The crowd roared and cameras flashed as the models strutted down the glittering runway, their bodies wrapped in delicate lace and sheer fabric, legs laced high in strappy heels, every movement dripping with confidence and seduction. I stood frozen in shock, unable to process what I was seeing as my husband appeared on stage with the others, prancing around in frilly outfits like he had been doing it all his life. We had been desperate for money, drowning in debt, both stuck in part-time jobs that barely covered our rent, and with my biological clock ticking I had been pressuring for a child we could barely afford. It was my idea to put his name forward for the womanless beauty pageant, and though he hesitated, the promise of money was too good to ignore. Even participation paid enough to give us breathing room, while winning would make us rich beyond our wildest dreams. Three months later this was the first time I saw him since the transformation began, and there he was, with long black hair, giving flying kisses to the male judges with a smile that looked far too natural. The clumsy man who once struggled to walk in sneakers now moved like a flawless supermodel, hips swaying, lips parted, every step in towering heels practiced to perfection. I didn’t even know if my husband was still in there anymore. All I could see was a runway goddess owning the stage, and the worst part was I no longer cared about the prize money. I just wanted my husband back.
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