Our TG Caption

Kylie Beach stepped out of the elevator onto the 44th floor of the Monahan Equity building with the confidence of someone who had exposed three CEOs, two corrupt city planners, and one fraudulent wellness influencer. She wore navy slacks, a structured white blouse, and a bag that screamed function over fashion. Her recorder was in one hand, her notes in the other.

The reception area was silent, sterile, and beige. Kylie blinked. There were five women at the reception desk, each impossibly well-groomed. Bouffants, winged eyeliner, powder-blue skirt suits, dainty heels clicking softly on the tile. They looked like hostesses at a 1961 Pan Am lounge. They all smiled at her.

"Miss Beach? They’re expecting you," one cooed, her voice smooth and breathy.

Kylie hesitated. "Right. Thank you."

The receptionist gestured toward a double door at the end of the hall. Kylie started walking. As she moved past the rows of desks, she saw dozens more women. Secretaries, typists, assistants—nearly seventy, by her last count from the article brief. All feminine. All perfect. All in variations of retro outfits, sitting behind typewriters or phones with little rotary dials or modern screens designed to look old.

It was an absurd visual joke, a thematic anachronism. But they were real. She saw one secretary powdering her nose, another adjusting her garter with a modest little smile. She kept walking.

The door to the executive suite opened without a creak.

Six men sat inside. All were white, mid-40s to late-50s, suits in charcoal and navy, hands smooth and well-fed. They smiled.

"Miss Beach," one of them said. "We’re thrilled you could make it."

She shook hands, firm and quick, and sat.

"Let’s talk about the structure of your firm," she began, clicking on her recorder. "A lot of critics have noted your staffing is... unusual. Nearly all women, all in support roles. What led you to this model?"

"Efficiency," said one. "Elegance," said another. "Order," said a third.

The air in the room thickened. Kylie frowned. She blinked, then again. Her breath hitched.

Something tickled at the edge of her perception. Not thought. Not sound. But adjustment.

Reality stirred.

It noticed her.

And decided she didn’t belong as she was.

She exhaled, blinked, and suddenly—her blouse was a soft pink, not white. Her notes felt... odd. She looked down. Her pen had changed. It was now a pearl-handled stylus, delicate. Her recorder was gone. In its place was a compact mirror.

She sat straighter. No. Wait. Her posture changed again, unbidden. Shoulders back. Chest forward. Legs crossed at the ankles. She didn't sit like this. Her mind stuttered.

The men kept talking. Numbers, returns, something about a new seed round.

Reality worked carefully. Her undergarments were no longer cotton. They were lace. She felt the garter against her thighs. She blinked. Her hair fell longer than before, curling inward like a pageant queen. Bangs appeared.

Her voice caught in her throat.

"Excuse me," she said. But it came out higher, lighter, with a lilt. The voice of someone eager to please.

She looked at the men. They were smiling.

One of them nodded. "Everything okay, Miss... Beach?"

Her lips twitched. Her name felt odd. Kylie. Was that right?

She remembered college. Or thought she did. Journalism school. Or maybe it was secretary school. No, that couldn’t be right. She tried to chase the thought, but it fell apart like tissue.

Her body shifted again.

Waist, narrower.

Hips, rounder.

Her hands grew dainty, nails long, polished in pale pink. Her blouse shimmered and became a silky bow-tied confection. Her slacks receded up her thighs, unraveling into a pencil skirt that tightened with a retro snap.

She sat in heels. When had she changed shoes?

"You were saying something?" one of the men asked.

She smiled automatically. "Oh, I’m sorry, I lost my train of thought! Silly me."

Her eyes widened. That wasn’t her voice. That wasn’t what she’d meant to say. But it was pleasant. Soothing. Decorative.

Reality whispered.

Her college degree was gone. In its place was a six-month course in stenography. Her award-winning exposé on wage theft replaced by a proud moment of organizing color-coded filing cabinets.

Outside, her editor blinked at an empty desk that had always been empty. Kylie had never worked there.

Her parents now remembered a different child. A sweet girl, not too bright, always cheerful. She didn’t ask many questions.

