A few days after her triumphant—if petty—revenge at The Foxglove, Hasti found herself standing in line at her favorite coffee shop, The Brewed Awakening. The scent of roasted beans and cinnamon hung in the air, mingling with the low hum of morning chatter. She scrolled absently through her phone, reviewing emails, when a voice behind her made her glance up.

“You’re either very brave or very tired to be drinking that.”

Hasti blinked. The man behind her—tall, dark-eyed, with a sharp jawline and just the right amount of stubble—nodded toward her usual order: a triple-shot espresso with a splash of cream. His grin was playful, but not smug.

She arched a brow. “Or maybe I just like coffee that can double as jet fuel.”

He laughed, a warm, rich sound. “Fair warning: if you start vibrating from caffeine overload, I’m not carrying you out of here.”

Despite herself, she smirked. “Noted. I’ll try not to disrupt brunch.”

“Adam,” he said, extending his hand.

She hesitated. Not this again. The flirty opener, the too-easy charm—she’d seen this script before. But there was something different in the way he held her gaze. No lingering glances past her, no awkward shifts when he registered her dark features. Just… eye contact. Interest.

Against her better judgment, she took his hand. “Hasti.”

His grip was warm, firm, but not showy. “So, Hasti who likes her coffee lethal, what do you do when you’re not mainlining caffeine?”

She could have given a vague answer. Could have shut it down. But—“Marketing. And occasionally plotting world domination over martinis.”

Adam’s eyes lit up. “Finally, someone with priorities.”

The banter flowed effortlessly. By the time they reached the counter, she’d learned he was a freelance photographer (hence the unholy morning hours), hated cilantro with a passion, and had a cat named after a 90s cartoon character.

She expected the moment to die when they collected their orders. Instead, Adam lingered. “I know you’ve got a world-domination meeting to get to, but—” He pulled out his phone and hesitated, a rarity in men who usually swaggered through rejection. —would it be weird if I asked for your number? No pressure.”

Hasti studied him. The easy confidence, the lack of that look—like he was doing her a favor by talking to her. She should have said no. But then she remembered Ethan crumpling in agony and figured karma might owe her one.

“Sure,” she said, taking his phone and typing in her digits. “But fair warning: if you text me a ‘hey beautiful’ with no follow-up, I will judge you.”

Adam clutched his chest. “Ouch. I’ll strive to be creatively charming, then.”

She walked out with her coffee, her pulse annoyingly steady. Don’t overthink it.

-


“HE ASKED FOR YOUR NUMBER?!” Maggie’s screech echoed through the office kitchenette.

Hasti sipped her (now lukewarm) espresso. “Keep it down, I’m not sending out a press release.”

Layla leaned in, eyes wide. “And he wasn’t weird about you being Indian?”

“Shockingly, no.”

“Did you Google him?” Maggie demanded.

“Obviously.” Hasti pulled up Adam’s Instagram—a tasteful mix of travel shots, street photography, and exactly one dorky throwback of him dressed as Spider-Man for Halloween. “No red flags. Yet.”

Layla sighed dreamily. “A man with a cat and a personality? Nashville’s losing its edge.”

Hasti rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t suppress the tiny spark of hope. Maybe—maybe—not every guy here was allergic to women who looked like her.

Then her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number (probably Adam): Proof of creative charm: What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?
Hasti: …I regret this already.
Adam: Sofishticated.

She groaned. Loudly.

Maggie peeked over her shoulder and cackled. “Oh my God. He’s perfect.”

Hasti buried her face in her hands. “I take it back. Karma hates me.”

But she was smiling.

The girls were mid-rant about Adam’s terrible joke when the office door swung open, and their manager, Johnson, strode in with a bright, unfamiliar smile. The woman beside him, however, was all too familiar.

Hasti’s fingers clenched around her coffee cup.

No. Freaking. Way.

Aubrey—the Aubrey, the honey-blonde goddess who’d left Ethan wheezing on the club floor—stood there in a sleek pencil skirt and cream blouse, surveying the office with an air of polite confidence.

Layla gasped so hard she choked on her seltzer. "Is that—?"

"Uh huh." Maggie’s eyes darted between Aubrey and Hasti, whose face had settled into a stony mask.

Johnson clapped his hands. "Team, meet Aubrey Carter, our new senior marketing strategist. She’s relocating from Atlanta, so go easy on her." He shot a pointed look at Maggie.

Aubrey smiled—warm, genuine, and nothing like the smirking temptress who’d clung to Ethan. "Excited to be here! I’ve heard amazing things about this team."

"Lies," Maggie muttered.

Hasti stayed quiet, arms crossed. She knew, logically, that Aubrey wasn’t the reason Nashville men had a type. But logic didn’t erase the memory of her flawless cheekbones, didn’t soften the jagged edges of that rejection.

Aubrey’s gaze flicked to Hasti. Paused. Then—"You’re Hasti, right? Johnson said you handle our social campaigns. I’d love to pick your brain."

The girls held their breath.

Hasti could’ve been cold. Could’ve shrugged her off. But then Aubrey added, "Also, your eyeliner is perfection—teach me your ways?"

The tension shattered.

Maggie snorted. Layla mouthed SHE’S NICE?! while Hasti blinked, disarmed.

"Thanks," she managed, finally uncrossing her arms. "It’s... a process."

Aubrey beamed. "I’ll bring bribes. Coffee? Croissants?"

"Both," Layla interjected. "Always both."

-

Over the next few days, Aubrey seamlessly integrated herself into the office dynamic. She brought in homemade banana bread ("My grandma's recipe!"), remembered everyone's coffee orders, and—most impressively—managed to shut down Johnson's rambling meetings with a single polite but firm, "Let's circle back to the KPIs."

By Friday, even Maggie had begrudgingly admitted, "Okay, she's kind of awesome."

Hasti nodded, stirring her latte absently as she watched Aubrey laugh with a group of coworkers by the printer. The sunlight streaming through the office windows caught her golden hair, making it glow like a damn halo. Of course she's perfect.

Layla nudged her. "You okay? You've been quiet."

"Yeah, just tired," Hasti lied.

But the truth was, every time Aubrey flashed her megawatt smile or effortlessly charmed another colleague, Hasti felt a familiar pang—one she hated herself for. It wasn't Aubrey's fault she was Nashville's dream girl incarnate. It wasn't her fault men tripped over themselves to talk to her.

Still, the jealousy gnawed at Hasti like a persistent itch.

-

That evening, the girls decided to grab drinks at a low-key wine bar—Aubrey's suggestion, of course.

"I still can't believe you kneed that guy in the balls," Maggie cackled, sipping her rosé. "Icon behavior."

Hasti stiffened as she awaited what would be said next. Did Aubrey know what had really happened? Did she know Hasti's secret? Hasti realized in that moment that she had never actually had a conversation with someone who's body she 'borrowed' afterwards without asking.

Aubrey flushed, twirling her straw. "In my defense, he was being a creep. Kept 'accidentally' brushing my thigh."

Hasti stiffened. Wait.

The wine bar hummed with soft chatter and clinking glasses, but Hasti’s focus had narrowed to Aubrey’s words, each one sending a jolt of realization through her.

“Seriously, that guy was such a sleaze,” Aubrey continued, rolling her eyes. “I felt bad because at first, he seemed nice—good conversation, decent smile—but then he got handsy real fast.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Wait, so you weren’t into him?”

Aubrey shook her head emphatically. “Oh hell no. I was just waiting for a polite moment to bail when, I don’t know, something just snapped in me. Next thing I know, my knee’s in his junk.” She laughed, rubbing her temple. “Honestly, the whole night’s kinda fuzzy after that.”

Hasti’s grip on her glass tightened.

No way.

Aubrey shouldn’t remember anything after Hasti possessed her—shouldn’t even recall kicking Ethan. Unless…

The realization hit her like a cold splash of water. Her presence in Aubrey’s body had overwritten the memory. Aubrey’s mind had filled in the gaps, rewriting the night so that she had been the one to reject Ethan, she had been the one to act.

Hasti’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t just borrowed Aubrey’s body—she’d altered her mind.

“Hasti?” Layla nudged her. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Or became one,” Maggie muttered into her drink.

Hasti forced a chuckle. “Sorry, just—wine hitting me.” She took a quick sip, her mind racing.

Aubrey leaned in, concern flickering in her blue eyes. “You sure? I can grab you some water.”

Of course she offers. Because she’s perfect.

Hasti waved her off. “I’m good, promise.” She hesitated, then—curiosity getting the best of her—asked, “So, what do you remember right before you… kneed him?”

Aubrey frowned, tapping her nails against her glass. “That’s the weird part. It’s like… I blacked out for a second? One minute I was trying to figure out how to ditch him, then—bam!—rage mode activated.” She shrugged. “Maybe my drink was spiked? Or my patience just ran out.”

Maggie snorted. “A righteous fury. Love that for you.”

Hasti chewed her lip. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Possessing someone wasn’t supposed to stick. But then again, she’d never stuck around long enough to find out what her interference did to people’s minds.

