Island 2 (Patreon)

 Lacey ran along the shore, barely keeping her balance on the slippery sand. Her chest bounced painfully with every step, causing her to instinctively clutch her arms around herself, trying to keep them still. The remote. She had thrown it into the ocean in a fit of rage, but now it was her only hope. It had to be out there somewhere.

Her eyes darted frantically over the surface of the water. Waves crashed against her legs, but she kept running along the beach until she stopped at the spot where she thought the cursed remote might be.

"Damn you, Stephen!" she muttered through heavy breaths, falling to her knees and plunging her hands into the warm water. "It has to be here... it has to be!" Her heart felt like it was about to burst from her chest. Terror screamed inside her. She couldn’t stay like this forever!

Stephen stood at a distance, silently watching as she desperately searched through the sand and water. He didn’t say a word, didn’t try to stop her, just stared, understanding that her search was about more than just finding the remote. It was her last chance.

"Lacey, stop," his voice was calm and cold, as if he already knew the outcome.

"Shut up!" she shouted, not looking back. Water surged around her legs, but she kept digging through the sand, grabbing seaweed, rocks, anything she could find. She had to regain control, even if it meant searching for the remote until she collapsed.

Just when she was about to give up, her fingers finally touched something hard. Lacey froze for a moment before pulling out the remote, covered in seaweed. It was here! She triumphantly raised her hand, exhilarated.

"The remote! The damn remote!" she cried out victoriously, raising it high, then frantically started pressing the button, pointing it at herself.

"Lacey, stop! Don’t do it!" Stephen rushed toward her, realizing Lacey wasn’t in her right mind and that if the remote worked, it could harm both her and the baby, making everything worse. But the remote was wet, covered in sand and seaweed, and didn’t respond to her frantic attempts.

Lacey, undeterred, kept pressing the buttons. Her hands trembled, and when the remote showed no signs of life, her face twisted in despair. She could barely stand as her legs weakened, staring at the dead device.

"Why... why isn’t it working?" her voice shook, tears clouding her vision. She desperately tried pressing the buttons again and again, but to no avail. Stephen, breathing heavily from running, was now beside her, his hands reaching out to stop her before she hurt herself.

"Lacey, stop!" he grabbed her wrist and yanked the remote from her fingers. "Don’t you understand? It won’t work. You’re pregnant!"

Lacey froze, her eyes widening in horror and panic. Her gaze flicked between Stephen and her slightly rounded belly. She yanked her hand free from his grip, taking a step back, staring at him in disbelief at what he had just said.

She stood there, breathing heavily, her eyes filled with terror mixed with a desperate madness. Of course, she knew it. The realization had hit her the moment her fingers first brushed against her slightly swollen belly a few minutes ago after her failed transformation. But she had desperately tried not to think about it, as if ignoring the fact could make it go away.

"Shut up!" she shouted too loudly. "Do you think I’m stupid?" she added, her voice rising sharply before suddenly dropping to a softer tone. "I... I know it... it’s just..." she almost whispered, as if she could barely speak.

Her hands clenched into fists, feeling once again like her body was foreign and unnatural. This enormous chest, these hair, these damn hips! And now the belly. Not just a belly, but a child growing inside her, making it impossible for her to change back!

Stephen watched her, and for the first time, he felt a strange sense of guilt. He shouldn’t have let it go this far. Lawrence, the smug rich man he had hated, had now turned into this crying woman before him. And now, in this body, Lacey... Lawrence... How could he be a father to someone he despised?

"You think I wanted this?" his voice cracked, and he almost hated himself for the weakness. He looked at her, torn with conflicting emotions. "You think I wanted you to stay... like this?" He paused, the words stuck in his throat, then quietly added, "For me to be the father... of Lawrence’s child?"

"Very funny!" Lacey shouted, pushing his hand away, her face contorted in anger and despair. Her voice was sharp, but her words sounded... childish, as if she could no longer express her thoughts coherently. "You did this to me! You turned me into... this!" She frantically grabbed at her chest, painfully squeezing it with both hands as if trying to push them back into her body, as if that could return her to her old self. "These... these huge, heavy things... How do you live with this?!"

Her fingers nervously gripped the soft flesh, feeling a mix of unpleasant emotions as her fingertips brushed against her nipples. Lacey could feel her breasts slipping through her hands, along with the now painfully familiar sensation of arousal, reminding her of her body and its sensitive zones. Disgusted, she let go of her chest, but immediately heard a whistle.

Her world narrowed to the sound of that whistle. Lacey whipped around toward the sea, and her eyes locked with the lecherous stares of sailors approaching in a boat. They watched her every move, their grins and gleaming eyes making it clear they had seen more than she had wanted them to.

"Look, boys, she’s putting on a show for us!" one of them shouted, whistling louder. Their laughter echoed along the shore, and every look felt like it pierced her. "Yeah, baby, shake that ass!"

Lacey instinctively clutched her chest, trying to cover herself. But her hands couldn’t hide all her curves, and she cursed her appearance even more, especially the makeshift clothes made of palm leaves, feeling like a stripper on a nightclub stage.

"Oh, don’t be shy, baby!" another sailor yelled, winking playfully at his buddies. "We’re all your fans!"

"Looking good!" added a third, his eyes glued to her body. "I can only imagine what you guys were up to!" he laughed.

The sailors continued to laugh loudly, their lustful gazes burning into her, making Lacey feel even more humiliated and helpless. Horrified, she pressed against Stephen, her face red with shame. Her reaction wasn’t just instinctive—she no longer knew how to handle situations like this.

"Hey! Enough!" Stephen barked, stepping between Lacey and the sailors. His voice was firm, and for a moment, the laughter stopped. The captain, a stocky old man with a gray beard, raised his hand, signaling his men to be quiet. His gaze was stern, and unlike his crew, he didn’t look at Lacey with lust.

"That’s enough, boys," the captain said, frowning. "We’re here to help, not to make a spectacle."

The sailors reluctantly quieted down, but their eyes still lingered on Lacey, as if trying to memorize every detail of her. Lacey pressed herself tighter against Stephen, her legs trembling from the shame and embarrassment, and for the first time in a long while, she felt small and vulnerable in this body.

"Thank you," she whispered faintly, wishing she could disappear into the ground, her voice sounding strange, almost childlike.

The captain stepped closer to the boat, casting a professional glance at Lacey. He had clearly seen this before—frightened and confused people in distress—and there wasn’t a hint of mockery in his demeanor.

"Get on board," the captain said, nodding toward the boat. "We’ll help you."

Two sailors approached the edge of the boat, extending their hands to help Lacey up. She hesitated, staring at their hands as if she’d forgotten what to do. Her fingers twitched, and reluctantly, she grabbed one of their hands, practically falling into it. "Thank you..." Lacey mumbled, though it sounded more like a child’s babble.

One of the sailors, a burly man with dirty mustache, wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, so tightly that a weak, almost silly giggle escaped her. She couldn’t hold it back. Her gaze briefly focused on his hands, but it quickly darted downward as her chest brushed against the boat’s railing. She gasped at the cold metal against her skin. "Oh!" she exclaimed, and then felt a surge of anger boiling inside her. 'What is this again? Like I’m some sort of toy!' she thought.

"Careful, sweetheart," the sailor smirked, but Lacey seemed distracted by something else, knowing he had said something unpleasant. 'Sweetheart? I’m not...' She wanted to say something, but her thoughts were tangled. She finally made it onto the boat, looking around in confusion and embarrassment. Lacey clenched her jaw, trying not to look at anyone, feeling the sailors’ leering eyes on her.

Once she was on board, the captain tossed her an old sailor’s jacket. Lacey quickly pulled it on, feeling at least a little relief that her body was now somewhat covered. But she could still feel the sailors’ eyes on her, and it was driving her mad.

