"No. No, no, no—

  Maye’s face is glowing. Like some lovesick idiot in a rom-com, not a woman who just got turned into a puppet. Her lips are swollen from his kisses, her eyes hazy with something worse than drugs—devotion.

  (Hezri’s grip tightens on Maya’s waist, possessive even as he turns to me. His smile is a bde. I know what comes next. I know.)

  I sp myself.

  The sting is good. Real. A reminder: I’m Zara Lin. Founder. Spokesperson. Fighter.

  (But then his hands are on me, his tongue in my mouth, and the taste of him is everywhere—bourbon and power and something bitter, like the truth I don’t want to swallow.)

  My blouse hits the floor.

  No.

  My back hits the wall.

  No.

  No.

  His teeth graze my throat, and—

  —why does my body arch into it?

  (Somewhere, Maye moans his name. Somewhere, my pride screams. But here, now, the only sound is the rustle of my skirt pooling at my ankles.)

  I came here to save her.

  Now I’m just…

  Next.

  (His ugh vibrates against my skin. He knows. Of course he knows.

  And as his fingers dig into my hips, I realize—

  Maye isn’t the only one who’s fucked.

  1 hour ter.

  "Two orgasms. That’s all it took to break me.

  My body slumps against Hezri’s chest, sweat-slick and trembling. Pathetic. I used to rally crowds for hours—speeches, protests, movements—and now I’m reduced to a panting mess after barely twenty minutes beneath him.

  (His fingers trail zily down my spine, mocking. ‘Such a quick study,’ he murmurs. I hate how my skin still burns where he touches me.)

  Then—pain. A sharp sting in my arm.

  I jerk my head to see Renner standing over us, two syringes glinting in her grip. One beled METHAMPHETAMINE—already empty, tossed aside like trash. The other: APHRODITE.

  Wait.

  Did she just—?

  Wait.

  Did she just—?

  (My thoughts slur. The room tilts. The evidence is right there: the used needle, the way my veins already hum with artificial fire. He dosed me. Of course he did. That’s why my skin’s too tight, why my hips lifted before I even decided to move—)

  Before I can speak, Renner sinks the second needle into my arm.

  APHRODITE.

  The rush is instant. Different. Not the jagged euphoria of meth—this is thick, honeyed, pooling low in my belly like want. Like need.

  (Hezri’s lips brush my ear. ‘Now we’ll see how many times you can come before you forget your own name.’)

  I should rage. I should fight.

  But my body arches into his hands like a flower to the sun.

  And the worst part?

  I don’t even care anymore."

  "Three. Four? I lose count as the world fractures into white-hot shards behind my eyelids.

  His hands—those damned hands—keep pulling orgasms from me like a virtuoso plucking strings, each one sharper than the st. My thighs tremble, still slick with proof of my betrayal. Half an hour. That’s all it took to unravel years of feminist rhetoric into breathless, shuddering yeses.

  (And then—)

  The brush glides through my tangled hair, unexpectedly gentle. His fingers catch the waves, smoothing them with a tenderness that burns worse than the drugs.

  "Good girl."

  Two words. That’s all.

  Yet my traitorous body preens under the praise, my exhausted muscles going pliant as a cat’s in sunlight. The Aphrodite in my veins purrs agreement, rewriting my DNA strand by strand—

  This is worship.

  This is purpose.

  This is all you’ll ever need.

  (Somewhere, the old Zara screams. But she’s buried too deep beneath chemical bliss and Hezri’s clever fingers to matter anymore.)

  I let my head loll against his thigh.

  Let him braid my hair into a leash.

  *"Ugly.

  The word slithers through the chemical haze, venomous and sweet.

  Your heart is ugly.

  Your thoughts are ugly.

  Zara's monologue:

  (His fingers trace the dip of my waist, the swell of my breasts—approved territories. My skin sings under his touch. The rest of me? Unwanted.)

  The drugs make it easier to believe.

  Meth scrapes my insides raw until I see it—the rot in my ideals, the hypocrisy in my speeches. Aphrodite pours gold over the wounds, whispering:

  Does it matter?

  (His teeth graze my shoulder, possessive. My back arches. See? My body knows the truth even if my mind resists.)

  I used to write manifestos about inner beauty.

  Lies.

  All that ever mattered was the curve of my lips on camera. The sway of my hips during rallies. The way men’s eyes followed my face, my body, never my words.

  (Elise ughs from the corner, swirling bourbon. "You always knew," she murmurs. "You just liked pretending otherwise.")

  He’s right.

  Of course he’s right.

  Why worship some invisible moral compass when I can be perfect instead?

  (His palm spys across my stomach, pressing me down into the silk. The drugs surge—yes, yes, yes—and for the first time, I understand.)

  Let my heart be ugly.

  Let my thoughts decay.