Kylie crossed her legs, smoothing her skirt.

"Would you be a dear and fetch us some coffee?" one man asked.

"Of course, Mr. Hawthorne!" she beamed.

She stood up.

As she walked out, her ID badge jiggled against her blouse. It read "Kylie Beach, Executive Secretary." She passed the mirror. Her reflection smiled: softly curled hair, false lashes, delicate smile, and a cleavage-accentuating blouse tucked neatly into her skirt.

She walked with a sway she hadn’t practiced but had always known.

The receptionist waved at her as she passed. "Don’t forget Mr. Elwood likes his with two sugars, hon."

"I’ll remember!" Kylie chirped.

The break room was sunny, trimmed in pastels. Kylie filled a tray with mugs. Her lipstick was fresh. She adjusted her bow.

Reality sighed with delight. It had tweaked her just so.

A perfect secretary.

She would never know anything else.

But then Reality paused. Tilted its head. No, it decided. Not quite done. Not yet.

As Kylie balanced the coffee tray in her manicured hands and stepped back into the executive suite, she gave a bright smile and placed the mugs gently on the polished table. Mr. Elwood winked. Mr. Hawthorne murmured a compliment on her blouse. She giggled—giggled!—and said thank you with a bashful little smile.

Back at her desk, she sat with mechanical grace. Her screen showed open calendar slots and a cheerful email from another secretary about the upcoming "Lavender Luncheon."

Something in the air buzzed.

Her eyes fluttered. Her posture shifted again.

Reality resumed its work.

First, it tinted her world. Her desktop background turned purple. Her pens, notepads, and folders turned lavender and lilac. Her earrings were now tiny amethysts. Her lipstick? Violet gloss. Her keyboard keys shimmered with pastel violet lettering.

Then it went deeper.

Her preferences shuffled. Purple—yes, she adored purple! Why hadn’t she brought more of it into her wardrobe?

Her skirt darkened to plum. Her blouse took on a shimmering orchid tone. Her bowtie became oversized, more decorative. She gasped happily at the change, even as her eyes took on a slight shimmer, as if she were just always on the verge of delighted surprise.

Reality smirked. She needed to be just a little nerdier.

Her screensaver changed again: cute cartoon cats with glasses. Her desktop icons were arranged into obsessive little grids. She wore thick purple-framed glasses now, which she pushed up the bridge of her nose without thinking. Her fingers tapped excitedly on her lilac mechanical keyboard.

A comic book peeked out of her oversized purple tote—"Glitter Force: Office Girls Unite!"—and she saw nothing odd about having it tucked between her shorthand guide and lipstick case.

Her speech changed next. Bubbly. Effusive. Slightly too loud. Sentences ended with little question-like upticks?

She filed a calendar request and hummed as she did it.

But Reality wasn’t quite satisfied. Not yet.

Fashion. Yes. Kylie needed to be more of a fashionista. She now subscribed to five style blogs. She posted mirror selfies daily. Her Instagram (@kylie_buttonbabe) had ten thousand followers who adored her color-coordinated outfits.

Her shoes became lavender kitten heels. Her bowtie got puffier. Her eyelashes extended further. A lavender scrunchie appeared on her wrist.

And her thoughts? Slower. Softer. Still bright, but now preoccupied with shoes, lipstick shades, what Mr. Hawthorne might be wearing tomorrow (did he match his tie to her skirt on purpose?), and if her manicure should be more glittery next time.

A final adjustment.

Her laugh changed. It now tinkled. Perfect.

Reality admired its work.

At that moment, Kylie looked up as one of the executives passed. "Hi, Mr. Brantley! I just emailed your itinerary! And oh my gosh, that tie is super cute today!"

He smiled. "Thank you, Kylie. You’re always on top of it."

She beamed.

Reality receded. For now.

Kylie twirled a lock of curled hair around her purple-painted finger and sighed happily. Her next task was color-coding the lunch spreadsheets.

She loved her job.

And she loved purple.

She looked into the little mirror mounted beside her desk—like every other secretary had—and admired her reflection. Her smile gleamed. Her hair shimmered. Everything was just right.

Everything was perfect.