"I left something on the island," Stephen announced, looking at the captain. "I need to go back for it." Without even a glance at Lacey, Stephen turned quickly and ran toward the island.

Lacey shot up, her eyes widening in terror. "What? No! I’m not staying here alone with them!" she shouted, suddenly realizing the danger. Panic immediately engulfed her. 'He... he left me alone! He... What now? What am I supposed to...' Lacey turned to the sailors, who were grinning, one of them even licking his lips. Her fingers reflexively gripped the jacket, but the fabric couldn’t protect her from their stares.

"Don’t worry, darling, we’ll take good care of you," one of them mocked. Lacey tried to stand straighter, to regain at least a shadow of her former confidence, but her body betrayed her, trembling uncontrollably.

'Darling! Fuck you, I’m not some stupid girl, I’m fucking Lawrence Buffett, and you idiots are going to be fired when I get back and...' Lacey suddenly went silent, realizing that the situation she was in was nothing like what she was used to. How could she prove to anyone that she was still Lawrence when even she was starting to find it hard to believe? She shrank, pulling the jacket tighter around herself, her lips quivering, and her thoughts scattered, making it impossible to focus. Thinking had become too difficult.

The captain frowned but said nothing. Stephen gave her only a brief glance before running off. "I’ll be quick," he said, looking back at Lacey, before disappearing onto the island.

Lacey watched him go, her heart tightening in sudden panic. 'He’s leaving me alone with these...' She glanced nervously at the sailors, feeling their gazes on her. The captain, as if nothing had happened, said, "Don’t worry. These guys are rough, but they wouldn’t dare touch you while I’m around." His voice was calm, but it didn’t reassure Lacey.

"I... I’m not afraid," she lied, feeling sick from the anxiety. The sailors busied themselves with checking the boat and the gear, but their conversations would often slip into quiet whispers and laughter, aimed at Lacey.

The sailors continued to check the equipment and snicker, exchanging glances. Every chuckle felt like it was tearing Lacey apart from the inside. She sat on the edge of the boat, curling up into a ball, nervously adjusting the jacket and trying to cover her chest, which still didn’t fit under the fabric. She kept glancing toward the island, and each minute of waiting felt like an eternity. 'Where is Stephen? He said he’d be back quickly, why isn’t he here?' Her thoughts were jumbled, and she hugged her knees, trying to make herself smaller, to hide what she couldn’t control.

By the time Stephen finally returned from the island, Lacey’s nerves were completely shot. Every rustle, every glance from the sailors seemed to heighten her fear, and the waiting had become unbearable. The sailors still exchanged smirks and chuckled among themselves, but the captain kept them in check. He silently observed Lacey, noticing her distress but chose not to intervene. When Stephen climbed back onto the boat, burdened with a backpack full of tools and other items, Lacey sighed in relief.

"I’m back," he muttered, this time avoiding her gaze. The sailors began preparing the boat to set off. Lacey noticed that some of them still couldn’t take their eyes off her, but they knew better than to do anything under the captain’s watchful eye.

The ship they were headed toward was an old cargo vessel. Huge, rusty, with faded markings on the hull and frayed ropes. It wasn’t a luxurious liner, but a workhorse. Lacey couldn’t hide her disappointment. 'What is this wreck?' she thought with irritation. This place was far from the luxurious life she used to know, but it was something—a reminder of civilization and other people, something she feared she might never see again.

"It’s a fishing boat," the captain explained, noticing her dissatisfaction. "You’re lucky we were even on this route." Lacey didn’t respond. Inside, a strange sense of helplessness began to grow. 'Lucky?' the thought flickered in her mind, but it quickly vanished.

When the boat pulled up alongside the old cargo ship, Lacey, trying to hide her emotions, climbed onto the deck, instinctively staying close to Stephen. The ship was filthy and rusty, and the smell—a mix of salt, fish, and metal—was so strong it made her feel sick. The sailors continued to laugh and cast assessing glances at her, despite the captain’s constant reprimands. Her tension grew with every second.

The captain led them through a narrow corridor to one of the cabins. He opened the door, revealing a cramped room: one bed, a small table, and a barely noticeable porthole. Lacey stared blankly at the bed, which seemed far too small for even one person, let alone two.

"Here’s your cabin," the captain said gruffly, nodding at the tiny space. He noticed Lacey eyeing the room with disbelief and added, "This is the best we’ve got. Sorry, but space is limited."

Lacey frowned. "You mean we have to... share this?" she asked with a mix of rejection and despair, pointing at the bed.

The captain glanced at her rounded belly, pausing on it for a few long seconds. It was clear to him—they were a couple. "Well, looks like you’re already sharing more than just a bed," he said with a slight smirk, clearly hinting at her pregnancy. His comment only fueled Lacey’s frustration.

"We... it’s not what you think," she snapped almost defensively, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.

"Doesn’t matter what I think," the captain shrugged, unwilling to pry into their business. "This isn’t a five-star hotel. You’ll just have to make do. Here, put this on," he added, handing her a rough shirt and some old pants, clearly belonging to one of the sailors. "We don’t get women here, but this is better than your... palm leaves."

Lacey quickly grabbed them, actually relieved to have at least some masculine clothing, and glanced gloomily at Stephen, who was unpacking as if he’d lived there his entire life. She muttered, "Thank you."

The captain nodded and moved toward the exit. He hesitated at the door, as if considering whether to say something more. He turned back, giving Lacey and Stephen a cautious glance, frowning slightly.

"I heard something about a plane crash in these waters a few months back," he said, addressing Stephen. "They searched for a guy for a long time. His father’s a wealthy man, offered a big reward for any information. They’ve been looking for him ever since. You heard anything about that?"

Lacey tensed inside, her heart racing, and panic began to take over her mind. Stephen looked away, pausing for a moment before slowly nodding.

"Yeah, I heard," he said, dropping his eyes to the floor. "That was Lawrence... Lawrence Abbott. He was with me on the plane."

The captain squinted, his gaze sharpening with suspicion. "So you knew him? Is he on that island too?" the captain asked, his voice growing more assertive.

Stephen sighed, feeling the tension in the air rising. He knew the captain wouldn’t leave without clearer answers. Lacey froze, clenching her teeth, trying not to reveal anything, though inside she was boiling. 'Lawrence didn’t survive? What is he talking about?' Her thoughts slowed as if her mind refused to accept what she had just heard.

"Yeah, Lawrence was with us. We crashed, and..." Stephen closed his eyes briefly, as if gathering strength. "He didn’t make it."

The captain narrowed his eyes further, growing more suspicious, but Stephen remained calm. Lacey stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest, every part of her recoiling at what she’d just heard. 'Lawrence... that’s me! How could he say I didn’t survive?! What the hell is he talking about?!' She struggled to process his words, completely unprepared for this revelation.

"What?!" Lacey couldn’t contain her emotions any longer and screamed, nearly dropping the clothes in her hands, her voice trembling with anger and panic. "What did you say? Lawrence... didn’t survive?" She glared at Stephen, her chest heaving with each breath. "What kind of bullshit are you talking about?!”

The captain shot her a quick, attentive glance before turning back to Stephen, clearly waiting for an explanation. Stephen understood the situation was escalating. Lacey was becoming more uncontrollable with each passing moment, and the captain wasn’t going to let it slide. Stephen took a deep breath, as if preparing for a delicate mission, and looked the captain directly in the eyes.

"Sorry about this scene, Captain," Stephen began, pretending to be embarrassed. "Lacey... she was with Lawrence, in a professional capacity, you could say. And she’s... well, you understand, it’s been a long time without a... normal life." He leaned in closer to the captain and whispered, "She’s got hormones going wild, you know."

Lacey nearly choked on her own rage and helplessness, her eyes darting between Stephen and the captain. "What?! What the hell are you talking about, Stephen?!" she yelled, her voice trembling with fury. "I’m Lawrence! I’m alive!" Her fists clenched, and her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if she were on the verge of exploding.