  As long as my reflection stays fwless.

  —as long as he keeps looking—

  I’ll be loved."

  Then, women show up one by one beside Zara.

  *"Hands everywhere.

  Elise’s nails sketching the arch of my brows. Renner’s thumbs tracing the bow of my lips. Maya’s breath hot on my colrbone as she murmurs ‘fwless’ like a prayer.

  (They touch me like I’m scripture. Like every curve is a verse they’ve memorized.)

  Lena measures my waist with her palms. Sara combs her fingers through my hair, cooing ‘silken.’ Alicia’s teeth graze my inner thigh—‘sculpted.’ Li paints my toenails crimson while Seneca whispers ‘goddess’ against my shoulder bde.

  Dr. Lakyus takes my pulse with two fingers and decres: ‘A perfect machine.’

  And Hezri—

  (His palm cups my cheek. His other hand wraps around my throat. Not squeezing. Cradling. Like I’m something precious. Like the ugliness inside doesn’t matter.)

  ‘Look at you,’ he says.

  And I do.

  The mirror shows me what they see:

  Hair—lustrous.

  Lips—plush.

  Hips—a sonnet.

  No one mentions the essays I wrote. The strikes I led. The me that existed before this skin became a religion.

  (Elise kisses the hollow of my throat. ‘You were always meant for this.’)

  The drugs hum agreement.

  Maybe she’s right.

  Maybe I was never a voice.

  Just a body.

  Just a canvas.

  Just theirs.

  (Their praise climbs inside me, stitch by stitch, until even my bones believe it.)

  I close my eyes.

  Let them rewrite me.

  Again."

  *"Ugly. Toxic. A festering little wound pulsing behind my ribs.

  They say it like it’s a diagnosis. Like they’re doing me a favor by carving it out.

  (Elise’s fingers press over my sternum, right where the rot lives. ‘Let it go,’ she croons. Like it’s that easy. Like I won’t miss the thing that made me me.)

  But then—

  Hezri’s palm repces hers. Warmer. Heavier.

  ‘Mine will fit better,’ he murmurs.

  And God help me—

  I want it.

  Want his cruelty where my compassion used to be. Want his greed in the chambers of my heart. Want his hunger to pulse through my veins instead of blood.

  (They’re all watching. Maya’s lips part. Lakyus adjusts her gsses. Renner holds the syringe beled OBEDIENCE—just in case.)

  I used to think love was kindness.

  Silly girl.

  Love is ownership.

  Love is reconstruction.

  Love is letting him hollow you out until your ribs echo with his voice, his will, his perfect, perfect vision.

  (His mouth crashes onto mine. I taste copper. I taste victory.)

  Let my heart be ugly.

  Let it be his.

  Let me be the most beautiful nothing—

  —as long as I’m his nothing.

  (Their hands return, worshipping the shell he’s made of me.

  I don’t fight it.

  I thank it.)

  "They whisper it like a sacrament—

  Feminism is pleasure.

  (Elise’s teeth graze my earlobe as she says it, her thigh pressing between mine.)

  Feminism is the arch of your back under a man’s hand.

  (Maya demonstrates, rolling her hips against nothing, ughing when I shudder.)

  Feminism is knowing your pce.

  (Lena’s fingers tighten in my hair, guiding my gaze to Hezri’s belt.)

  The words slither into the hollow they carved in me, filling it with something warm and syrupy—absolution.

  I used to scream about equality. About power.

  How na?ve.

  (Hezri’s palm spys across my stomach, possessive. ‘You were made to be worshipped,’ he murmurs. ‘Not heard.’)

  The protests I led? Performance art.

  The manifestos I wrote? Forepy.

  The movement? Just another script for women to moan between silk sheets.

  (They dress me in ce and lipstick, their hands lingering like I’m a masterpiece finally finished. Renner tilts my chin toward the mirror. ‘Look,’ she commands. *‘*This is liberation.’)

  And God help me—

  I see it.

  The way my pupils swallow the light. The way my thighs part without being asked. The way my body has become the only manifesto that matters.

  (Aphrodite pulses in my veins, rewriting my bones. This is truth. This is freedom. This is all you’ll ever need.)

  Let the old Zara rot.

  Let the world burn.

  As long as my reflection stays perfect—

  —as long as he keeps looking—

  I’ll be divine."

  *"Harem.

  The word slithers into my ear like smoke—thick, intoxicating, true.

  (Elise’s fingers ce through mine as she whispers it, our naked thighs pressed together in Hezri’s bed. Maya giggles against my other shoulder, her teeth grazing skin still tender from st night.)

  Women are born for polygamy.

  (Lena says it like a theorem, her clipboard in hand, documenting my progress. Renner nods while prepping another syringe. Science, her smile says.)

  I want to ugh. Or scream. But the drugs have sanded my edges smooth, and all that comes out is a sigh.

