Chapter One

The woman’s hazel eyes narrowed, scanning the latest report with a fiery look that could carve through steel. At twenty-eight, Rebecca Horton held the title of Chief Product Officer at Sunset Marketing, the youngest executive to ever climb the company’s polished ladder. Grit, relentless work, and a few well-timed opportunities—some would whisper ruthless maneuvers—had propelled her to this glass-walled office, perched high above the city’s ambiance. She leaned back in her leather chair, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the desk as she stared at the anomaly on the page before her. Boredom had already crept into her workday like an unwelcome guest, and it was time to scold somebody.

“Lisa,” she pressed a button and spoke through her intercom. “Bring Sarah in here, now.”

The CPO’s secretary’s muffled acknowledgment came through the receiver, and moments later, Rebecca’s office door opened. Sarah, a timid twenty-one-year-old with wide eyes and trembling hands, teetered inside, her modest heels stepping across the carpet. Rebecca smiled faintly, relishing the nervous energy radiating from her underling. She loved the game, the thrill of holding power over those who stumbled in her presence, and longed to impress her.

“Do you know why you’re here, Sarah?” Rebecca’s voice was soft, almost inviting, as she leaned forward, her chin resting on her manicured hand, her eyes glinting with controlled menace.

Sarah’s fingers twisted together as she stood awkwardly before her boss’s desk, her gaze flickering to the floor. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, quivering under the weight of the CPO’s stare.

The smile on Rebecca’s lips grew like a predator savoring the moment before the pounce. “Then enlighten me, Sarah. Why have I summoned you to my office today?”

The younger woman swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing. She parted her lips to speak, but nothing came out on the first attempt. Eventually, she managed a whisper. “I sent the Forester polaroids to print without your permission, ma’am,” she admitted, her words stumbling out, each syllable laced with dread.

Rebecca nodded, her expression softening as if the confession was a minor oversight, her fingers tracing the edge of her desk. Then, in a twist of fate, her voice turned sharp, cutting through the air like a snapping whip. “Exactly. You thought you could bypass me, didn’t you? Who the hell do you think you are?” Her sharp voice made Rebecca tremble in fear. This was the first time she’d been reprimanded by the executive, but she had heard the stories. “Do you have any idea how incompetent that makes you look? Rule number one, Sarah, is that nothing goes to print without my explicit approval. That pathetic excuse for a campaign you sent? It’s a disgrace and an insult to our high standards. I should fire you on the spot for such a blatant display of stupidity.”

Sarah flinched at the threat, her eyes wide, but the CPO pressed on, her words dripping with venom. “You have until 9am tomorrow morning to fix this disaster. If it’s not corrected by then, you’ll be out the door, begging for a job at the strip club down the street. Now get out of my sight before I fire you right now!”

The junior employee’s shoulders slumped, her face burning with shame as she turned. She hurried out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Rebecca exhaled slowly, her pulse easing as the rush of dominance faded into the familiar void of her workday. Her gaze drifted to the city skyline beyond the glass walls. The thrill of reprimanding the young woman had been fleeting, a spark that fizzled too quickly, leaving the executive restless once more.

At twenty-eight, she was a titan and a rising star in the marketing world, her rise fueled by cunning and shameless politics. The previous occupant of this office had fallen to one of Rebecca’s tricks, and she still holds the man’s nameplate in her glass cabinet as a trophy. Yet, for all her victories, the monotony of Rebecca’s role gnawed at her, a relentless itch she couldn’t smooth. She thrived on control, on manipulating others to her will. Still, the corporate game had grown predictable, and she found its challenges too easy to conquer. She was bored with this game.

Rebecca’s appearance matched her reputation, a vision of controlled allure. A sharp, chin-length bob of dark brown hair framed her angular face, each strand falling perfectly from multiple hours at the boutique down the road, and her style highlighted her piercing hazel eyes, which seemed to unravel anyone who dared to meet them. Subtle foundation smoothed her fair skin, a touch of blush accentuated her cheekbones, and bold red lipstick defined her full lips.

Her well-pressed, tailored dark gray blazer clung to her slender waist, hinting at the modest curves beneath the white blouse, which was unbuttoned just enough to tease without compromising her authority. The matching pants hugged her legs, framing her lower half without revealing anything. In her early years at the company, she was all tight blouses and pencil skirts as she used the wandering eyes of her male superior’s to her advantage, either through blackmail or HR complaints, but she saw no need to titillate the male gaze any longer. Her appearance was complete with the polished, patent 3-inch black heels on her feet. A simple silver watch gleamed on the CPO’s wrist, her only flashy adornment, signaling efficiency over extravagance. Rebecca’s rigid posture, shoulders squared, exuded dominance, but her fingers, tapping restlessly on the desk, betrayed the boredom simmering beneath her polished exterior.

Rebecca turned to her computer, skimming her inbox with a practiced eye. Every email was answered, and every task was completed; her efficiency was a double-edged sword that left her stranded in routine. With a sigh, she closed her laptop, the decision forming before she fully acknowledged it. She would leave early, escape the glass confines of her office, and seek something—anything—to spark her interest. Grabbing her coat, Rebecca stood, her heels clicking with purpose as she strode toward the door. The evening stretched before her, a blank canvas she hoped would prove more captivating than the bland, predictable rhythm of her workday. If only she had known what was to come. As a wise man once said (probably), be careful what you wish for.

❖

Striding out of her workplace building, Rebecca ignored the receptionist’s chirpy wish for a great evening, her lips curling into a faint sneer. Years ago, when she was still climbing the corporate ranks, she’d traded small talk and even gone out for a few drinks with the woman. However, now, as Chief Product Officer, such pleasantries felt like a waste of her time. The receptionist was below her and showed no signs of ambition in her dull blue eyes. Rebecca had no time for people like that.

The early evening sun bathed the city in a warm, golden glow, casting ever longer shadows across the bustling sidewalk as the sun dropped lower. Her heels clicked along the pavement with sharp precision, a sound so practiced that Rebecca grinned as she heard it. A man walking in the opposite direction caught her eye, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before darting away, only to return for a second, bolder glance when he thought she wasn’t looking. The executive scoffed, shaking her head and muttering under her breath about all men being creeps, their predictable stares, even when she wasn’t dressed to draw attention, grating in her mind.