The captain raised an eyebrow, clearly not understanding what kind of spectacle was unfolding. "What is going on here?"

"Women..." Stephen rolled his eyes, taking a deep breath. "She’s pregnant, and that island, you know, it can mess with your head. I’ve gotten used to it. One minute she’s angry, then she’s crying, then she thinks we’re the only ones left in the world, and now she’s convinced she’s Lawrence Abbott!" Stephen nodded toward Lacey, as if confirming his story. "This isn’t the first time she’s... well, had one of these episodes."

Lacey stood still, her face turning crimson from what she was hearing. "What the hell are you... what are you talking about?!" she screamed, full of rage and desperation. "I’m not... I’m not..." She couldn’t finish the sentence, her thoughts scattering, and the words that left her mouth came out disjointed.

"See?" Stephen continued, clearly trying to maintain control of the situation. "Just ignore it, Captain. Once we get back to the mainland, everything will settle down. It’s just stress." He lowered his voice again, whispering, "She was close to Lawrence. Very close, if you catch my drift."

The captain chuckled, glancing at Lacey with a mix of sympathy and pity as he eyed her rounded belly. "Well, that explains a lot. These rich boys... always leaving behind 'gifts' like that."

"You... what?!" Lacey stepped toward Stephen, her hands trembling with rage. "I’m not pregnant with Lawrence’s child! I am Lawrence!"

The captain squinted, now with a clear sense of disbelief. "You’re telling me you’re Lawrence Abbott?" he asked, tilting his head, his tone making it obvious he found the claim ridiculous.

Stephen sighed again, feigning exhaustion. "Captain, like I said, it’s her way of coping with the loss. Sometimes she imagines she’s Lawrence. It’s her defense mechanism or something." He tapped his finger against his temple, as if suggesting Lacey’s mental state was unstable.

The captain burst out laughing, finally stepping out of the cabin. "Well, alright then, folks. We’ll reach port soon, and I’ll let someone know about you. Maybe you’ll be worth a reward or something," he chuckled as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Lacey nearly choked with outrage. She stood frozen, feeling the rage boiling inside her. "Stephen, you... you sick bastard!" She stepped toward him, her breathing heavy.

Stephen raised his hands, trying to calm her down. "Lacey, please, calm down. It’s not as bad as it seems. We’re just trying to make it to the port."

"To the port?!" she yelled again, her voice shaking with emotion. "You told them I’m pregnant, that I’m hormonal... after everything I’ve been through?!" She clenched her fists, trying to channel her anger into words, but they didn’t come as smoothly as they used to. "I am Lawrence, damn it! And you know it! Why are you saying this?!"

Stephen looked at her, exhausted, his shoulders slumped as if he was on the verge of giving up. "Lacey... or Lawrence, whatever. Listen to me." He stepped closer, maintaining a calm tone even though he was boiling inside. "Now is not the time to argue. We have to get to the port. These people—this is not the crowd to be telling the truth to. They won’t believe you. You think they’ll listen if you tell them you’re Lawrence, a man who turned into... this?" He gestured toward her swollen belly and her body. "They’ll either laugh or, worse, lock you up in a mental institution when we get there."

"But it’s true!" Lacey shot back, her face contorting in frustration. "I am Lawrence. I can prove it!" She desperately searched for the words to reclaim her confidence, but nothing came. Her mind felt blank, thoughts circling around a single notion: I’m Lawrence. I have to prove it.

Stephen shook his head slowly. "And how are you going to prove it? Look at yourself, Lacey! God, why are you suddenly talking like a child?!"

Lacey froze, Stephen’s words echoing in her head like hammer blows. She tried to gather her thoughts, but every sentence she wanted to say seemed to dissolve on the tip of her tongue. 'Talking like a child? What nonsense is this?!' She let out a shaky breath, trying to calm herself, but the anger and fear were overwhelming her.

"You’re talking complete nonsense, Stephen!" Lacey screamed, her voice breaking. Instead of the usual firmness and confidence, it came out as a nervous shriek. "I... I’m not some... child!" Her words were disjointed, and that only made her feel even more vulnerable.

Stephen sighed heavily, glancing around the cramped cabin they were stuck in. The single bed looked tiny, the space around them felt suffocating. He looked at Lacey, and for a moment, a flicker of sympathy crossed his face.

"Lacey," he started, trying to speak calmly, almost in a whisper, so as not to provoke another outburst. "Listen, I’m not trying to hurt you. But let’s be honest: what are you going to say to these people? That you were Lawrence Abbott, a rich man, and now you’ve turned into a woman and... are pregnant? You think they’ll believe you? They’ll think it’s insane."

Lacey shot up from the bed and took a few steps around the cabin, as if trying to work through her anger with movement. Her body was shaking, and every word from Stephen hit her like a blow, waves of helplessness crashing over her. "I’m not staying like this!" she shouted, her voice trembling again. "I’ll find a way to turn back! That remote..." She pointed at the remote lying on the bed next to Stephen. "I’ll fix it! I... I just have to go back!"

Stephen shook his head, his gaze softening though his wariness remained. "You don’t understand. For now, you’re stuck in this body. We don’t know if we can ever change you back. It might be too late."

Lacey froze, her hands instinctively wrapping around her swollen belly. "Don’t say that!" she raised her voice again, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

Stephen stood from the bed and walked over to Lacey, stopping beside her. His face was tense, but there was a look of determination in his eyes. "We have to get to the port," he said firmly, bringing the conversation back to the main point. "That’s all that matters right now. We’ll find a place to fix the remote, but for now... you have to accept it. And you need to think about the baby."

"What?!" Lacey spun around to face him, her eyes wide with horror. "You want me to accept this?!" She swallowed hard. "No-no-no!... no, I’m not going to give birth! I... I’m Lawrence, damn it!" she added, but her voice lacked the certainty it once had.

She was desperately trying to express her thoughts, but her mind was tangled, as if even her reasoning was becoming less sharp. Her words came out in fragments, and each time she tried to speak, it sounded ridiculous.

Stephen noticed this. He watched her, and his expression grew more contemplative. Lawrence, even in this form, had always been sharp and calculating. But now, it seemed she was losing control not only of her body but also of her mind. Her speech was becoming disjointed, her thoughts muddled—she seemed... dim. Not in the sense of being naive or careless, but as if she was losing the ability to think clearly. This wasn’t the Lawrence he knew.

"Lacey..." Stephen began, trying to be as tactful as possible. "Do you... do you realize something’s wrong with you? I’m not just talking about your body. You’re acting differently. Talking differently."

"What?!" she flared up again, her face twisting with anger. "What are you trying to say? I’m just... angry, that’s all! Anyone in my position would be furious!" Her hands trembled as she nervously adjusted her hair, as if trying to regain some sense of control.

Lacey froze, her face twisting with frustration and confusion. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words caught in her throat, turning into incoherent fragments. Stephen watched her, and the longer this awkward pause stretched on, the more a painful realization settled in him. The Lawrence he once knew had been sharp, clever, and sometimes even too cunning. But the person standing before him now was different. And not just in appearance.

“Stephen… You… You…” Lacey stammered, struggling to form the words, as if she couldn’t find the right ones. She raised a hand in an attempt to express her frustration, but her fingers trembled as though she’d lost confidence in her own body.

“I’m just angry!” she repeated, unable to think of anything else to say. Her voice came out unexpectedly childlike, almost petulant. “You think I… I’m stupid, don’t you?!” Her eyes flashed with anger, but there was none of the firmness that used to belong to Lawrence. “You think I’m… dumb? I’m not… some stupid doll!” She nervously adjusted her hair again and quickly changed into the clothes the captain had given her, not even thinking about it. She just needed to keep her hands busy while Stephen tried to figure out how to respond.