Aubrey tilted her head. “Why? You think I should report him?”

“No!” Hasti blurted, then cleared her throat. “I mean, only if you want to.”

Aubrey grinned. “Nah. Pretty sure my knee already delivered the message.”

The girls laughed, but Hasti’s was hollow. A gnawing unease settled in her chest.

What else had she changed without realizing it?

And if she could alter someone’s memories… what else could she do?

-

The next week passed in a blur of flirty texts with Adam and unsettling realizations about Aubrey.

Hasti’s phone buzzed non-stop—mostly Adam’s terrible puns (”What do you call a fake noodle? An impasta.”) sprinkled with genuinely sweet check-ins (”Tell me you took a lunch break or I’m reporting you to HR.”). By Thursday night, he’d roped her into plans for Saturday—dinner at a dimly lit Italian place he swore wasn’t “basic red-sauce nonsense.”

Hasti: High bar. I’ll be judging your garlic bread selection.
Adam: Joke’s on you. I’m allergic to garlic.
Hasti: …who hurt you?

She grinned, tucking her phone away just as Aubrey appeared at her desk with two iced coffees. “Caramel swirl, extra shot,” she said, sliding one to Hasti. “You looked like you needed it.”

Hasti blinked. “How’d you know my—”

“You always get it at the cart downstairs?” Aubrey shrugged, sipping her own. “Also, you said you were ‘fueled exclusively by caffeine and spite’ in Monday’s meeting.”

Maggie, eavesdropping from the next cubicle, mouthed STALKER?

But it wasn’t just the coffee.

Aubrey hummed Hasti’s favorite Bollywood song under her breath in the elevator. She scoffed at the same pretentious ad campaign Hasti hated. When Layla brought in leftover biryani, Aubrey ate it with the exact same mix of yogurt and pickled onions Hasti always used.

Too many coincidences.

That night, Hasti paced her apartment, Kiran’s “Tu Hi Hai” playing from her Spotify—the same song Aubrey had been humming.

“Okay, think,” she muttered. If she’d imprinted on Aubrey’s mind, could she have left traces of herself behind? A ghost of her preferences, her habits?

Her phone buzzed. Another Adam text—a photo of his cat wearing a tiny hat, caption ”Dinner rehearsal.” She laughed, but her smile faded as she scrolled back to Aubrey’s latest Instagram story: a sunset photo tagged at Hasti’s favorite hidden-gem bookstore.

Something is seriously wrong....

-

About a week later was another girl's night, and this time Aubrey insisted the group go to a normal downtown Nashville bar...ugh

The bar pulsed with bass and laughter, but Hasti’s mood soured with each passing minute.

She had taken Maggie’s advice and gone all out—a curve-hugging deep red dress, heels that put her at just the right height, and smoky liner sharp enough to cut glass. She felt like a goddess. Unfortunately, Nashville’s male population remained unimpressed.

Meanwhile, Aubrey—wearing a simple black jumpsuit—held court at the bar, effortlessly charming a group of guys who laughed a little too loud at everything she said. Of course.

"Stop glaring," Layla giggled, already three margaritas deep. "You look like you're plotting murder."

Hasti forced a smirk. "Maybe I am."

Maggie, swaying slightly on her stool, pointed an accusing finger at her cocktail. "This is poisoned. I declare this drink evil—" She gagged. "Oh god, I think I'm gonna—"

She bolted for the bathroom.

Layla sighed. "And there she goes." She gave Hasti an apologetic look. "I should get her home before she starts crying about her ex again."

"Go," Hasti waved them off. "I'll stay, finish my drink."

"You sure? Aubrey can go with you—"

"I'm good," she said, sharper than intended. "Seriously. Have fun babysitting."

Layna hesitated but finally dragged Maggie toward the exit, leaving Hasti alone with her growing frustration.

Across the bar, Aubrey threw her head back, laughing at something a broad-shouldered guy whispered in her ear. The sight twisted something inside Hasti.

She should be happy for Aubrey.

But she wasn’t.

The third whiskey sour burned down her throat, liquid courage spreading through her veins. It shouldn’t be this easy for her. It shouldn’t be this hard for me.

Her fingers tightened around her glass.

She could walk away.

But then Aubrey excused herself, heading toward the restrooms.

Hasti exhaled slowly.

Just once. Just one more time.

The bathroom was empty. She locked herself in a stall, clenched her fists, and—

Closed her eyes.

The familiar sensation of her spirit lifting free washed over her, dizzying and electric. She glanced back—her physical body slumped against the toilet, lifeless. Vulnerable. No turning back now.

