappeared*, swallowed by something simpler—her wedding ring gleamed just a little *brighter*, a symbol of the only deal she had ever made that mattered.
Her nails, once precisely manicured, lost their high-maintenance perfection. They were shorter now, neatly trimmed and bare—*a mother’s hands*, ones that scrubbed dishes and folded laundry rather than signing multimillion-dollar contracts.
Her bronzed, sun-kissed glow softened into something different. Still beautiful, still healthy, but the calculated polish of a woman who had the time and money for luxury spa treatments was *gone*. This was the tan of someone who spent her afternoons gardening, chatting with neighbors, taking her children to the park—*not* one carefully maintained between pilates and power lunches.
And *oh*, the phone in her hands. Bertha’s eyes flicked to it, watching as Nicolle’s gleaming, top-of-the-line business phone *shrunk*, shifting into something smaller, simpler. No longer the sleek, oversized model of a corporate professional, but a device with a floral case and a lock screen that now displayed *her family*. A smiling husband. Children clinging to her arms.
Reality *rumbled*.
Her *job* was gone.
There had never been an ambitious, cutthroat real estate shark. There had never been a Nicolle who preyed on desperate divorcés, never been a Nicolle who wore blazers with nothing underneath, who walked into a room and *owned* it.
Instead, there had always been *this* Nicolle—a woman who *could* have been all of that, had she ever *wanted* it. But she never did. Because she had never believed she *should*.
She had been raised to believe that a woman's highest calling was to be a wife and mother. And so, she had *never* entertained the idea of a career. She had *never* chased ambition, *never* imagined herself in an office, *never* considered success outside of her home.
The world around them blurred for a fraction of a second, history *reordering itself* to make room for the shift.
Dennis gasped.
“W-what the hell just happened?” His voice cracked, his eyes darting between Bertha and his wife—who stood, perfectly composed, hands neatly folded in front of her.
Bertha stretched, tilting her head as she examined Nicolle’s new profile. *41 years old. Homemaker. Married to Dennis for 22 years. Mother of four.*
Four.
Dennis’ hands trembled as he looked at her, and Bertha knew *exactly* what was going through his head.
Judy was *gone*.
Their single teenage daughter—their *only* child—no longer existed. Instead of Judy, she had birthed four children, all younger than the teenager she had once known. Their house was no longer one of a dual-income, upper-middle-class couple, but of a traditional family where Dennis worked long hours and Nicolle managed the home.
And Nicolle?
She blinked, adjusting her dress, smiling sweetly at her husband. “Dennis, honey, you look pale. Do you need to sit down?”
Her voice was *different*. Still warm, still bright, but… softer. More deferential. Less sharp.
Dennis staggered back a step, staring at her like she was a stranger. He turned to Bertha, panic flaring in his eyes. “Make her who she was before we showed up. *Fix her*.”
Bertha only smiled, propping her chin on one hand. “Fix *what*, Dennis? She’s happy. She has *always* been this way.”
Dennis looked at his wife—at her neat dress, her soft smile, her patient, loving expression.
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