Stephen looked at her intently, his expression turning serious. He could see that something had fundamentally changed in her after the failed attempt to reverse her transformation. “You’re not stupid, Lacey, but you’ve changed. And it’s obvious. You’re not talking the way you used to. You’ve become… less put together.”

Lacey froze, her eyes narrowing, and she whipped around to face Stephen. “You’re talking nonsense! I… I’m just angry! Who wouldn’t be furious in my position?! That’s normal!”

“You’ve said that several times now,” Stephen replied, noticing how her face once again twisted in irritation. He looked exhausted, as if the whole situation was draining the last of his energy.

“So what?” Lacey snapped, her voice shaking with rage. “I’m just… just…” She trailed off again, unable to find the right words. 'Why is this so hard?!' she thought, feeling trapped. Her thoughts seemed to slip through her fingers like water. 'Does he think I’m some dumb chick?! That I can’t control myself?! I’m Lawrence! I was… I am… Damn it…'

Stephen sat down on the opposite edge of the bed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Listen,” he began cautiously, as if afraid his words would set her off again, “you need to calm down. No one’s going to believe your story. They won’t listen if you tell them you’re Lawrence Abbott. It’s too… strange. Even for me, and I saw it all happen.”

Lacey bit her lip, her eyes darting around the room as if she was searching for an answer in the peeling walls and rusted metal fixtures. “I’m not strange…” she muttered.

“And the most important thing, Lacey, is that as long as you’re carrying this child… the transformation back might be impossible.” Stephen finished, his eyes locking onto Lacey’s, which seemed vacant.

“What?” Lacey stared at him, not understanding. “The baby… is stopping it?”

“Looks that way… God, is it really not obvious to you? Do you really not get it?” Stephen was growing more convinced of his theory that Lacey had changed permanently.

“I do get it! Stop talking to me like that! But I don’t understand what the baby has to do with it! I can’t give birth, I’m a man! I… I…” she broke down, tears welling up, and unexpectedly threw her arms around him, sobbing. “Stephen, I’m scared!”

Stephen froze when Lacey suddenly hugged him, her body trembling with sobs. This moment caught him off guard, bringing back memories of their time on the island and the closeness they had shared—times when he almost forgot who she had once been. He gently returned her embrace, softly running his hand along her back, and whispered, “Lacey, it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure it out. Just hold on.”

She cried on his shoulder, her tears soaking his shirt. In that moment, she looked completely vulnerable, and despite the complexity of the situation, Stephen felt something akin to love. She was no longer the arrogant rich man he had once despised. Now she was a broken woman, her body and mind crumbling under the weight of everything that had happened.

“I’m scared,” Lacey whispered, her voice trembling as if she had lost control of herself. “I can’t go on like this anymore…”

…

Days on the ship seemed to stretch endlessly, as though time had come to a standstill. Each morning began the same way: the dull hum of machinery, the damp smell of rusted metal, and the slight chill seeping through the small porthole, a window through which barely any light entered. Lacey often woke up before dawn, nervously throwing off the blanket and staring at her body. It was hers, and after the days spent on the island, she had grown somewhat used to it. But now, as they returned to civilization, her body felt foreign, and even touching it—her belly, her chest—filled her with disgust.

Stephen had offered to sleep on the floor, and for the first few nights, he did, using a folded jacket as a makeshift pillow. At first, Lacey didn’t care. She was too lost in her own thoughts, in chaotic, unclear plans. But by the second or third day, she found herself occasionally searching for his gaze—just a glance—as if she needed reassurance that he was still there. Sleeping alone in that small bed felt strange, and she tossed and turned, as if something was missing. She pushed those thoughts away, but a part of her longed for the sense of safety she had felt during those evenings together, held in Stephen’s arms.

In the evenings, they barely spoke, and Lacey would sit, staring at the wall or her hands, not knowing how to act around him anymore. After everything that had happened, she felt not only irritation toward Stephen but also a strange need for his presence, as though it calmed her. She couldn’t understand why. Maybe it was partly due to the fear of the sailors, who still eyed her, though after the captain’s intervention, no one openly flirted or teased her anymore.

One evening, while lying in bed, Lacey finally gathered the courage to talk to Stephen about something important. He was sitting by the door, leaning against a sack filled with tools. His face was tired but calm.

“Stephen,” her voice was quiet, almost uncertain. He didn’t react right away, and she swallowed nervously, feeling the difficulty of expressing what she wanted to say.

“Yeah?” he finally answered, not lifting his eyes, still staring at the wall.

“Do you… do you think they’ll believe I’m Lawrence when we get home?” Lacey swallowed again. The question sounded strange even to her own ears, as if she no longer entirely believed it herself.

Stephen slowly straightened up, looked at her, and his gaze was serious, but slightly weary. “Lacey, I don’t know. Honestly, it’ll be hard. People… they don’t believe in things like this. And you’re already…” He stopped, as if he didn’t want to continue.

“What?” she interrupted sharply, trying to rise from the bed, but the heaviness in her belly forced her back down. “You think I won’t be able to? You think they won’t recognize me? I’m their son!” she said loudly, realizing how foolish that now sounded.

Stephen sighed, folding his arms and looking tiredly at Lacey. “Yes, their son…” he said slowly, making Lacey shiver. “Listen, I don’t know if you get it or not, but you’ve changed, not just on the outside, but inside too. It’s obvious to me now. And to them. Even if they believe you, they’ll remember you as a man—as Lawrence, who was sharp, precise with his words… authoritative. But now…” He trailed off, choosing his words carefully, but the silence only angered Lacey further.

“What do you mean, ‘now’?!” Lacey shouted, her voice trembling not from confidence but from the inner panic she was trying to suppress. Anger, mixed with hurt, burst out like a defensive wall. She knew she had changed, but she wasn’t ready to admit it, not even to herself.

Stephen averted his gaze, as though he didn’t want to meet her eyes. He sighed, clearly tired of endless explanations. “Now you’re not the same as you were. You don’t talk, you don’t think like Lawrence. And it’s not just because of how you look.”

“You think I’m stupid?!” Lacey jumped off the bed, feeling her chest bounce, though that didn’t bother her as much as it annoyed her. She constantly felt the tension in her belly, the growing life inside her body becoming more and more prominent. It all felt so wrong. And when Stephen spoke about how she had changed, it only made her feel it more intensely.

But she was still Lawrence, right? She tried to remind herself of that, but with each passing day, that certainty crumbled like sand slipping through her fingers. And the thought of going home to her parents began to stir not hope, but fear. 'They’ll recognize me,' she thought firmly. 'I can prove it. I’ll tell them something only I could know.' But doubts were creeping in, ones she feared to voice.

“You’re not stupid, Lacey,” Stephen slowly rose from the floor, looking at her with a strange mixed expression—care and wariness. “But you’re not Lawrence anymore, at least not in how you act.”

Those words hit like a slap. Lacey clutched the bedframe, feeling her legs suddenly turn weak. She stared at him, her lips trembling, though she tried to hold back tears. 'I’m not… I’m not stupid!' She wanted to shout it again, but something held her back. Instead, she quietly whispered, “I’ll prove it. When we get home… I’ll find a way.”

Stephen didn’t argue. He knew that any reasoning would be useless now. Lacey was desperately clinging to her old identity, but with each day, it became harder and harder. And while he didn’t know if she fully realized how much she had changed, it was clear to him that something much deeper was happening inside her than just the physical transformation.

Lacey sat back down on the bed, her eyes fixed on the wall. Thoughts crawled slowly and painfully through her mind, like a thick fog. 'When I see them… I’ll say… what? How?' She understood that it would be incredibly difficult, perhaps even impossible, but she didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t admit it—to lose control like that.