Hasti’s spirit slipped through the bar unseen, a whisper against the bass-heavy air. Aubrey had just stepped into the dimly lit hallway leading to the restrooms, checking her phone with half-lidded eyes—tipsy and unsuspecting.

This was the moment.

With a flicker of hesitation, Hasti reached out—her spectral fingers brushing Aubrey’s temple.

A familiar tug.

Aubrey shuddered, her consciousness lifting free like smoke from a snuffed candle. Her body swayed, slack, knees buckling slightly before Hasti steadied it.

Easy. Just step in.

Hasti exhaled—or the ghost of one—and let herself fall forward into Aubrey’s skin.

The sensation was intoxicating. Warmth. Softness. The weight of hips that swayed when she moved, the subtle ache of heels she hadn’t been wearing a second ago. Blonde hair tickled her bare shoulders. Auburn’s honey-vanilla perfume clung to her—no, to this body.

Her body now.

For now.

Hasti—no, Aubrey—smoothed the jumpsuit over her thighs and checked the mirror. Blue eyes blinked back at her, lips plush and slightly parted. Flawless.

She grinned.

Time to play.

---

The group of guys at the bar perked up when she returned.

“There she is,” the broad-shouldered one—Ryan, maybe?—grinned, scooting over to make space. “Thought we lost you.”

Hasti let Aubrey’s laugh ripple out, light and musical. “Just needed a second.” She slid onto the stool next to him, crossing toned legs that had every male eye tracking the movement.

“So,” Ryan leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “You never finished telling me about this trip to Costa Rica.”

Hasti didn’t know a damn thing about Costa Rica. But Aubrey’s body seemed to—she felt the memory surface like déjà vu. “Oh, right. The sloths,” she sighed, twirling a lock of golden hair. “So clingy. Kinda like some guys.”

The men erupted in laughter, Ryan included, though his gaze had dropped conspicuously to her collarbones.

For the first half hour, being Aubrey was everything Hasti had dreamed of.

Ryan couldn’t keep his eyes—or his hands—off her. His fingers traced idle circles on the small of her back as she leaned in closer to hear him over the music, sending delicious shivers down her spine. She basked in the way his gaze lingered on the curve of her neck, how his lips quirked into a smirk every time she teased him. The other guys at the bar hung onto her every word, laughing too hard at jokes that weren’t even that funny.

She was electric in this body.

Aubrey's skin was smooth under her touch, her limbs toned and graceful as she tucked a strand of silky blonde hair behind her ear. When she laughed, it was effortless—light and airy, the kind of laugh that made people turn their heads. And Ryan? Ryan was perfect. Tall, olive-skinned, with just the right amount of scruff along his jaw, and a deep voice that rumbled against her ear when he whispered, "You're trouble, you know that?"

God, it was addicting.

But then Ryan excused himself to the restroom, pressing a fleeting kiss to her knuckles that left her skin tingling. "Don't go anywhere," he murmured.

Like she would.

She sipped her cocktail, shifting in the borrowed body, hyper-aware of every sensation—the snug fit of Aubrey's jumpsuit, the weight of her breasts, the way her thighs stuck slightly to the leather barstool. A warmth pooled low in her stomach, equal parts arousal and power.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

The rest of the guys were still chatting with her, but her attention was fraying. Where the hell was Ryan?

She craned her neck, scanning the crowd—and then she saw him.

Near the back of the bar, leaning against the wall, his back to her as he talked to a petite brunette. Hasti's borrowed pulse spiked with irritation, as the girl tossed her head back in laughter—a movement that sent a waterfall of familiar dark curls tumbling down her back.

A shudder of wrongness racked through Hasti's (Aubrey's) body.

No. No.

How?! How could Ryan think any girl was more perfect than her?!? She had to see what this bitch looked like.

Without thinking, she pushed through the crowd, Aubrey's heart pounding. The closer she got, the more her stomach twisted. The girl was wearing a familiar red dress--- wait...

And then Ryan said something, and the girl turned—

Hasti's breath left her in a rush.

She was staring at......herself?

Her own face—Hasti's face, wearing a smirk that didn't belong to her—locked eyes with her (with Aubrey, with not her, with...who freakin cares you know what I mean!), one perfectly threaded brow quirking up.

"Hi, can we help you?" her own voice delighted in response. Ryan glanced between them, oblivious.
"You two know each other?"

Hasti—trapped in Aubrey's body—couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

Because her own brown eyes gleamed back at her, bright with mischief, and a voice that used to be hers replied—

"Perhaps..."