Leila (Patreon)

The clatter of pots echoed through the small yet cozy kitchen. Soft morning sunlight streamed through a narrow window, casting a gentle glow on the cream-colored tiles and dark kitchen cabinets. The countertop was spotless, holding a large metal pot where soup simmered, filling the air with the spicy aroma of saffron and turmeric.

The young woman standing by the stove stirred the soup carefully. She wore a long, floral dress with a high waistline, and her head was covered by a cream-colored scarf, neatly tied at the back of her neck. Her name was Leila — or at least, that's what everyone around her called her. But inside, she was still Dan, a 27-year-old manager from the U.S. who, just a week ago, thought renting another life was a stupid joke on the internet.

The moment he woke up in the body of this Iranian woman, his world turned upside down. At first, there was terror. He couldn't understand what was happening — why he couldn't say his real name, why, when he opened his mouth, a soft Persian voice came out, and why his body felt so... different. Yet every movement, every thought seemed to obey a new set of instincts.

He — now she — cooked, cleaned, applied makeup with professional precision, tied the scarf as though she'd done it all her life. The knowledge came on its own. The moment she wondered, How do you make kebab? her hands were already slicing meat and mixing it with spices.

"Just a few more hours, just a few more... and everything will go back to normal. God. This is just some nightmare... I know it's temporary. It has to end." Leila reassured herself, stirring the soup, but something deep down whispered that she was fooling herself. That stupid website didn't work here, blocked by the local internet restrictions, and she had no idea how to use the devices, let alone find a way around the firewall. No, it was all too complicated for an obedient wife.

Of course, after a week, she had learned to manage the internal shocks, but they piled up like a lump in her throat. Even her voice. She'd tried to say, "My name is Dan," but every time, only a soft, melodic, "Leila" came out.

She remembered that first day, waking up in bed next to her husband, which only added to the shock when she saw her body for the first time. Slim, feminine arms. The weight of her breasts pressing under her clothes. The lightness, the fragility in her movements. What disturbed her even more was how men looked at her in the market, despite her scarf covering her completely, as the law required, leaving no part of her body visible. And yet, one vendor had given her a lazy smirk, staring right into her eyes, then down at her lips. It felt unfamiliar and strange.

She felt so disgusted — yet her voice, the voice of this woman, stayed soft, almost apologetic:

— Thank you for the discount, sir.

The words had come out automatically, and she couldn't understand who had spoken them.

Leila bent lower over the pot, trying to focus. Her hands moved smoothly, skillfully, as if every muscle knew its place. Cook. Set the table. She no longer resisted this knowledge. Just yesterday, she had scrubbed the floors without a second thought, as though the instincts of this woman had taken over, drowning out her own.

And now — she was making lunch for her husband.

— Husband? What the hell? — she whispered, barely audibly, but her heartbeat was already racing. "I hope he didn’t hear that," flashed through her mind, goosebumps prickling her skin when she heard a sound behind her. The door.

The kitchen door creaked, and he entered. Tall. Confident. "No, he didn't hear... Thank Allah. I'm wearing his favorite dress today... Ugh, what the..." Leila — no, Dan! — felt something tighten in her chest, a strange, unpleasant warmth spreading in her stomach. She quickly turned away so he wouldn’t see the flush creeping over her cheeks.

— Leila, what are you making?

His voice was deep, velvety. Calm, yet demanding.

— Soup...

Her voice was soft again. Feminine. Almost... submissive.

And the worst part was — she was thinking about how to please him. How to make the soup taste better, so he would be satisfied. The thought made her feel sick, but it was stronger than her own will.

"No. No, these are not my thoughts. It's this body! It's not me!"

Suddenly, she set the spoon down sharply, stepping back from the stove, fists clenched. It was all supposed to end in a few hours. At least, that’s what she remembered when she had jokingly agreed online, checking the box under the long list of "exchange conditions"...

This entire week had been pure humiliation, as though someone had carefully designed every detail of her new existence for maximum discomfort.

He stepped closer. Reached out — Leila froze, expecting him to touch her shoulder. But he only glanced into the pot and nodded.

— Good. You're doing well, Leila.

And inside, everything boiled. Screamed.

"I'm not Leila! This is just some cursed experiment! I'm... I'm Dan! I'm a man! Damn it, I... I shouldn't feel glad for his praise!"

But her body betrayed her. Trembling slightly with a strange mixture of embarrassment, relief... and joy