I collect Hazel from the Berlin clinic and drive her to the train station. The vocal and behavioral coaches dad paid a fortune for were worth every penny. She is a total sweetheart - funny, feminine, dare I say even a little flirtatious, though I concede her outward appearance biases me. We hit it off immediately. Though she speaks very little of her own ‘life’, she expresses a sincere fascination with mine, her dark eyes watching attentively as I speak at length about my studies abroad, paid for by my father. There was something so entrancing about those eyes. Before I knew it, I'm opening up to her, telling her about personal, private aspects of my life I’ve never told anyone else.

“You’re so lucky to have such a supportive father,” she says. There was no sly wink, no hint of underlying meaning, though the comment was enough to shock me out of the daze our conversation had caused me to slip into. For a moment there, I’d forgotten who I was truly talking to. For all the world I had been speaking to a gorgeous girl my own age.

I'll have to stay on my toes this vacation. I can almost see myself falling for this girl.

Like a girl who’s been sheltered all her life, she has an adorably naive air to her, showing surprised wonder at such basic things as using the ticket machine, and delighting in the stale sandwiches and packet of crisps served up by the station cafe. For all her assurances at being dirt poor, the girl has the refined palette of a man raised on truffles and caviar, treating ‘normal people food’ like a bizarre exotic delicacy.

She chatters excitedly about the vacation ahead. Two weeks on the snowy slopes. No work, no worries, no security. Just what she always wanted.

“That’s our train.”

“Could you help me carry my equipment?” she asks.

With a gentlemanly swagger that she seems to find endearing, I hook her skiis and pink carry-on suitcase under one arm with my own and follow her as she skips onto the train, trying not to notice the generosity with which the surgeons sculpted her firm, buoyant buttocks. Trying not to think how great that thing will look squeezed into a ski suit. The intent had been to create a cover identity that wouldn't draw attention, but as the raven haired beauty hops up the step onto the train, her backside sashaying with a mesmerizing sway, I can’t help but think they utterly failed.

I flip my shades down so he… she won’t see me looking, and lift our luggage into the overhead compartment. She watches me quietly, in awe at the ease with which I handle the real world without half a dozen servants to help.

As I slip into the seat across from her, I notice the magazines on the table between us, recognising the stern, grizzled face of the world’s most powerful oil magnate.

“Somebody you know?” she asks with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Actually it's my father,” I reply.

“A wealthy man?”

“The wealthiest," I reply, enjoying this little pantomime between us as she plays her role. “But money can't buy you happiness. He always dreamed of seeing the world. But a man as wealthy as that has enemies.”

“Oh, how tragic,” she giggles. “I’m sure a man like that would be willing to pay any price for a chance at freedom, even to just to spend a few weeks on holiday with her son.”

"Certainly a million or two," I chuckle back.

"Worth every penny I'm sure," she smirks, glancing at her elegant body. "Perhaps he parted with something even more precious than money," she titters, demurely crossing one leg over the other, no organ between her legs getting in the way. That is floating in a vat back in Berlin.

As we share the private joke, a man steps into the carriage. Thick-set, dark clothes. Her demeanor immediately stiffens, the teasing roleplay between us ending abruptly. She watches the man like a hawk, or perhaps like a trembling mouse watching a hawk. The man flicks open a newspaper and begins to read, paying us no mind.

I’d always seen my father as a brooding billionaire, a gnarled gargoyle glowering down from his penthouse at the peasants below. But seeing Hazel so afraid, I can't see her that way. She's more like a beautiful bird trapped in a gilded cage.

He falls back into the persona that he’d briefly allowed to slip, no longer playing around. Once again I'm speaking to nothing more than my female friend from college. He seems to find security in the false persona, wearing it like wrapping himself in a comfort blanket, though it’s a while before he takes his eyes off the man. His fear is understandable. He's taking a calculated risk coming on this trip. He’s survived multiple assassination attempts by his competitors over his long life. It doesn't bear thinking what they’d do to him if they caught him like this, castrated and feminized into a beautiful young woman. He would have served himself up to them on a silver platter, likely smuggled away into some corporate black site, his two week sojourn extended forever as they extracted his corporate secrets and drained his offshore accounts, no doubt having fun with him in the process. By design, he had no identity in this body, and nobody would miss an undocumented girl vanished in europe.

Hazel’s hand is shaking. I reach across to take it in mine, giving it a squeeze of reassurance. “So… back to our vacation. Where do you want me to take you after Switzerland?”

Her nervous eyes flit back to mine. The tightness in her shoulders relaxes and she lets out a held breath. A coy smile overcomes her look of worry.

“After Switzerland, you can take me wherever you want, baby.”