Veil System: Running a Model, High-End Escort and Marriage Agency
Chapter 87: Morning: Sydney—The Sydney...

Chapter 87: Morning: Sydney—The Sydney...

Sydney blinked. The fuck kind of question was that?

"I’m Sydney," she answered automatically, her voice echoing in the void, stretching too far, like the space around her wasn’t built to hold sound.

Laughter. Soft at first. Then growing. Not cruel, not kind. Just amused. "Are you?"

Her brows furrowed. "Uh, yeah? Who else would I be? Beyoncé?"

The laughter stopped—instantly, like someone had snapped their fingers. Then the voice returned, smooth, patient, inevitable.

"You’re not Sydney. You’re just the idea of her."

Sydney crossed her arms, annoyed. "Okay, philosophy class, chill the fuck out. I think I know who I am."

A hum. Deep, thoughtful. "Do you?"

And that’s when she felt it.

It wasn’t pain—not exactly. It was like something peeling away. Not from her body, but from somewhere deeper.

Her soul.

Memories, thoughts, feelings—shit she never questioned—all getting tugged at, unraveled like loose threads on an old sweater. She staggered back, panic clawing up her throat. "What the hell is happening?"

The voice remained calm. "I’m showing you."

And then—

The visions hit.

*

Flash.

Five years old. Sitting on the front porch, knees scraped, tears running down her face. Her dad had promised he’d be home early. That they’d have a "Sydney and Daddy Day." Ice cream. A movie. Maybe the zoo.

But he never came.

Her mother had sighed, handed her a tissue, and said, "Get used to disappointment, sweetheart. It builds character."

*

Flash.

Thirteen. Staring into the mirror, fingers pinching at her stomach. Some bitch at school had made a comment—something small, something casual, something tossed off like it wasn’t devastating.

"Wow, you carry your weight kinda weird."

Sydney hadn’t even been sure what that meant. But she started skipping lunch after that.

*

Flash.

Sixteen. First heartbreak. He had smiled, kissed her, promised she was the only one. She believed it.

Until she saw him with someone else, hand on her waist, laughing like Sydney had never even existed. She smiled when her friends asked if she was okay. Said it was nothing. Inside, she felt like she’d been ripped apart.

*

Flash.

Her crush. The one she never admitted to. The one she convinced herself she didn’t care about. She had watched, waited, reshaped herself into whatever version she thought might finally be enough for him to notice.

But he never did.

*

Flash.

Adam. Her ridiculous, arrogant, protective-as-hell brother. Always acting like he knew everything. Always getting under her skin.

But when the world turned ugly, when people whispered behind her back, when she felt small—Adam had been the one to throw an arm around her shoulders and say, "Fuck ’em, Syd. They ain’t worth your time."

She had rolled her eyes, shoved him off, but deep down? She had believed him.

*

Flash.

Her parents.

Sitting at opposite ends of the dinner table, silent. Forks scraping against plates. No eye contact. No conversation. Just... existing in the same space. Once upon a time, they used to laugh. Her dad used to pull her mom into his arms and dance with her in the kitchen.

Her mom used to steal bites from his plate, grinning like a teenager.

Now? They were just two ghosts wearing human skin.

They shared a house.

Shared food.

Shared kids.

But they didn’t share each other anymore.

*

Flash.

Her mother. Always composed. Always perfect. Always untouchable. But Sydney had seen her once—late at night, standing in front of a mirror, staring. Not fixing her makeup. Not admiring herself.

Just staring.

*

Flash.

Her. Or the version of her she had always believed was real. And suddenly—she wasn’t so sure anymore.

**

Sydney gasped, clutching her chest. "Stop—just stop!"

The voice softened. "You can’t stop the truth. You’ve only been delaying it."

Sydney clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. "Then what am I? If I’m not me, then who the fuck am I?"

Silence.

Then—

"You are who you choose to be. But the normal Sydney? That Sydney is gone."

The moment those words sank in—everything shattered.

*****

Sydney’s eyes snapped open.

But... was she really just Sydney anymore?

The silk sheets clung to her skin like a second layer, smoother than she remembered.

The air felt thicker, heavier, like the whole world was holding its breath. Even the morning light slipping through her massive floor-to-ceiling windows carried an eerie wrongness, like it was staring at someone new.

She sat up slowly, her movements different—poised, effortless. No groggy fumbling. No hair sticking up like a disaster. Her body had shifted, and damn, she could feel it.

The simple girl who went to sleep last night? Not exactly.

Whoever woke up this morning? A fucking new fun but still Sydney!

Sydney swung her legs over the edge of her bed, her toes sinking into the plush white carpet. She stood, her posture straight, graceful, like she’d been sculpted overnight into something out of a forbidden dream.

She walked toward the massive window, her reflection catching her eye.

Holy. Fuck.

Her hair was pure silk, blacker than midnight and shinier than sin, spilling down her back like it was meant to be worshiped. Even gravity seemed afraid to touch it, each strand falling in an effortless, perfect cascade. It begged to be wrapped around fingers, to be gripped, to be pulled. It caught the morning light in a way that made it shimmer, every strand falling into place like it had been sculpted, not grown.

Her skin glowed, smooth and golden, like it had been sculpted by the gods themselves—warm, touchable, almost taunting. Her lips? A masterpiece. Full, plush, the kind of shape that made filthy thoughts feel justified. They parted slightly, as if whispering an invitation, as if daring someone to lean in, to taste. And her eyes—dark, hooded, dangerous. Like she saw right through you and was already two steps ahead.

The nightshirt clung to her in all the wrong ways. Or maybe the right ones. A body sculpted for sin, for temptation. Thighs that pressed together with the perfect kind of softness, long, sleek legs that could straddle power itself. She didn’t just look different. She felt different. She knew exactly what she was now.

A fucking problem.

She should’ve been freaking out.

She wasn’t.

Her fingers brushed the glass as she looked outside. The estate stretched endlessly beneath the golden morning sun, the manicured lawns rolling like waves, every leaf glistening with retreating morning dew.

Her mother had spent years perfecting the gardens—roses, willows, fountains, and stone pathways winding through the greenery like a fantasy come to life.

The world outside was waking up. And yet, standing here, basking in the sun’s approving glow, it felt like she was the only thing that truly existed.

Sydney closed her eyes, exhaling. The warmth kissed her skin, and for a moment, she swore the sun recognized her, acknowledged her. Like it saw something it had never seen before.

A slow smile curved her lips.

This... was going to be fun.

She turned from the window, moving like a slow-burning temptation, every step dripping with an effortless sensuality that wasn’t there before. The silk nightshirt slid from her shoulders, peeling away like it had been dying for the chance to let her body breathe.

It hit the floor in a careless heap, forgotten, abandoned—because nothing could compare to her.

She stood bare, bathed in the golden morning light, and damn if she wasn’t something out of a dream. Her skin was flawless, smooth, glowing like it had been kissed by the sun itself. Her breasts, full and perky, sat high, a perfect balance of softness and firmness that made them look damn near sculpted.

Her nipples—rosy, sensitive—hardened slightly at the cool air, teasing at just how alive she was.

Her waist dipped into a sinful curve, an hourglass so dramatic it could’ve been drawn by a man on his knees, begging for just a taste.

Hips that flared wide, leading down to thighs that pressed together with the kind of plush softness that made people desperate to have them wrapped around their head. Her stomach, taut but with the perfect touch of softness, was made for wandering hands, for fingers tracing the lines of a masterpiece.

Her ass—high, round, so fucking perfect it could make a man forget his own goddamn name.

She stretched, rolling her shoulders, utterly unbothered by her own nakedness. Because why the hell should she be?

She was a problem now.

And with that, she turned, stepping into the bathroom, the promise of hot water and an interesting day ahead curling at the edges of her lips in a knowing smirk.

Sydney stepped into the shower, the warm water cascading over her skin like a lover’s touch.

Steam curled around her, clinging to the smooth curves of her body as the heat soaked into her muscles. She tilted her head back, letting the droplets kiss her neck, glide down her collarbone, and trace the soft swell of her breasts.

The water streamed lower, rolling over her stomach, sliding down the dip of her waist before spilling over the curve of her ass. It slipped between her cheeks, running along the bridge of her most intimate place before vanishing down her thighs.

A shiver ran through her—not from the heat, but from the sensation. The sheer indulgence of it.

She pressed her hands against the cool tile, arching slightly as the water wrapped around her, cleansing, teasing. Every inch of her skin glistened under the soft golden light, droplets clinging to her in shimmering rivulets. She exhaled, long and slow, a smirk tugging at her lips.

*****

Who’s ready for your second Lead Female Character?

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