She needed to do something to regain that control. At least over the situation here and now. After a minute of silence, where both of them sank into their thoughts, she spoke again. “Stephen…” Her voice was quieter, almost uncertain. She looked at him as if searching for something that could reassure her. But even now, in their isolated cabin, she felt a tense emptiness between them. She was no longer in the circumstances where she depended completely on him, like on the island. Back then, she had needed his support and protection, but now it felt different, distant.

Stephen sat in silence, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. He was waiting for her words but said nothing. Lacey suddenly felt her thoughts jump from one thing to another, without a clear plan, but with a growing sense of loneliness. She turned away so he wouldn’t see her face and, after a pause, mumbled, “I… think you don’t have to sleep on the floor anymore.”

Stephen looked up in surprise. He clearly hadn’t expected that.

“You can… lie down next to me. It’s just…” She trailed off, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. 'What am I saying? Why am I saying this?' But she couldn’t take her words back. She needed something to bring her a sense of safety, even if it went against all her inner conflicts. “It’s just more comfortable,” she added in a shaky voice, avoiding his gaze. “You… you used to sleep next to me,” she added, gripping the metal edge of the bed tightly. 'Why is he silent? Do I really have to say I’m… scared? That I want him to be close? That’s… wrong, damn it!'

But Stephen, though clearly confused, nodded calmly. “Lacey,” Stephen began cautiously, coming closer and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Do you really want that?”

She didn’t answer right away, too absorbed in shame for her thoughts. It was so far from the Lawrence she had once been—a strong, authoritative man who would never have allowed such weakness. But now… she just nodded, still looking away so he wouldn’t see her face.

Stephen, noticing her embarrassment, quietly lay down on the bed next to her, leaving as much space between them as the small cot allowed. He understood that Lacey was now clinging to him, not out of physical need, but out of fear that her world was crumbling. An awkward silence settled between them, but Lacey realized, despite all her internal protests, that she felt better. She could sense him nearby, and her body, despite her mind’s resistance, reached for that feeling—the feeling of safety she had lost with her old life.

She lay on her side and closed her eyes. Her thoughts were tangled once more. 'When we get back… I’ll explain everything. They’ll understand. It’s just a matter of time.' But even these thoughts no longer gave her the confidence they once had.

…

When the ship finally arrived at the port, Lacey felt a mixture of relief and anxiety. Life bustled around her: people scurrying back and forth, loud voices, the sounds of machines, and the shouts of dockworkers. She stood by the rail, clutching the metal, feeling the wind whip her hair around as the sailors behind her talked amongst themselves. Despite all this, her focus remained on the approaching port.

“Finally…” she muttered, feeling the nervousness build inside her.

Stephen stood next to her, silently staring ahead, clearly lost in his own thoughts. He understood that this was not the end of their journey, but the beginning of new problems.

When they finally docked, a group of rescuers approached them. Stephen immediately became the center of attention—he was recognized at once.

“Captain Stephen James? Is that really you?” one of them said, looking at the pilot with astonishment before glancing at Lacey, trying to figure out who the woman next to him was. He was clearly confused.

“Yes, it’s me,” Stephen responded calmly, adjusting his clothes. “We survived a crash... who knows what would have happened to us if it hadn’t been for these people.” He gave a grateful look toward the captain and crew.

Lacey stood to the side, her fingers nervously tracing the railing, gripping the metal so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The rescuers gave her curious looks—not hostile, but filled with a mix of curiosity and confusion. She took a deep breath, trying to muster some semblance of confidence, but inside, everything was trembling.

A young rescuer stepped closer, looking at Stephen with visible respect, then glanced at Lacey again, unsure of how to address her. “And you… who are you?” he asked, hesitating as if unsure of how to refer to her.

'I’m Lawrence!' she thought, but Stephen quickly interrupted, “This is Lacey. She… accompanied Lawrence Abbott on the flight.” He gave Lacey a quick warning look, telling her not to say too much. “She was with us when we crashed.”

Lacey felt a wave of anger rise within her. 'He’s at it again! Why won’t he just tell them?!'

“Lawrence... Abbott?” the young man asked, his gaze shifting between Lacey and Stephen, as if something in her face or expression made him doubt the pilot’s words, but then he refocused on Stephen.

“Yes, Lawrence Abbott,” Stephen nodded, not letting the pause linger. “Unfortunately, he didn’t survive…” he said quietly, his eyes briefly meeting Lacey’s.

In that moment, Lacey couldn’t take it anymore. Her eyes filled with rage, and she stepped forward, raising her hand to catch the rescuers’ attention. “I’m Lawrence!” she shouted, her voice breaking with emotion and frustration. Her eyes darted between the crew, searching for any sign of understanding. “I am Lawrence Abbott! It’s true, you have to believe me!”

The men exchanged glances, some chuckling, but one young man, whose attention had been caught by her outburst, tensed and stepped closer. The ship's crew laughed, watching the scene unfold as if it were some kind of farce.

“You… Lawrence Abbott?” he muttered, looking directly at Lacey, his gaze filled with doubt, but not outright disbelief.

“Yes!” Lacey insisted, her face contorting with desperation. She knew how ridiculous she looked—pregnant, with messy hair, dressed in the sailor’s clothing—but she couldn’t back down now. “Stephen… he’s lying. I’m not Lacey, I’m Lawrence!”

Stephen stepped forward, gently placing his hand on her shoulder, but Lacey pushed his hand away. She wasn’t going to let him control the situation again.

The young rescuer hesitated, glancing between Lacey and Stephen. He clearly didn’t know what to do. The tension at the dock was rising: laughter, the sailors’ sidelong glances, and the murmurs of voices seemed to amplify Lacey’s internal turmoil. She stood there, her body trembling with anger and desperation. Her eyes were wide with panic, and though she tried to appear confident, it was a fragile mask that was ready to crumble at any moment.

“Listen, miss…” the rescuer began, but Lacey didn’t let him finish.

“I’m not miss!” she screamed, feeling her voice crack again. “I’m Lawrence Abbott! Don’t you get it?!” Her hands fidgeted nervously, as if she couldn’t find peace in her own body. She felt like no one was taking her seriously, as if the entire world had conspired to ignore her cries for help. But her words sounded more like the tantrums of a child than the firm declaration of an adult.

Stephen stepped in, doing his best to smooth over the situation. “She’s not well,” he whispered to the rescuer, his voice filled with artificial softness, as though he was speaking about a sick child. “The island… there was a lot of stress, and… she’s dealing with it in her own way. I’ll answer any questions you have.”

Lacey jerked, trying to protest, but something inside her snapped. She suddenly realized that no one would believe her and averted her gaze.

…

In the speeding ambulance heading to the nearest medical center, Lacey sat silently, pressed against the window as if trying to escape from a world that refused to recognize her. The sights of a small port town flickered by. She realized she was in Brazil, judging by the language spoken by the doctors and rescuers, Portuguese. Their quiet conversations flowed like an endless stream of incomprehensible words.

The town looked old and slightly run-down, like many coastal towns along trade and fishing routes. Dirty streets, peeling paint on buildings, fish markets with nets hanging along the walls. The contrast between the wealthier houses near the center and the dilapidated, half-ruined structures on the outskirts was striking. Vendors with carts bustled through the streets, and Lacey noticed signs in Portuguese—"mercado," "peixe fresco."

Stephen sat next to her, his face calm, but inside, he was in turmoil. He knew their story would be thoroughly investigated. At one point, he caught Lacey’s eye and felt a sharp pang of guilt. This woman in front of him was a remnant of the Lawrence he had once hated but also cared for as a friend. Now, everything was mixed together.

When they arrived at the hospital, a group of doctors and nurses quickly took Lacey to a private room, understanding her delicate condition—the pregnancy was obvious, and it required careful monitoring. Stephen remained in the corridor, waiting for the examination to finish.