Rebecca was no stranger to desire; she even identified as straight and relished the company of men, but only those who met her high, exacting standards. They had to be impeccably groomed, their appearance polished to match her own high status, as well as being utterly obedient to her, eager to bend to her every whim. The brunette’s romantic history was a litany of disappointments, each failed relationship a brick in the wall of her mental cynicism. There was David, the lawyer whose sharp wit she’d admired until he tried to dominate her in bed. That was a deal-breaker, and she ended the five-month relationship instantly. Then Michael, the financier who agreed with her every word but bored her with his constant rambling about his work. Didn’t he understand he just wasn’t that interesting? Matthew, her high school love. Rebecca thought he was the one, but she now realized that she had been naive and foolish back then. After an unfortunate incident that involved the police, Rebecca was glad to see the back of him.

Each failed romance had left a scar, etching her belief that men worthy of her were a mere myth, vanished from a world overrun with incels and beta bitches. There was James, the tech hotshot whose charm had briefly captivated her, until his refusal to prioritize her needs revealed a spine too rigid for her liking. Then came Ryan, the model whose chiseled looks promised perfection, until his shriveled dick refused to pleasure her. She had given him three chances due to his Adonis-like looks, but she couldn’t be with a man who didn’t know how to get hard. Why was it so difficult to get what she wanted in a relationship when the rest of her life seemed to be running in easy mode?

Turning a corner, Rebecca passed a narrow alley she’d never noticed before, its shadowed depths a stark contrast to the sunlit street. She rubbed her chin. The woman had walked this route hundreds of times before; how had she not noticed it before? A weathered wooden sign caught her eye, jutting from the brickwork: Mr. Khalid’s Old Stuff. Rebecca’s brow furrowed at the silly, whimsical name, even as a flicker of curiosity stirred within her.

Having recently settled into a spacious two-bedroom house in the suburbs, she was on the hunt for unique pieces to adorn its vast, bare corners, something to lend character to her meticulously curated spaces. The promise of distraction from her relentless ennui tugged at her, urging her down the alley. Her heels navigated the uneven pavement with practiced grace, each step a defiance of the unfamiliar terrain, her mind buzzing with the prospect of finding something extraordinary.

As she stepped down the alleyway, the antique store’s facade loomed ahead, its faded wooden exterior and dust-streaked windows exuding an air of forgotten allure, as if the building itself held secrets waiting to be uncovered. Pushing open the door, a soft bell jingled, but no one was around to hear it. Rebecca curiously stepped around the dusty store, occasionally resting her eyes on unusual relics. The shop was a labyrinth of curiosities, shelves brimming with items that could be deemed expensive treasures of bygone eras, or cheap imitation trinkets.

Rebecca’s fingers brushed over a delicate porcelain bird, its wings etched with intricate care, before lingering on a glass dolphin, its curved form catching the flickering light in a dance of refracted hues. The executive lifted a few hanging trinkets, but none of them quite fit the vision she held for her home. Her gaze wandered, drawn deeper into the shop, until it settled on a brass lamp held inside a glass display cabinet. Its teardrop shape seemed to pulse with a subtle glow that belied the dust around it, its surface adorned with engravings that meant nothing to the brunette’s untrained eye.

To Rebebba, the lamp was a striking piece; its polished brass and elegant curves were just regal enough to elevate her old-style mantlepiece. The woman unlatched the cabinet, intent on inspecting it closer, when a soft voice drifted from behind, laced with a strange, cryptic cadence. “What treasure seeks your heart, my dear, in this haven of forgotten times?”

Startled, Rebecca let out a squeak and spun to face the speaker, her hand pausing mid-air. The voice belonged to Mr. Khalid, the store’s owner, an elderly Middle Eastern man with deep-set eyes that gleamed with quiet mischief. The man’s accent was soft, each word curling like a riddle, as if he spoke from an otherworldly land. Rebecca steadied herself, attempting to conceal her surprise with a calm demeanor. “I’m just browsing,” she said, her tone sharp as her gaze flicked back to the lamp.

Mr. Khalid’s smile deepened, his eyes tracing her with an enigmatic aura. “This brass beauty calls to you, does it not, chosen one? A relic of three thousand years, so the ancients whisper. A genie slumbers with, so the stories go, revealing itself only to those to whom it deems worthy.” His voice was a velvet murmur.

Rebecca rolled her eyes. This man was really selling the Aladdin vibe here, she thought. “That’s a charming story,” she said nonchalantly, her voice dry with amusement. “How much do you want for it?”

“For such a fated piece, two hundred dollars,” he replied with a soft tone.

The executive scoffed, turning to walk away, her heels clicking on the worn floorboards. “Ughh, no thanks. $200 for an old teapot? I’m not paying that.”

The old man’s voice followed, intent on selling the prized possession. “The lamp knows its keeper, my dear, and its heart beats for you alone. For you, a special offer, I offer one hundred and fifty dollars, a price for the chosen one.”

She shook her dark-haired head, her lips curling into a smirk. “I won’t pay a dime over one hundred,” she countered firmly, not falling for any of this mysticism bullshit.

Mr. Khalid’s smile widened, his eyes twinkling as if she’d passed an unseen trial. “A fierce spirit weaves a clever bargain,” he whispered enigmatically. “Very well, one hundred dollars, but only for you, bearer of hidden paths.”

Rebecca shrugged. He was a weird man, but he was gracious enough to let her barter. The lamp’s elegant form would be a perfect accent for her living room, a quirky addition to break the dull, plain atmosphere. “Fine,” she said, pulling out her wallet. Mr. Khalid moved with deliberate care, lifting the lamp from the cabinet as if handling a sacred relic, before placing it into an unmarked white box, its simplicity a stark contrast to the lamp’s ornate beauty.

The store owner handed Rebecca the box, his expression softening as he spoke. “Cherish this gift, my dear, and let it guide your unseen journey. However, should the genie stir, tread with utmost care. Rumor has it that such beings are known for their tricky behavior, and all may not be what it seems.” The old man’s words hung like a prophecy, their strange cadence lingering in the air.

The executive rolled her eyes again, her patience for this mysterious act worn thin. Without a word, she turned and strode out of the store, the bell jingling softly behind her as she stepped back into the alley, the box tucked securely under her arm. The brunette shook her head. Why couldn’t the man speak in plain English? She would’ve bought the damn thing a lot quicker if he stopped speaking in riddles, she thought. She dismissed Mr. Khalid’s warnings as the rambling of an eccentric man, her thoughts already drifting to her new home and the mantlepiece where the lamp would sit.

The woman headed back onto the main street and walked towards the parking garage where her car was parked, unaware of the forces she’d just set in motion.

❖

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, coaxing Rebecca awake with a gentle warmth. She blinked slowly, her gaze settling on the alarm close beside her bed: 9:30 a.m. It was Saturday morning, a rare opportunity to transform her new two-bedroom abode into something that reflected her exacting taste. After lingering in the comfort of her sheets, the brunette rose, her body moving into her regular morning routine.

The executive washed herself in her expansive, modern bathroom, the hot water cascading over her bare skin, invigorating her for the day. After donning her practical black bra and pantie set, she slipped into a fitted navy t-shirt and tailored black jeans. She adorned a pair of navy blue socks for comfort and pulled on a pair of black sneakers. Breakfast was a quick affair—fresh coffee and a croissant, savored at her sleek kitchen counter—before she turned her attention to the living room, where unpacked boxes lay waiting for her to attend to.

With a purposeful stride, Rebecca began emptying the remaining boxes, her fingers deftly arranging books on her new oak bookcase, organizing them by category. She slid a stack of DVDs into the cabinet beneath her wall-mounted TV, each disc cover tucked neatly in place.

The woman’s eyes then drifted to the unmarked white box on the coffee table. She carefully opened it, revealing the brass lamp from Mr. Khalid’s antique store. Its teardrop shape gleamed faintly, the well-designed markings catching the light through the window. Rebecca lifted it, its weight solid in her hands, and crossed over to the old-fashioned mantlepiece above her fireplace, setting it down with a soft clink.

Stepping back, she examined the lamp, tilting her head to assess its effect. It was old, undeniably, its antique charm already elevating the room’s aesthetic. But smudges of dirt marred its polished surface, dulling its extravagance. Frowning, the brunette picked it up again, grabbing a soft cloth from atop her coffee table. She wiped at the marks, pushing hard against the surface, but the stubborn stains resisted.

With a huff, Rebecca dropped the cloth and licked her finger before rubbing the grime with her bare hands, determined to rid the lamp of its ugly marks and restore its beauty. After thirty seconds of vigorous wiping, the brass started to grow warm under the woman’s touch, an unexpected heat that made her pause. Before she could react, the lamp’s spout exhaled a plume of blue smoke, swirling upward and thickening, filling the room with ethereal haze.

Rebecca gasped sharply, dropping the lamp onto the floor with a clatter, and stumbled back, her heart racing with fear as the smoke coalesced above the lamp. The haze took form, shaping into a blue-skinned man, his lower half a writhing tendril of mist, his garish purple suit clashing with the room’s muted tones. Brass cuffs were locked around each wrist, and a cocky grin spread across the unknown being’s face, his eyes glinting with amusement as he hovered before her. “Greetings, Rebecca Horton,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant. “I am the occupant of the Lamp of Naj-Jihal, but you, my worthy Mistress, may call me Mr. Djinn.”

The shocked woman’s brow furrowed at the sound of his voice. “How do you know my name?” she demanded sharply, her shock giving way to curiosity.

The genie’s grin widened, his eyes twinkling with secrets. “I know many, many things about you, Rebecca,” he replied, his voice dripping with insinuation. “The lamp reveals its truths to those who awaken it.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. The genie was speaking as absurdly as the man who sold her the lamp. “So, do you grant wishes?” she asked directly, cutting out the niceties.

The blue-skinned man laughed, a rich, mocking sound that echoed through the room. “Oh, indeed, I am capable of granting many wishes,” he said teasingly, his hand gesturing grandly.

The young woman’s lips formed a faint smile, sensing an opportunity to seize control of her life. “How many wishes do I get?” she pressed eagerly.

Mr. Djinn’s laughter rang out again, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Many wishes, my dear Mistress,” he repeated, his words deliberately vague, his smile widening as if he was savoring her confusion.

She frowned, her patience thinning. “There’s no point dwelling on pleasantries,” she said abruptly. “I’ll make my wishes quickly so you can go back to your tiny box. For my first wish, I wish for five million dollars in my bank account, all legally accounted for, non-taxable, with no loopholes attached.” She smiled. She had seen too many low-budget movies where the wish was worded poorly. Her wish was perfect, she thought.

A heavy pause settled over the room, the blue smoke still lingering around the supernatural being, and hovering around the edges of the living room. Mr. Djinn’s grin twisted, his laughter erupting again, sharp and teasing, his head thrown back as if her words were a grand jest. “Oh, dear Rebecca, you’ve got it all wrong,” he said jovially, his eyes glinting with wicked delight. “I am indeed a genie, capable of granting countless wishes, but those wishes cannot come from your pretty lips alone.”

Confusion flickered across Rebecca’s face, “What the hell are you talking about?” she snapped, her voice rising as her hands clenched into fists. If this were some elaborate joke concocted by a colleague, she’d have his head for this. “Are you a genie or not?”

Mr. Djinn’s grin turned sleazily, his blue skin catching the sunlight as he leaned closer. “I am a genie. However, I am the Genie of Popular Opinion,” he declared smoothly as if his declaration was supposed to mean something. “Your fate is not yours to command, dear Mistress. Your wishes will be shaped by the will of others, decided by a majority vote, not your own desires.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened, her mind racing to comprehend the strange words coming out of the mystic being’s mouth. “You’re making no sense,” she said sharply, her t-shirt clinging to her frame as she squared her shoulders. “If you’re a genie, you grant my wishes. That’s how it works.”

Mr. Djinn’s laughter was low, a rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. “Oh, sweet Rebecca. You think a mere mortal knows more about the mystic arts than a djinn?” he asked, his voice a velvet taunt, his brass cuffs glinting as he gestured wildly. “The lamp of Naj-Jihal plays by rules far older than your shallow brain. You’ll see soon enough.”

Mr. Djinn snapped his fingers, the sound sharp and dramatic, his big, unnerving smile widening as he hovered closer. “You’ll understand my meaning in due time, dear Mistress,” he said, his voice dripping with sly anticipation. The blue smoke swirling around him thickened, curling upward like tendrils of a living thing, enveloping the room in a dense shimmering haze.

The familiar scents of Rebecca’s home were smothered by the electric tang of the mist, prickling her skin with an unnatural chill. The woman’s heart pounded, her mind racing as the fog swirled around her. The smoke surged, swallowing the light until the room dissolved into utter darkness.

The world shifted, a dizzying lurch that stole the brunette’s breath, as if the ground beneath her had vanished. The darkness pulsed with a low, resonant hum, and the faint roar of a distant crowd crept into her awareness, growing louder, more insistent. The oppressive voice pressed against her, her squared shoulders tensing as she braced for what lay ahead. Whatever it was, Rebecca no longer felt like she was the one in control.

❖

Blinking against the blinding glare, Rebecca struggled to orient herself, her vision swimming in a haze of sharp lights. Harsh spotlights bored down from above, their intensity startling her as they swirled around. The roar of a faceless audience surrounded the brunette woman, their cheers swelling into a disorienting cacophony that sent a shiver racing down her spine. Were they real people? She wondered.

Rebecca stood on a polished stage, her navy t-shirt and jeans feeling woefully out of place in the extravagant surroundings. A dark silhouette loomed nearby, its presence unsettling until it stepped into the light, revealing Mr. Djinn. His blue skin had morphed into a tanned, olive complexion, but his cocky grin and glinting eyes were unmistakable. He now wore a sequenced tuxedo that shimmered with flamboyance, which matched his predatory smile.

Mr. Djinn turned to an unseen camera, his grin broadening. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Altered Consequences,” he announced, his voice booming with theatrical charm. “Where your past shapes your future!” The crowd erupted in wild applause, their enthusiasm a tidal wave that vibrated through the stage. Rebecca had no idea what to think. Was this a dream, or a vision? It surely couldn’t be real.

The genie raised a hand, letting the clapping fade, “You at home know the rules of the game,” he said, his tone slick with charisma. “But for those joining us for the first time, allow me to illuminate the spectacle. We have one fortunate contestant whose life will be utterly transformed by the end of the broadcast.”

Gesturing toward Rebecca, the supernatural man’s smile took on a mocking edge. “Meet Rebecca Horton, twenty-eight, hailing from this bustling city of Miami, Florida, and Chief Product Officer of Sunset Marketing,” he declared smoothly. “Our producers have meticulously chosen four individuals who know Rebecca extremely well—people she’s grievously wronged in her past. They will help craft the wishes for our audience to vote on, determining her fate.”

Four silhouettes materialized at the stage’s edge, perched on stools, their forms cloaked in shadow. Mr. Djinn’s eyes sparkled with mischief as Rebecca stared at the mysterious figures in utter confusion. “It’s time to meet our fantastic four,” he said, his voice rising with excitement, and the crowd’s cheers followed. A spotlight snapped on, bathing a weathered man in his late twenties in harsh light as he sat furthest to the left, his slight beer belly straining against his fitted shirt.

“First, we have Matthew Healy, twenty-eight,” Mr. Djin said, his tone tinged with feigned sympathy. The executive gasped and stepped forward. She hadn’t heard that name for some time. “He was once Rebecca’s high school sweetheart, her golden boy, cherished and adored. But Rebecca drew restless, her heart seeking thrills elsewhere, and she falsely accused Matthew of spiking her drink at a raucous party. The ensuing investigation dragged on for eighteen grueling months, costing this squeaky-clean young man his college scholarship.”

Rebecca gasped. That wasn’t how it had happened at all, she thought. She actually had been spiked. Sure, she was 80% sure it wasn’t Matthew, but she wanted to end things with him and knew she needed to pin the blame on someone. The genie continued. “Matthew has never recovered, now haunted by trust issues with women, drifting from one dead-end job to another, now peddling used cars with a forced smile.” Matthew raised a hand, his wave hesitant as the crowd applauded, their cheers a mix of pity and encouragement.

Mr. Djinn’s grin widened, undeterred. “Next, our second guest,” he announced, as the spotlight shifted to a black-haired Latina woman in her late twenties. Her gothic appearance was striking—black lipstick, a spiked choker hugging her neck, her eyes burning with quiet defiance. “Meet Emily Sanchez, twenty-seven. She was Rebecca’s college roommate during their junior year,” he said, his voice carrying a dramatic weight. Rebecca’s stomach dropped. She knew precisely why Emily was on the stage.

“These two were inseparable, thick as thieves, sharing secrets and gossip. But Rebecca, ever the opportunist, devised a plan to steal test scores from Professor Harwood for profit, and she enlisted Emily’s help. Rebecca was to distract the professor with her charm. At the same time, Emily, eager to please her dazzling friend, rifled through the professor’s office desk.” Despite the somber story, Mr. Djinn’s smile never faded. “Alas, Rebecca wasn’t as charming as she thought she was, and her distraction faltered. The professor caught Emily red-handed. Rebecca played innocent, letting her friend take the fall for her idea, resulting in Emily’s expulsion and blacklisting from college. Now, she spends her days working at a fast-food joint off the 95 freeway.” Emily’s lips tightened at the retelling of her story, her gaze fixed on Rebecca, as the crowd’s applause softened, laced with sympathy.

The host’s voice grew sharper, his eyes glinting with malice. “Our third guest,” he said, as the spotlight revealed a bearded man in his fifties, his weary eyes sunken, his gaunt frame betraying the recent years of hardship. “Jason?” Rebecca blurted out in shock. She had to be in some kind of nightmare.

The olive-skinned host continued. “Jason Higby, fifty-four, once held the coveted title of Chief Product Officer at Sunset Marketing,” Mr. Djin said, his tone heavy with accusation. “That is, until his ambitious subordinate, Rebecca Horton, turned the tables. She led him on, teasing him with calculated flirtation, before accusing him of sexual harassment to the HR department, backing her claim with doctored audio clips. Sensing the company’s shift to a zero-tolerance sexual harassment policy, Rebecca exploited the moment. She orchestrated her former boss’s downfall.” There was a halted gasp among the audience. “Jason lost his job, and Rebecca took his place as the company’s new CPO; very convenient. Now, after Rebecca slandered the man on every business forum, Jason remains unemployed, unable to rebuild his shattered career.” Jason’s shoulders slumped, his eyes avoiding Rebecca’s as the crowd’s cheers grew faint, their pity palpable.”

Mr. Djinn’s smile turned wicked, his tuxedo catching the light as he turned back to the invited guests. “And finally, our fourth guest,” he declared, as the spotlight illuminated a wide-set young man in an ill-fitting band t-shirt, his posture awkward, as though he wasn’t used to the attention being drawn to him. “Miles Bishop, twenty-one, Rebecca’s stepbrother,” he said, his voice dripping with intrigue. “When Rebecca’s mother married the wealthy Keith Bishop, Rebecca stood to share a substantial inheritance alongside Miles, the fortune splitting in two. Not satisfied with only half, Rebecca discovered her stepbrother’s social awkwardness with women and his secret fetish for last-breasted ‘bimbos.’ Seizing her chance, Rebecca spun a vicious tale, claiming she awoke to find Miles caressing her bare breasts while fixated on an image of infamous bimbo, Alicia Amira.” The crowd gasped as he continued. “With evidence of his fetish littering his computer, Miles was ostracized by his father and cut off from the family, leaving Rebecca as the sole heir to the man’s fortune.”

Miles stared daggers in Rebecca’s direction as the genie paused for breath. “Now, Miles scrapes by with odd jobs, currently serving drinks at a sports bar as he lives in a shared apartment above a second-hand PC store, his life a shadow of what it used to be.” Miles offered a shy wave to the crowd, his eyes darting nervously, as the faceless people offered him encouragement. The host had truly painted a picture of the brunette executive, and she didn’t like how it looked.

Moving back to face the camera, Mr. Djinn’s grin gleamed with delight at the crowd’s reaction. “These four have been grievously wronged by Ms Horton,” he declared with anticipation. “And now, they’ll shape the choices for our audience to vote on, crafting the wishes that will redefine her existence.” The crowd’s cheers surged as their participation was mentioned, a wave of excitement pulsing through the air.

Rebecca’s heart pounded as she pinched herself, gasping as she felt the real pain. Surely she was dreaming? She clenched her fists tightly. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she snapped. “Why are these losers sitting there? I have no time for this dumb mirage.”

The executive spun on her heel, storming toward the stage’s edge, far away from the guests on the other side. The tuxedoed genie flicked his wrist with a casual flourish, and a snug leather choker suddenly materialized around the brunette woman’s neck, snapping into place without a buckle or clasp. As Rebecca’s foot crossed the circular stage’s boundary, a sharp buzz jolted through her, a searing pain that forced a squeal from her lips. She stumbled back into the circle, her breathing heavy, the shock only relenting when she retreated. The woman’s hands clutched at the choker in disbelief, horrified to find no escape from its embrace.

Mr. Djinn’s smile remained unshaken as he relished the control. “You summoned me, dear Mistress,” he said mockingly. “You must remain here until the game is complete. There’s no escaping what you’ve unleashed.”

Without a pause to wait for the horrified woman’s response, the supernatural man turned to the crowd, his voice returning to its bright and theatrical lilt, as if her defiance was a mere inconvenience. “Let’s dive into the rules of our spectacle,” he said, gesturing grandly to a giant screen behind them. Eleven categories flared to life in bold, glowing letters: Hair, Body, Face, Clothing Style, Makeup Style, Voice/Dialect, Posture/Mannerisms, Education, Name, Job, Childhood/Growing Up.

Mr. Djinn’s voice carried a wicked cadence. “You will find eleven categories behind me. For each round, our computer will randomly select one of these,” he explained, his grin widening. “Our four guests will then each propose a wish to transform Rebecca in regard to that category.”

The crowd’s excitement swelled as the genie host got to the nitty-gritty of the show’s rules. “After the four wishes have been announced, Rebecca will have thirty seconds to plead her case to you, the audience, before you cast your vote. You must choose one option each, and our CPO here will need to convince you whichever one she would prefer.” The genie winked at the collared executive before continuing. “The winning wish will take effect instantly, transforming our beautiful contestant here before your very eyes.”

“No fucking way,” Rebecca had heard enough, her pulse racing at the insanity of it all. She lunged for the stage’s edge, running as fast as she could, desperation overriding the memory of pain. However, the choker buzzed once more, a merciless jolt that brought the brunette to her knees and forced her to crawl back to the stage before it finally relented.

Mr. Djinn chuckled lightly, addressing the crowd as if the sudden outburst had never occurred. “When all eleven categories are complete, the game concludes,” he said, his voice booming. “And then, you, our esteemed audience, will vote for the winning guest. You will vote for the wronged party that had made the biggest impact on the episode, and the winner will receive a whopping one million dollars!”

The audience’s roar reached a fever pitch, their cheers shaking the stage as the air crackled with anticipation. Mr. Djinn raised his hands, basking in their fervor. The giant screen behind him transformed into the fictional game show’s logo as Rebecca remained on her knees, her hands still clutching the unyielding choker. “We’ll be back right after the break,” the genie host announced. “Let the games begin!” The theme music surged, signaling the imminent start of the game, sealing Rebecca’s fate in a spectacle she could neither control nor escape.

❖

The stage flared back to life, their harsh beams pinning the marketing CPO in place as she tugged futilely at the snug black leather choker around her neck. Her fingers clawed at the claspless band, desperate to find a seam. Still, it held firm, a relentless reminder of the brunette’s entrapment. The faceless audience’s cheers swelled, their excitement a palpable force that pressed against her, amplifying her humiliating dread.

Mr. Djinn strode to the center of the stage, his olive complexion glowing under the spotlights. His smile was as predatory as ever, his eyes sparkling with wicked delight as he surveyed the crowd. He lived for the atmosphere.

The host raised his hands, silencing the crowd with a theatrical flourish. “It’s time for our first category, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice booming with delight. “But first, we must ensure our contestant’s safety.” He flicked his wrist, and Rebecca’s hands, still scratching at the choker, jerked downward, yanked behind her back as steel cuffs materialized, locking her wrists together with a sharp snap.

“What the fuck is this?” The brunette bellowed in fury, her body straining against the unrelenting cuffs, her shoulders tensing under the t-shirt’s fabric.

Mr. Djinn’s grin widened, relishing his ‘Mistress’s’ discomfort. “Your constant clawing poses a risk to our show, dear Mistress,” he said, his tone dripping with false concern. “This is a preventative measure, for your safety and that of our esteemed guests.” He turned to the giant screen as if his explanation was enough, ignoring his contestant’s furious glare. “Now, let’s see our first category!”

The screen flickered, cycling through the eleven categories in a dizzying blur, before finally landing on “Hair.” The crowd erupted in cheers, their enthusiasm shaking the stage. Mr. Djinn clapped his hands, his smile gleaming. “Hair! That one’s always a crowd favorite,” he declared, striding toward the four guests seated on stools at the edge of the stage.

He stopped before the first man, Matthew Healy, whose face and beer belly demonstrated his struggles. “Matthew, your wish, please,” the genie prompted, his voice smooth yet expectant.

The man paused, his eyes narrowing as he declared at the former love interest who ruined his life. “I wish for wild, artificially bright red curls,” he said bitterly. “That bitch painted me as some party-girl enabler who preyed on vulnerable women. She ruined my life. Let her wear that attention-grabbing, slutty style she accused me of fueling.” The crowd murmured, some cheering as they were clearly happy with the first option.

Mr. Djinn’s smile widened as he moved to Emily, her gothic black lipstick glossy under the spotlight. “Emily, your turn,” he said invitingly.

Emily looked down, her eyes burning with quiet defiance. “Uhmm, I wish for a cropped jet-black mohawk,” she said. “Rebecca’s polished business image needs to be stripped away. Let her look like the rebellious outcast I’ve become since she took everything from me.” Sections of the audience cheered as Rebecca’s eyes widened. She didn’t want to look like some goth freak like that bitch over there.

The host approached Jason Higby, Rebecca’s former boss. “Jason, what’s your wish?” Mr. Djinn asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

Jason’s lips tightened, his gaze fixed on Rebecca. “I wish for a thin, graying ponytail,” he said, his tone heavy with resentment. “She should know what it’s like to be seen as broken and old, the way everyone sees me now.” The crowd’s boos told everyone how unpopular Jason’s choice was, the disapproval echoing through the stage, and Mr. Djinn patted the older man on the back, chuckling.

“Oh, Jason, the audience doesn’t like that one,” he said teasingly. “You’ll need to try harder than that if you want to win that million dollars!” He moved to his final guest, Miles Bishop, whose awkward posture contrasted with his intense glare.

“Miles, your wish,” the purple-suited host said, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

Miles leaned forward, as if he was thinking long and hard, before he made his choice. “I wish for long, platinum blonde waves,” he said, his lilt laced with venom. “She ridiculed my private desires, my fetish for bimbos. Let her embody that sexualized image and feel the humiliation she forced on me.” The crowd roared, clearly delighted with the young man’s option.

Rebecca shuddered as her eyes widened, her heart pounding as the options sank in, each one a twisted assault on her very identity. Mr. Djinn strode back to her with open arms. “Time to plead your case, dear Mistress,” he said mockingly. “You have thirty seconds to sway our lovely audience. Starting now!”

The brunette shuddered, pulling at her uselessly cuffed hands. “No fucking way! I want none of these options,” he bellowed with defiance. “They’re all disgraceful, a mockery of who I am. My hairstyle costs $200 a week to maintain, and I’m perfectly happy with its style and color. Don’t you dare mess with my hair!” Her words rang out, but the crowd jeered, their laughter cutting through the end of her plea as the timer buzzed.

The olive-skinned man chuckled as he looked at the cuffed woman with amusement. “I don’t think you swayed them much, Ms Horton,” he said, turning to the audience. “You have ten seconds to vote! Will it be Matthew’s ravishing red curls, Emily’s mischievous mohawk, Jason’s pitiful ponytail, or Miles’s bimbo blonde waves?” The screen flashed with the options, the crowd cheering as they cast their votes.

The results blazed onto the screen, eliciting a thunderous cheer and a triumphant shout from Matthew. Mr. Djinn clapped his hands, his grin widening. “A close race, folks!” he announced. “Matthew’s vibrant red curls take it by a mere two percent over Miles’s blonde waves. Emily and Jason, you’ve got some catching up to do after that poor first result.”

“Now for the fun part,” The elaborate host declared as he swirled his right hand, and a shimmering blue mist materialized, curling toward Rebecca with an eerie grace. “Say goodbye to dull brown, dear Mistress,” he said gleefully. “And say hello to vibrant red!” The mist engulfed her hair, a tingling sensation spreading across her scalp as though they were festered with thousands of ants.

The CPO felt her hair shift, lengthening and curling; the once-sharp bob she was so proud of slowly transformed into wild, artificially colored, bright red curls that cascaded to her mid-back, messy and untamed. She caught a glimpse of the vibrant strands in her peripheral vision, her cuffed hands unable to touch them. “What the hell have you done to my hair?” she demanded, her voice trembling with rage and horror. Her professional aesthetic had been shattered, her face surrounded by the wild, rebellious hairstyle of a young, careless party girl.

Mr. Djinn’s grin was unrelenting, his eyes gleaming with control. He always loved that first reaction when the contestant discovered just how screwed they were. “One round down, only ten to go!” he declared, turning to the screen. “Computer, which category do we have next?” The screen flickered as Rebecca glanced at her new hair framing her face with disgust. How could they do this to her? Yet, she got the feeling things were going to get much worse.

❖

The giant screen flickered, its bold letters cycling through the remaining categories in a blur of anticipation. The crowd’s cheers swelled after the first transformation, the hum of excitement vibrating through the shiny stage. The screen halted, blazing the words “Face” in glowing letters. Mr. Djinn spun toward the audience. “The eyes are the window to the soul, and the face always makes the first impression. Now, our guests will decide what becomes of Rebecca’s visage.”

Rebecca shook her head, her new curls bouncing as she did, her cuffed hands straining behind her back. “Get me out of here!” she snapped in an angry plea, her voice sharp with defiance as she tugged against the steel cuffs.

Mr. Djinn ignored the redhead, striding back toward the four guests seated on the stools. He placed a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, his grin pasted on his face. “Matthew, you’ve got one win in the bag,” he said encouragingly. “What’s your choice for Rebecca’s face?”

The former high school sweetheart licked his lips, his eyes fixed on his former girlfriend’s vibrant, party-girl curls; curls that he had orchestrated. “I want gaudy, overdone features,” he said with a sadistic grin, getting into the groove of the game. “Big, lustful eyes, exaggerated high cheekbones, plump lips—a caricature of the fake party girl she accused me of drugging. It’ll match her hair perfectly.” The crowd murmured with excitement.

The host laughed. “A bold choice!” he said, moving on to Emily, who shifted nervously in her seat. “Emily, what’s your wish?”

The goth stared at her former friend for a good twenty seconds before she made her decision. “I want plump lips, botoxed sharp-curved eyebrows, and piercings, lots of them, all over her face—eyebrow, septum, nose, and lip,” she said excitedly.” I want to make her an outcast, forced to reassess her bad decisions.” The audience cheered the woman’s statement, intrigued by the rebellious edge.

Mr. Djinn chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “I’m not sure piercings are traditionally permitted in this category, but I’ll allow it this time,” he said before striding over to the third guest, Jason Higby. “Jason, I hope you’ve got something better than last time.”

Jason paused, his gaunt face tightening as he glared at Rebecca with fury. “I want tired, lined features all over her face, thin lips, defeated eyes, aging her thirty years,” he said resentfully. “I want to strip away that youthful beauty she relies on.” The crowd booed yet again, their disapproval ringing out around the stage, and the purple-suited host laughed, shaking his head.

“That face might look amusing with those red curls, Jason, but I think you need to read the room if you want a shot at winning this thing,” he teased, moving to Miles. “Alright, Miles. You almost had it last time. What will it be this time?”

Rebecca’s stepbrother didn’t hesitate. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he declared it with a venomous tone. “I want plump, hyper-feminine cupid’s bow lips that never fully close without effort. I want a flawless, botoxed face with no lines, giving him a resting wide-eyed expression, and a cute, upturned button nose,” he said. “Oh, and soften that chin. Sexualizing her is the only way to humiliate her properly for what she did to me.” The crowd cheers, their applause a mix of shock and approval.

The CPO’s eyes widened, her body shaking as the options sank in, each one a cruel assault on her attractive, professional face. These bastards were trying to ruin her life, she thought. There had to be a way to stop this. “Compelling choices, don’t you think?” Mr. Djinn said as he strutted back to the center of the platform, joining his unwilling contestant. “I sense a couple of favorites, but now it’s your chance to plead your case, dear Mistress. Thirty seconds, starting now!”

Rebecca gasped, looking hopelessly at the faceless dark silhouette surrounding her from every angle. “All these choices are abhorrent,” she said, her voice trembling with rage as she tugged against the cuffs once more. “Stop this madness! Please! You can’t do this to me.”

The redhead glanced around the room, but she could sense she wasn’t getting through to these people. They had come for a show, even if the show was to destroy her life. “If you bastards have to pick one,” she relented. “Make it Jason’s. I’d rather be old than a total skank!” The crowd cheered as she actually made a choice before the timer buzzed.

Mr. Djinn grinned, turning to the audience. “Time to vote!” he declared. “Will it be Matthew’s flamboyant features, Emily’s pierced persona, Jason’s weary wrinkles, or Miles’s dumb doll look? You have ten seconds!” The screen flashed with the options as the crowd muttered, placing their votes. Rebecca looked on in dismay as everyone ignored her protests.

The results blazed onto the screen, eliciting a thunderous cheer around the stage. The genie host whistled, his eyes glinting with joy. “What a close race!” he announced. “Miles’s hyper-feminine bimbo look takes it, narrowly beating out Matthew this time.” He glanced over at the panel of four. “Tough luck, Emily, you came a surprisingly close third there. There must be plenty of piercing fans here amongst the audience.” The crowd roared as if to identify themselves.

Rebecca shook her head, stumbling backward until her foot grazed the stage’s edge, a slight shock buzzing through her choker, forcing her back into the circle. Mr. Djinn slowly approached the trapped woman. “I have to admit, I was secretly hoping for this option, too,” he smiled before clapping his hands. A shimmering mist appeared from his appendage, curling toward the redhead’s face with utmost precision, as if it were sentient. The fog enveloped her, a sudden tingling sensation spreading across her skin, contorting her features—some shrinking, some expanding, some smoothing. There was nothing the executive could do to stop it.

When the mist dissipated, Rebecca was almost unrecognizable. Her eyes were wide, unnaturally bright, with no lines on her forehead or around them. Her nose was smaller, slightly upturned, and her face was rounded, completely blemish-free and smooth, thanks to the Botox. However, it was her lips that stole the show. They now dominated her expression: plump, hyper-feminine cupid’s bow shape that refused to close, giving her a permanent, protruding, provocative pout.

Mr. Djinn flicked his wrist, conjuring a mirror in his hand before showing it to the bound woman. Rebecca gasped, holding a breath, her vibrant red hair framing a face that screamed slutty bimbo, her new reality staring back at her. “All you fuckers are going to pay for this!” she vowed, her voice shaking, unable to tear her eyes away from the alien reflection.

The host vanished the mirror with a chuckle. “Did you hear that? We will all pay for this. Well, I guess that day may come eventually, my dear Mistress,” the olive-skinned genie said, wrapping his arm around Rebecca like she was an old friend. “Until then, let’s continue with the game. I think it’s time for round three!” The crowd erupted as the large screen flicked through the remaining nine options.

Mr. Djinn squeezed his redheaded executive close. “You’re doing great,” he told her encouragingly, although his tone was full of mockery. “The audience is eating you up.” Rebecca could do nothing but glare at the genie as the computer decided on her next fate.

❖

The stage pulsed with energy as the giant screen whirred to life, its display scrolling through the nine remaining categories in a cascade of glowing text. The screen paused, blazing “Makeup Style” in bold letters, much to the delight of the audience. Mr. Djinn spun towards the crowd and grinned with predatory glee. “Makeup Style!” he proclaimed, his voice rich with theatrical relish. “This next vote will not only redefine our executive’s current makeup appearance, but it will bind her into repeating the style over and over again, every day for the rest of her life. She may be able to achieve other looks, but they will never quite feel right.”

With Rebecca continuously straining against her cuffs, red marks appearing on her wrists from the struggle, the host sauntered over toward the four wronged guests, his grin unwavering. “Let’s see how you four will paint her fate,” he said, before stopping before Matthew. “Matthew, how would you like to see Rebecca’s makeup transform?”

Matthew shrugged, his tired face twisting into a smirk as he stared at his hated former girlfriend. “I don’t know much about makeup,” he admitted. “But those loud, garish neon styles from the 80s scream party slut. Bright, clashing eyeshadow, eye-popping lipstick, overdone blush, glitter everywhere—the works. I want her humiliated, permanently ridiculous.” His vindictive explanation drew a cheer from the audience who had taken a disliking to the redhead.

Mr. Djinn nodded approvingly. “A solid first choice,” he said, moving to Emily Sanchez, who was softly biting her own black lower lip. “Emily, you nearly stole the last round with those piercings. It’s time to step it up.”

The black-haired woman’s eyes gleamed with defiance. “I want dark, gothic makeup,” she said sharply. “Winged heavy eyeliner, dark mascara, pasty foundation, black lips.” She smiled as she got the wish off her chest.

The host chuckled, not waiting for the woman’s reasoning. “Of course you do,” he said in amusement, as if he could have predicted her answer. He approached the third guest, Jason, with a grin. “Do I even need to ask, Jason?” he said patronizingly. “Let me guess. You’d love her with a plain, boring, bare face, right?” The genie’s comment elicited laughter from the audience.

Jason opened his mouth, before hesitating, as though the purple-suited being had predicted correctly. “Actually, umm, can you come back to me last?” he asked nervously.

Mr. Djinn shook his head, but smirked. “Just this once, Jason,” he said, before moving over to Rebecca’s chubby stepbrother. “Miles, the crowd loved your bimbo face design in the last round. You must have the perfect makeup plan to match it?”

Rebecca shuddered as the genie spoke, her unnaturally large lips protruding further as she pouted. “Don’t you dare, Miles!” she shouted, her big eyes wide and flashing with rage.

The younger stepbrother stared at his former tormentor, unflinching. “Yeah, I do. I want a glossy bimbo secretary style,” he said venomously. “I want flawless foundation, extremely long, dark eyelashes, heavy blue, painted eyeshadow, and bright, glossy fire-engine red lipstick to match her hair. That’ll make the cold bitch look more approachable.” The crowd roared, clearly pleased with Miles’s choice.

Mr. Djinn laughed heartily. “That will certainly do it, my boy,” he said, before turning back to Jason. “Alright, Jason, ready to disappoint us again?”

Rebecca’s former boss swallowed, his eyes narrowing. He decided to change tactics, adopting a more extreme approach, to win over the crowd. “I’m ready,” he said steadily. “I want exactly what Miles chose—that bright bimbo secretary makeup, with heavy blush, super long lashes, bright glistening red lips—but I want it permanent. I want her makeup to be totally irremovable, as if it were tattooed onto her skin, impossible to alter. I want the bitch to scrub at her slutty face, but all for nothing.” The older man’s eyes grew cold. “That whore got me fired for sexual harassment; let’s make her worth harassing.” The crowd was almost silenced, shocked by the sudden turn of events.

Mr. Djinn’s laughter broke the silence. “That’s a bit creepy, Jason, but I love your thinking,” he said, eliciting another applause from the crowd, as if his positive opinion made it all alright. He strode back over to the center of the stage, where the redheaded executive stood. “Those are some astounding choices, dear Mistress. Now, sway that crowd. You have thirty seconds, starting now!”

The redheaded executive’s heart raced, her botoxed face frozen in a sultry pout. “I don’t want any of these!” she said desperately. “The 80s style would make me stick out like a cown, and I’m not some gothic freak. Permanent makeup? Absolutely not!” She gasped, batting her wide eyes. “I’m a good person, guys. Please, let’s stop this now. I want to end this.”

Rebecca noticed her pleas were getting her nowhere, and the time ticked down to ten seconds. She needed to provide her input before they voted on the worst option. “I seriously hate Miles and his disgusting fetishes. However, if I must choose between those four, his option is the only choice I could deal with.” The timer buzzed just as she made her choice.

Mr. Djinn turned to the audience, smirking with a cock glint in his eye. “Cast your votes!” he commanded. “Will it be Matthew’s neon nightmare, Emily’s gothic gloom, Miles’s bimbo brilliance, or Jason’s permanent pizzazz? You have ten seconds to decide!” The screen flashed, counting down as the crowd cast their votes.

Shortly after, the results blazed across the screen, eliciting a thunderous roar. “Wow, what a landslide! Jason’s permanent secretary style wins with over 70% of the vote!” Mr. Djinn announced. “The old man’s turned it around!” The crowd cheered wildly, as if they were rooting for the underdog, their approval shaking the stage.

Rebecca shook her head, her voice trembling. “No, no!” she cried. “You fucking can’t do this to me! I’ll sue you for this!” Her wide eyes glistened as her pouty lips quivered.

The olive-skinned host laughed mockingly. “What? You’re going to sue a genie? Good luck with that one,” he said jovially as he waved his hand. “Look on the bright side. You won’t have to spend hours preparing that pretty face anymore, Mistress.” After his final taunt, blue smoke emanated from his fingers. It surged towards Rebecca, enveloping her face as it swirled around her. Tiny pinpricks danced on the woman’s skin, concentrating specifically around her eyes, cheeks, and huge bimbo lips. The process was mildly painful, but it was over within thirty seconds.”

As the mist cleared, the crowd’s cheers peaked, discovering Rebecca’s new permanent style for the first time. Mr. Djinn reveled in his Mistress’s dismay as he flicked a wrist, presenting a full-length mirror before the transformed executive.

The woman’s face was transformed. A flawless foundation smoothed her botoxed skin, while a heavy pink blush accentuated her cheekbones. Bold eyeshadow framed her wide, dark-lined eyes, with long, dark eyelashes curling in an exaggerated manner. Extremely glossy, bright red lips adorned her massive lips, leaving them inviting and kissable as she naturally pouted. Her face was tattooed, leaving her slutty secretary’s visage locked in place. Rebecca’s wild red curls cascaded around this garish mask, a total contrast to the professionalism of the rest of her body. Her outfit remained incongruously modest—her navy t-shirt clinging to her modest curves, tailored black jeans hugging her slim legs, black sneakers grounding her in a reality that clashed with her sexualized head. The contrast was jarring, her corporate poise undermined by a face and hair screaming erotic caricature.

Rebecca stared in horror, her transformed face and hair a far cry from the style she had been so previously proud of. She still wasn’t sure if she was locked in a nightmare, but the pain she felt as she tugged helplessly against her cuffs allowed her to fear the worst.

The host slung an arm around the trapped woman’s waist, pulling her in close. “Wow, Ms. Horton. You’re already on your way to the life you deserve,” he said mockingly. “And we still have eight rounds to go, dear Mistress. Aren’t you lucky?”

The genie continued to hold his contestant close as he turned to the camera, his grin gleaming charmingly. “Stay tuned, folks—we’ll be right back after this commercial break!” The crowd’s cheers surged as the show’s theme music played, forcing the viewers to wait impatiently for what was going to happen next.

End of Chapter One.