The clock was showing 7 o'clock when Lívia woke up, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the gaps in the living room curtains. They had fallen asleep on the couch, still curled up together, their wrinkled micro-skirts riding up their thighs. The movie they had watched the night before had long since ended, the TV screen showing only a static menu. Lívia stood up silently, her body stiff from the uncomfortable position, and walked to the kitchen with light steps, the heels of her boots from the night before abandoned next to the couch.

In the kitchen, she carefully prepared coffee, the strong aroma filling the air as she placed the dinner dishes in the sink to wash. Her hands moved almost instinctively, scrubbing the dishes with a sponge, the sound of running water mixing with the gurgle of the coffee maker. When she was finished, she poured two cups and returned to the living room, approaching Mariana gently. “Mariana,” she called, touching her shoulder gently. “The coffee is ready.”

Mariana opened her eyes, her gaze still sleepy but soon lighting up with that natural authority. She sat down, accepting the cup with a nod, and the two drank their coffee in silence, the hot liquid bringing a little life to their tired bodies. Then they got up and went to the bedroom to change clothes. It was Monday, the day for shopping, salons and makeovers, and Mariana was already in charge.

Without ceremony, they kept the same micro-skirts from the night before — Mariana's, black and very short, barely covering her butt, and Lívia's, a little longer, but still revealing. Lívia, on her own, took a pair of micro-panties from the closet, adjusting them to contain what Mariana now called her "clitoris", preventing it from swinging as she walked. Both chose provocative tops: Mariana's, a leather model with a deep neckline, and Lívia's, a lace cropped top that left her nipple piercings clearly visible under the thin fabric. They finished off with very high-heeled sandals — black for Mariana, red for Lívia —, put on a bright lipstick and left.

In the car, Mariana handed the keys to Lívia. "You drive," she ordered, already taking out her cell phone to make calls. While Lívia maneuvered the vehicle through the city streets, still a little hesitant about the exposure, Mariana made appointments: manicure, pedicure, eyebrows and false eyelashes for both of them. "To the mall closest to home," she said, without taking her eyes off the phone. Lívia, with a shy voice, murmured: "What if they recognize me? What if someone remembers Lucas?"

Mariana laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Stop being silly. If they knew Lucas, that's their bad luck. He doesn't exist anymore. You're Lívia now, and no one will question that." The tone was final, and Lívia swallowed her fear, gripping the steering wheel tighter as she drove.

At the mall, they attracted attention from the moment they entered. Their heels echoed on the polished floor, their tops and skirts drew attention, Lívia’s piercings glistened under the artificial lights. They went straight to the clothing stores, and Mariana led the way with precision: tight and short dresses, skirts even more daring than the ones they were wearing, tops that barely covered their breasts, lace and leather lingerie. “Everything sensual, not to say vulgar,” she said, throwing a vinyl skirt into the cart. They also bought sandals and high-heeled shoes, with platforms or chain details, and an absurd amount of costume jewelry—large earrings, noisy bracelets, necklaces that hung down to their cleavage. They looked like two friends on an afternoon of shopping, laughing and trying on items, but the sparkle in Mariana’s eyes revealed that this was yet another step in Lívia’s consecration.

Then they headed to the salon. Mariana walked in like a queen, the staff already knowing her authoritative tone. “Full service for both of you,” she announced, sitting down in one of the chairs. “Red nails, really long, and the most exaggerated false eyelashes you can have.” Lívia sat obediently next to her as the manicurists began their work. Her nails were filed and painted a bright blood red, and the false eyelashes—long and dramatic—transformed her look into something almost theatrical. Her eyebrows were drawn on thin and arched, and her makeup completed the look with dark eyeshadow and more red lipstick. Mariana went through the same process, emerging with nails as sharp as claws and eyelashes that shadowed her face.

When they left the room, the sun was high in the sky, and they walked side by side, their bags swinging in their hands. Lívia still felt a little uncomfortable with the looks she received—some curious, some longing—but Mariana seemed to feed on them, her shoulders high, her chin high. “See?” she said, patting Lívia’s arm. “You’re already a different person. And this is just the beginning. Let’s go home now. I want to see you experience all this again, just for me.”

Lívia smiled, shy but surrendered, knowing that each piece chosen, each detail adjusted, was another brick in the construction of what Mariana wanted her to be. The fear of being recognized was dissipating, replaced by a growing acceptance of her new identity — an identity that, under Mariana's command, had no limits and no turning back.