Lacey lay on the cold examination table, her heart pounding so loudly she feared it might burst from her chest. Her thoughts were muddled. She didn’t know what to feel anymore. As the doctor performed the ultrasound, she glanced at the screen, struggling to accept that there was another person growing inside her. It was hard to believe this was really happening!

The doctor studied the results carefully, then looked at Lacey with caution. "Your condition is stable, but you need more rest. Stress can harm both you and the baby." His voice was gentle, as if he didn’t want to frighten her, and Lacey only nodded, unsure of what to say.

'The baby,' she thought again. She couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t be a mother. She was Lawrence! But with each day, each movement of her body, reality pressed harder.

…

When they left the hospital, Lacey and Stephen were taken to a local hotel, which served as temporary housing for survivors of accidents. The small room with one bed and an old wardrobe was modest, but it didn’t matter. It was better than anything they’d had in the past few months.

On the bed lay a change of clothes that the nurses had brought: a simple blouse and skirt. Lacey looked at the outfit with disgust, her face twisting in anger. She didn’t want to wear women’s clothes. She wanted something that would remind her of who she had been.

"What is this?" she demanded, pointing at the clothes as Stephen entered the room.

He glanced at her calmly, as if he had grown used to her outbursts. "It’s all they have," he said, trying not to aggravate her further.

Lacey clenched her fists, feeling the anger boiling up inside her again. She looked at the blouse and skirt with a scowl—it felt like a cruel joke.

She stepped back from the bed, crossing her arms over her chest in disgust. "I’m not wearing this," she said, stomping her foot. Her hands involuntarily balled into fists. Stephen, standing by the window, watched silently, not wanting to interfere. He knew that any attempt to calm her would only spark another emotional explosion. "Is this a joke? I’m not a woman!"

Stephen, still by the window, observed her, refraining from stepping in. He understood that she was struggling with every change in her body, but he also knew that, right now, there was no changing reality.

Stephen sighed. "Lacey," he began calmly, stepping toward the bed and picking up the skirt she despised so much. "This is the only clothing they gave us. We have to adapt... at least for now."

"Don’t call me Lacey!" she shouted, her voice breaking, her eyes filling with tears. "I… I’m not Lacey! Damn it, I’m Lawrence!" Her face flushed with rage, and she turned away from him, unable to bear looking at the betraying women’s clothes any longer.

She grabbed the clothes and squeezed them tightly in her small hands. "I won’t wear this," she repeated stubbornly, but her voice was weaker than before. The words sounded more like a child’s tantrum than a firm declaration from the Lawrence she still tried to hold on to. Her body betrayed her—her chest, her belly—it was all too real, too undeniable, and she knew it. She looked away from the clothes, as if that could help her avoid another blow to her pride.

Stephen, without lifting his head, replied softly, almost in a whisper, "I understand you don’t want to, but you need to think about the baby. Now isn’t the time to argue and get worked up."

"Don’t talk to me about the baby!" she snapped, turning toward him. "I’m not going to have it!" Her voice faltered again, and she instinctively placed her hands over her belly, as if trying to shield herself from the truth. "I can’t be a mother. I’m Lawrence!"

Stephen simply looked at her, his expression attentive but weary. He no longer knew how to help her—or whether that was even possible.

Lacey turned away again, sighing heavily. Inside, she felt the anger and helplessness boiling over. She tried to hold back the tears that were welling up in her eyes. 'I won’t cry,' she repeated to herself. 'I’m Lawrence. I won’t cry.'

“Fine, damn it…” she muttered, sitting on the bed and starting to change dress. “Turn around!” she snapped, seeing Stephen obey as she began to change.

…

The next day: meeting with the rescuers.

The small interrogation room in the police station, where Lacey and Stephen were taken, felt stifling despite the ceiling fan lazily spinning above. Lacey nervously smoothed the hem of her skirt, blushing at how she looked, sitting on the hard chair across from the officers. The table was simple, with a couple of folders and a laptop. Through the slightly open window, sounds from the port seeped in: fishermen’s shouts, machine engines, and barking dogs.

"Senhora, senhor, please state your names," began one of the officers in Portuguese, his gaze fixed on Lacey. The younger officer, translating into English, looked more interested.

"I’m Stephen James, the pilot of the plane. This is Lacey, she was a passenger with… Lawrence Abbott," Stephen said, hesitating slightly as he mentioned Lawrence’s name. Lacey sat next to him, tensely wringing her fingers. Her gaze was locked on the officers, but inside, everything was boiling.

The officers exchanged glances before continuing. "Where is Lawrence Abbott?" one of them asked, his tone laced with suspicion as he looked at the pair.

Lacey couldn’t hold back and snapped her head up, blurting out, "I’m Lawrence Abbott!" Her voice came out sharp, almost hysterical. She felt something churn inside her as she noticed the officers exchanging confused looks.

Stephen sighed quietly, glancing at Lacey, then added, "As I mentioned, she’s been through a lot of stress. It’s hard to explain, but Lacey believes she’s Lawrence."

The younger officer raised an eyebrow and muttered something to his colleague in Portuguese, who nodded and pulled out a folder. Then, in English, he continued, "We will need to conduct some tests to confirm your identity, senhora. Fingerprints, and at the insistence of the rescuers," he rolled his eyes, "a DNA test. We’ve already requested the databases through international channels. It will take some time, but we need to verify everything."

Lacey felt her fingers clench even tighter. 'Fingerprints? DNA? Don’t they understand I’m telling the truth?' She took a deep breath, trying to calm down, but the panic inside was rising. 'I’m Lawrence! Why don’t they believe me?'

The officers asked Lacey to give her hand for fingerprinting. Reluctantly, she extended her palm, feeling the cold surface of the device against her skin. One officer silently watched the process, while another made a few notes in the laptop, sending her to the medical office for the DNA test.

“This will take a few hours, senhor,” the remaining officer said to Stephen.

Several hours later, Lacey sat in the small room, nervously tapping her fingers on the armrests of the chair. The air was thick, and with every breath, it seemed harder to breathe. She glanced at Stephen, who stood quietly by the wall, staring off into the distance. He seemed calm, but Lacey felt irritated by his presence. He always knew better than her, always kept his cool. 'Of course, it’s easy for him,' she thought bitterly. 'He’s not the one stuck in this body, pregnant.'

The officers finally returned, and one of them, a thin man with gray at his temples, took the lead.

"Senhora, senhor," began one of the officers, the thin man with sharply defined cheekbones and gray hair at his temples. His English carried a strong Portuguese accent. "We conducted all the necessary checks, and the results… are unexpected."

Lacey tensed, her gaze darting between the officers. Something was wrong. She could feel that everything was about to change—her world was about to be flipped upside down.

"We checked your fingerprints through the international database," the officer continued, his eyes meeting Lacey’s with effort. "They matched the prints of a missing British citizen named Emma Doyle, who disappeared about three months ago."

Lacey felt herself shrinking inward, as if reality was slipping away from her. "Emma Doyle?" The words barely escaped her dry throat.

The officer nodded. "Yes, senhora. Your fingerprints are registered in the international database as belonging to Emma Doyle. We’ve already contacted her family in England, and her—excuse me—your husband, uh," he read the name slowly, "Thomas Doyle, is extremely anxious to speak with you." He paused, as if giving Lacey time to digest this shocking information.

"But... there’s been a mistake," Lacey croaked. "I’m not Emma... I... I..." Her words were lost in the whirl of her thoughts. Every fiber of her being rebelled against these absurd accusations.

"We understand your concern, senhora," the officer continued gently, "but fingerprints don’t lie. Based on this data, we believe you are Emma Doyle."

Stephen, who had been silently watching until now, stepped forward with a grim look. "This is impossible. She... she’s not Emma. You can’t rely on fingerprints alone."

The officer exchanged glances with his colleague, then turned back to Stephen. "At this point, we have to follow protocol. The British consulate has already been notified, and they intend to help facilitate her return to England. The paperwork will take a few days, but her—your family is waiting for her return."