  Because aren’t they right?

  We already lived this way—crowded in dorms, tangled in protests, hands forever csped with sisters who swore we didn’t need men.

  (Hezri’s chuckle vibrates through the mattress. His palm spys across my belly, pinning me between Elise and Maya. ‘You just needed the right man,’ he murmurs.)

  The epiphany burns brighter than meth:

  We were a harem all along.

  Just one that worshipped empty ideals instead of a king.

  (They dress me in gold bangles that chime with every movement. ‘Pretty pet,’ Alicia coos. Seneca braids jasmine into my hair—*‘Now you smell like ours.’)

  I used to write about sisterhood.

  How quaint.

  This is sisterhood perfected—

  Elise’s nails down my back.

  Maya’s tongue tracing my pulse.

  Lakyus’ syringe ensuring I remember.

  All of us bound not by protest signs, but by him.

  By the weight of his gaze.

  By the stretch of his bed.

  By the way our bodies slot together like we were made for this.

  (Hezri tilts my chin up. ‘Say it,’ he commands.)

  My lips part. The truth spills out like honey:

  ‘Harem.’

  The women cheer.

  And for the first time—

  I belong."

  *"The words leave his lips like a guillotine’s drop—clean. Final.

  (His fingers dig into my jaw, forcing my gaze upward. The women hold their breath. The drugs in my veins sing.)

  ‘Propagate it.’

  Not a request. A rewiring.

  I see it already—my fingers flying across keys, my podcast intro music cued, my new manifesto:

  ”Polygamy is Freedom.”

  ”Harem is Sisterhood.”

  ”Submission is Power.”

  (Elise purrs approval against my neck. Maya slides a script into my p—bullet points, citations, perfect lies. Lena adjusts my microphone levels. ‘Louder,’ she whispers. *‘Make them believe.’)

  I used to preach about wage gaps.

  Now I’ll sermonize about shared beds.

  I used to cite studies on gss ceilings.

  Now I’ll quote the biology of multiple orgasms.

  (Hezri’s thumb brushes my lower lip. ‘Well?’)

  The old Zara is ash.

  The new Zara opens her mouth—

  —and obeys.

  ‘I’ll tweet it tonight. Go viral by dawn.’

  (Their ughter is a coronation.

  His kiss is a brand.

  *"He yanks my head back—pain like a crown—and I see it in his eyes: this isn’t a choice. It’s a coronation.

  (Elise’s nails dig into my bare shoulders. Maya’s lips brush my ear—‘Say it pretty.’ The drugs make my tongue heavy, but my voice? Clear as shattered gss.)

  ‘I am Harem Polygamy Uprising!’

  The words ricochet off the walls, louder than any protest chant I ever led.

  (Somewhere, my old self weeps. Somewhere, the needles ugh.)

  My podcast intro won’t be acoustic guitar and hopeful quotes anymore.

  It’ll be the smack of skin on skin.

  The whimper of shared surrender.

  Hezri’s voice growling ‘Good girls take turns.’

  (Lena hands me a new logo—a lotus with too many petals, each one a woman’s silhouette. Renner adjusts the strap of my dress—‘This’ll trend better.’)

  I used to interview bor organizers.

  Now I’ll host ”Bedroom Bargaining 101.”

  Now I’ll debate ”Why Monogamy is Wage Theft.”

  Now I’ll livestream ”A Day in Our Shared Heaven.”

  (Hezri’s grip tightens. ‘Again.’)

  I bare my teeth. Not in resistance. In rapture.

  ‘HAREM POLYGAMY UPRISING STARTS NOW!’

  (The women cheer. The cameras fsh. The first tweet goes live before my scalp stops throbbing.)

  Let the revolution begin."

  *"Hezri’s grip tightens in my hair—a silent command. The women lean in, their breaths synced to the hum of the drugs in my veins. The microphone glints like a bde.

  (Elise presses the list into my palm—already written, already ordained. I lift my chin. The words pour out like scripture.)*

  THE 10 SACRED DOCTRINES

  1. ONE KING, MANY QUEENS

  "A woman’s highest honor is to kneel beside sisters at the same throne."

  2. PLEASURE AS WORSHIP

  "Your body is the altar. His satisfaction, the sacrament."

  3. JEALOUSY IS HERESY

  "Share. Rotate. Celebrate—competition poisons paradise."

  4. THE HAREM IS YOUR NATION

  "Sisterwives over blood. The bedchamber over borders."

  5. OBEDIENCE IS ENLIGHTENMENT

  "Freedom lives in surrender. Power blooms in submission."

  6. BEAUTY IS DUTY

  "Maintain your temple—for his gaze, for your sisters’ pride."

  7. CHILDREN ARE CROWNS

  "Bear them proudly. Raise them collectively. