The room was the complete opposite of the noisy club. It was quiet, luxurious, and slightly ominous. Abstract paintings hung on the walls, and the furniture, made of expensive wood and leather, looked austere and impeccable. Donaldson, glancing around, couldn’t help but recall the times he had been in similar offices, back when he was still himself—a powerful and dangerous man. He remembered those rare meetings with big shots, where every object in the room seemed to scream of the owner’s power and ruthlessness.
Behind an enormous desk sat a man with slicked-back silver hair. He slowly raised his eyes to Donaldson, and his piercing gaze, a mix of calmness and severity, seemed to drill into every detail of his new body. Donaldson felt those eyes linger on the tight top that emphasized his chest, the fishnet stockings clinging to his legs, and the short skirt revealing more than he would have liked. The man’s gaze wasn’t just evaluative—it was like a cold scanner seeing far more than Donaldson wanted to show.
He swallowed hard, feeling irritation mix with humiliation. His attempt to muster a confident expression failed because everything around him seemed to remind him: his new body was all people saw now. "Damn it, he’s undressing me with his eyes," flashed through his mind, making him clench his fists involuntarily.
— Lexie... — the man drawled, tilting his head to the side. His voice was low, with a metallic undertone that seemed sharp enough to slice through the air. — Good to see you again. Although... — he squinted, studying Donaldson closely, — you look... different. Changed.
— Uh... yeah, — Donaldson muttered, trying not to reveal his unease. His voice now sounded unnervingly high-pitched. "Damn it to hell, why am I so scared? I’m a former soldier, for God’s sake, and I’ve stared death in the face more times than I can count!" he roared internally, standing up straighter. His chest, now heavier than ever, caused him to wobble slightly, but he managed to keep his balance. A wicked grin spread across his face—the same one that used to make enemies freeze and allies tread carefully around him.
The boss, noticing this, merely smirked, watching with amused interest. His gaze practically sparkled with mockery.
— Do you have something to say, Lexie? — he asked, tilting his head with exaggerated politeness.
Donaldson stepped closer, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the painful creak of his heels and the way his breasts pressed together, making them even more prominent, and said coldly:
— Listen up. My name is Donaldson, and you need to know that. I don’t know what kind of ideas you’ve got about yourself, but I’m here temporarily. Got it? Tem-po-ra-ri-ly. Just for four weeks. So stop playing this circus act.
— First off, call me “Mr. Smith,” sweetheart, — he said with a predatory smile that radiated unhidden superiority. — Or better yet, “Daddy,” like you used to, Lexie.
Donaldson felt his face flush with anger. "Daddy? This guy dares to talk to me like that?!" His fists clenched, and he was about to fire back sharply but stopped, realizing that in his current situation, even the smallest misstep could make things worse.
— Listen, "Daddy", or whatever the hell you want to be called, — he spat, struggling to maintain a shred of composure. — If you ever talk to me like that again, — Donaldson growled, barely holding back his rage, — I’ll tear this place apart brick by brick when this damn mess is over. You have no idea what I’m capable of. So—
Smith slammed his hand down on the desk so hard the room seemed to shudder. He rose abruptly, his face contorted with cold fury, and in a flash, he was standing right next to Donaldson.
— I’m not enjoying this little performance, Lexie, — he snarled, leaning in so close their faces were only inches apart. His breath was hot against Donaldson’s skin. Instinctively, Donaldson stepped back but didn’t have time to straighten before Smith grabbed his thigh roughly. Fingers dug into the flesh through the thin fabric of the skirt, and Donaldson tensed up in surprise, his heart pounding wildly as his thoughts spiraled into chaotic disbelief. "What the hell is happening?!"
Smith continued to scrutinize Donaldson like a rare exhibit at a museum. His cold gaze examined every detail: the jawline, the shape of the eyes, the curves of the body. Finally, he let go, leaving a red mark on Donaldson’s thigh where his fingers had gripped.
— You know, I must admit, — he began, stepping back to take in Donaldson from head to toe again, — Pavel really is a damn genius. You look almost exactly like her. — He chuckled softly, as if savoring his own joke. — But still... this face—it’s different. Slight differences, barely noticeable, but I see them. Pavel may be a genius, but copying someone perfectly? That’s still beyond his reach.