At that moment, one of the officers near the door quietly muttered to his partner, "Mais uma puta rica que foi brincar de boneca com um gringo." ("Another rich whore who went to play doll with a foreigner.")

Lacey immediately tensed up. She didn’t catch the entire phrase, but the word "puta" cut through her like a sharp blade. Her heart began to race, and fragmented thoughts swirled in her mind, making her nauseous. She jumped to her feet.

"What did you say?!" Lacey stepped forward, her eyes blazing with fury. Her hands shook, but she couldn’t allow herself to show weakness. She had endured those looks, those whispers behind her back, but this was too much.

The officer by the door turned away, clearly not expecting Lacey to understand any part of his comment.

Stephen frowned, sensing the tension and realizing that something the officer had said had triggered Lacey. He quickly stepped toward her, trying to calm her down.

"Lacey, it’s just idle talk. Don’t react. We’re not in a position to cause a scene," he said quietly but firmly.

"Don’t react?" She turned on him, her voice breaking. "Did you hear what they said about me? They think I’m some kind of... some kind of whore!" The words poisoned her from within, causing her to lose control.

The officer who had been speaking stepped closer, his face tense. "Please, senhora, calm down. No one meant to insult you."

But Lacey was already too far gone. "I’m not some 'puta'!" she shouted, unable to hold herself back.

Stephen tightened his grip on her shoulder. "Lacey, none of this matters. What matters is finding out the truth." He turned to the officer, who was now visibly uncomfortable. "What about the DNA test?" he asked, trying to maintain his composure.

The officer exchanged a look with his colleague, weighing Stephen’s words. He sighed. "Yes, senhor, we’ve already started the process for the DNA test. But, as you know, it will take several weeks. In the meantime, we must follow procedure and rely on the current evidence—fingerprints and documents."

Lacey, still breathing heavily, slowly sat back down. The panic and anger were giving way to a deep, hollow exhaustion. The thought of waiting several weeks to prove her true identity only added to her sense of helplessness. But what terrified her most was the idea of being sent to England, to live with strangers, playing the role of a woman she wasn’t.

"Weeks?!" Stephen’s voice sharpened, his frustration clear. "That’s too long. We can’t wait that long."

The officer frowned but tried to explain. "We can’t speed up the process, senhor. This is standard procedure. As long as we have no reason to doubt the fingerprint results, the British authorities are requesting her immediate return home. We need to wait for the consular documents. Please understand, we’re doing everything we can."

"And then what?" Lacey asked quietly, her eyes staring blankly into the distance. "I’m supposed to go back to England? To live with... with this man who thinks I’m his wife?"

The officer nodded. "Yes, senhora. We are obligated to return you to England as soon as the formalities are completed. It’s a matter of safety and international agreements." With a gesture toward the door, he indicated that the conversation was over.

…

The next morning, Lacey and Stephen were waiting in a private terminal at the airport. The atmosphere was tense, despite the early hour. The Brazilian heat seeped in, even through the walls of the terminal. Lacey nervously adjusted her clothes, the ones they had given her earlier, cursing everything in her mind. Her long hair, tangled and poorly brushed, making it difficult to concentrate.

Stephen sat next to her, absentmindedly tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair. He avoided making eye contact with her but was clearly just as nervous. The room was too quiet, and every sound seemed louder than it should have—the hum of the air conditioner, the footsteps of terminal staff, the distant roar of engines outside.

"He’ll recognize me, Stephen," Lacey suddenly said, her voice uncertain. She didn’t fully believe what she was saying, but she needed something to hold on to, however fragile. "He’s my father. He’ll know it’s me."

Stephen glanced at her with doubt but said nothing. He had grown used to Lacey’s strange, sometimes nonsensical comments, as if she didn’t fully understand what she was saying. He sighed, throwing a glance at Jason—the young rescuer who, for some reason, had decided to stay and help them despite all the uncertainties. Jason stood a little off to the side, looking as if he, too, didn’t know what to expect.

"He’ll be here any minute," Jason said softly, watching Stephen and Lacey with a mixture of concern and pity. He was clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation but felt he couldn’t just walk away.

When the plane’s arrival was announced, the tension in the room spiked. Lacey inhaled sharply, her heart pounding. Her fingers started to tremble as she absentmindedly adjusted her clothes. She tried to collect her thoughts, but everything inside her was jumbled.

'He’ll recognize me. I’m Lawrence. I know how to prove it,' she repeated to herself, trying to suppress the rising panic. But with each passing moment, it became harder to believe it.

A few minutes later, Richard Abbott appeared on the horizon. Tall, fit, with a determined stride and steely gaze, he walked toward them quickly. His face was hard and unreadable, but Stephen knew that beneath the cold exterior, Richard was deeply troubled. Richard always managed to keep his composure, but Stephen sensed his worry.

"Stephen!" Richard’s voice was sharp as he called out the moment he approached them. "Where’s my son? What happened?"

Lacey tensed, her hands shaking. She felt everything inside her tighten with anxiety. Richard glanced around quickly, clearly expecting to see Lawrence, and his expression darkened when he didn’t.

"Where is he, Stephen?" Richard’s eyes narrowed, full of suspicion and anger. "What the hell happened on that goddamned island?" He threw a quick look at Lacey, his gaze lingering on her chest and her rounded belly. "And what the hell is this? Who’s this whore you brought along?" he spat, his words dripping with disdain, as if her mere presence was an insult.

Lacey flinched at his words, her face flushing. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst from her chest. She tried to say something, but the words stuck in her throat. 'Whore?' she thought, her mind spinning. In that moment, everything became a blur. She felt small, powerless, as if she was watching someone else stand in her place.

"Dad..." she whispered, her voice weak and trembling. "It’s me... Lawrence."

Richard stopped, looked at her with obvious disbelief, then turned back to Stephen with a cold smirk.

"Lawrence?" he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He turned fully toward Stephen, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Are you joking? Are you telling me this girl is my son?"

Stephen swallowed nervously, clearly unsure of how to explain what had happened. He stepped forward, trying to calm Richard down, but the older man was already on the verge of rage.

"It’s true, Richard," Stephen began cautiously, choosing his words carefully. "It’s a long story, but before you get angry—this is Lawrence. Lacey... she... it’s not exactly what you think."

Richard exhaled sharply, almost laughing, but there was nothing funny in his eyes. He turned back to Lacey, his gaze so sharp it seemed to cut through her.

"What kind of bullshit is this?" He looked at her with pure contempt, as if she were trash. "You expect me to believe that this is my son?! Are you all high? What do you mean, 'this is Lawrence'?"

Lacey took a deep breath, struggling to gather her thoughts, and finally found the courage to speak:

"Dad, it’s me... Lawrence," her voice was weak, but she tried to sound firm, the way Lawrence used to. "I know this sounds strange, but... something went wrong. I... I don’t know how to explain it."

Richard ignored her, staring straight at Stephen, his face reddening with barely contained rage.

"I’m going to ask one more time! Are you joking with me, Stephen?" His voice rose, full of anger. "You want me to believe that this... woman is my son? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Lacey felt the fear rising inside her like a tidal wave. She didn’t know how to respond to his furious, cutting glare. Every part of her was tense, like a spring wound too tightly, ready to snap at any moment.

“Dad, I can prove it!” Lacey blurted out, stepping forward, her eyes wide with desperation. “Remember when you taught me how to sail? You always said I rushed and didn’t let the wind guide the sail. You used to say life is like a sail too, and sometimes it’s better to let go…” She trailed off, struggling to recall the exact words, but her memory was hazy, fragmented. The moment stretched painfully long—silence hung in the air, and Lacey could see the confusion and growing anger in her father’s eyes instead of understanding.

“Don’t you dare!” Richard exploded, stepping closer to her. “My son! He would never end up like this!” He turned abruptly to Stephen and grabbed him by the throat. “Listen, you!” Richard’s grip tightened around Stephen’s neck, his gaze filled with fury.

Lacey stood a few feet away, feeling her heart pounding in her throat, but instead of stepping in, her lips quivered, and she felt frozen.

“What really happened, Stephen?” Richard growled, loosening his grip but not letting go entirely. “Where is Lawrence? What have you done to him?”

“Richard, I understand how this looks, but it’s the truth. Lawrence... he’s here.” Stephen glanced at Lacey, who was nervously clutching the hem of her clothes.

“What kind of nonsense is this?” Richard’s voice trembled with rage, his hand still clenched around Stephen’s throat.

“Look, Mr. Abbott…” Jason, the young rescuer who had been watching from the sidelines, spoke up hesitantly. He wanted to help, but his voice wavered with uncertainty. “This is hard to explain, but strange things happened on that island. I believe it’s possible. We checked her fingerprints, and they…”

“Fingerprints?” Richard snapped, turning to Jason with a menacing tone. “What are you talking about?”

“Her fingerprints matched a woman named Emma Doyle, a British citizen…” Jason trailed off, realizing he’d spoken too soon.

Richard released Stephen and turned toward Lacey, his eyes now cold and full of suspicion.

“Emma Doyle?” he said slowly, stepping closer to her, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you doing here? Were you *** off my son while you were on that plane with him?”

Lacey felt her stomach turn violently. She took a step back, feeling the situation spiraling out of control.

“No!” she shouted, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and desperation. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything like that! I’m not Emma Doyle, I’m Lawrence! This is all Stephen’s fault! He found that damned remote! It’s his fault!”

Her words poured out in a torrent, and she couldn’t stop.

“Stephen found the remote, and it… it turned me into this!” Lacey gestured furiously at her own body, as if loathing it. “I tried to use the remote to change back! But it didn’t work because I’m pregnant! And now I… I can’t stay like this!”

“Remote?” Richard repeated, his voice dripping with disdain and disbelief. “Pregnant? You want me to believe that my son somehow became a woman and is now pregnant?”

Stephen stood, catching his breath, trying to find words but struggling to comprehend the madness himself.

“Yes, the remote… it’s hard to explain, but she’s not lying. Something happened on the island. The remote changed her. Lacey is Lawrence, but… her body changed.”

Richard grabbed Stephen by the shirt, pulling him close, his eyes blazing with rage.

“You’re trying to trick me? My son would never let something like this happen to him! Where is Lawrence? You’re still hiding him, aren’t you?”

“I’m here!” Lacey screamed, her voice breaking with pain and frustration. “It’s true! I’m Lawrence! I tried to fix it, but the remote didn’t work because I… I told you already!” Her face twisted with disgust at herself. She clutched her hands to her swollen belly, which now made her condition undeniable.

Richard’s gaze shifted to Lacey. He looked at her with pure contempt, as if the person standing before him was something pitiful and alien.

“You’re nothing but disgusting,” he hissed. “You dare call yourself my son? How could you claim to be Lawrence when someone like you stands in front of me?” His voice rose again as he turned to Jason. “Are you involved in this too? Get her on the next flight back to England! Contact the consulate and get her out of my sight as soon as possible. No more delays.”

“But... Richard, wait!” Stephen began, but Richard wasn’t listening anymore.

“No. She’s not staying here. I’m done with this madness.”

Lacey wanted to say something, but the words were stuck in her throat. She watched as her father stormed away, dragging Stephen behind him. Her last glimmer of hope was fading away.

Epilogue – part 1

Lacey sat in the cramped economy-class seat, trying to make herself comfortable. Her body felt too large for the narrow space—her hips barely fit on the seat, her chest pressed uncomfortably against the seatbelt that she couldn’t quite fasten properly. She felt out of place—like a stranger in her own body, stuck in an awkward situation. Sweat trickled down her back, and she absentmindedly adjusted her hair, which kept falling out of her messy ponytail.

The plane slowly ascended, the hum of the engines mixing with the muffled conversations around her. Lacey couldn’t help but notice the way some of the passengers were eyeing her. Because of her prominent curves, she drew attention, and it infuriated her.

“Look at how young she is,” someone whispered from behind. “And look at… those curves.”

“Yeah, she looks pretty good,” another voice chuckled, their gaze lingering on her chest and hips.

Lacey gritted her teeth, trying not to show how uncomfortable she was. She instinctively tugged at her jacket, attempting to cover her chest, but this only seemed to draw more attention. She lowered her gaze to her legs, feeling the weight of their stares burn through her.

'God, when will this end?' she thought in frustration, her hand resting on her belly. She was only three months along, but she could already feel the strange, almost imperceptible movements, which felt utterly foreign and even frightening.

In front of her, on the tiny fold-down tray, were the documents. Reluctantly, Lacey picked them up and began to leaf through them. The photo on the British passport showed Emma Doyle—a young woman with full hair and round cheeks. Lacey stared at the image, trying to find some connection to who she used to be.

Emma Doyle, 21 years old. Residence: Lancaster, England.

The next document provided details about her husband, Thomas Doyle. Lacey only knew him from the paperwork, but from these small details, she could piece together an image of the man: Thomas, 38, a burly, rough-looking man who worked as a truck driver. He was much older than Emma and, by all accounts, didn’t seem like the kindest person. Lacey pictured him with a broad grin and closely cropped hair, and her stomach twisted with a sense of dread.

Among the documents were also several medical reports, including information about her pregnancy. Third month. Lacey felt a chill run through her as she read the details that now described her reality. Three months pregnant with a child she never planned for, never wanted, and never even thought possible. She could feel how her body was changing—the roundness of her belly, the soreness in her chest, the constant discomfort.

She turned the page. There was a printed photo of their wedding: Thomas stood smiling broadly next to Emma, holding her hand. Lacey looked at the image with disgust. 'This isn’t real… it’s not real!' she thought, her mind reeling. It felt like the nightmare would never end.

But the nightmare was all too real.

She gazed out of the airplane window, watching the clouds drift below. The plane was heading toward another island, this one called “Great Britain.” And now, even though she was among people, everything felt even worse.

'I’m Lawrence,' she repeated to herself, clutching Emma Doyle’s documents in her hands. 'I’m not Emma. I can’t be Emma.' She glanced once more at the photo in the passport. The young, beautiful woman looked back at her, but Lacey no longer saw herself in that face.

Epilogue – part 2

In the noisy city, few people notice someone like this guy—carelessly dressed, dirty, as if he had long become part of the city's dust. They are like ghosts, dissolved in the crowd, people walk past them every day without stopping, without looking. Today, by some miracle, he managed to gather a little money, begging on the corner of a busy street. It was just enough for a pint of cheap beer, which now sat in front of him on the table in the dimly lit bar.

He glanced at his reflection in the window and once again saw the unfamiliar, rough face of a man. Broad cheekbones, sparse stubble, hair sticking out in all directions. These features didn’t match how he was used to feeling. Every time he saw this face, something inside him clenched painfully. He sighed and rested his head on his hand, absentmindedly spinning the glass.

Once, he had a different face. A different life. He had been Emma, an insanely beautiful girl who could never have imagined that one day she would wake up in the body of a stranger. It had happened so suddenly, without warning or explanation. And from the moment she found herself in this new body, her life had fallen apart. She was too afraid to go home—after all, what could she say to her family? She disappeared, becoming a shadow, one of those countless faces that vanish in the roar of the big city.

Taking a sip of beer, he felt that the liquid brought almost no pleasure. Everything that had once seemed familiar and understandable now felt distant and foreign. This world no longer belonged to him, just as the body he was trapped in no longer felt like his own.

"How much longer will I live like this?" the thought flashed through his mind. But there were no answers, only a vague, oppressive feeling that there was no way out.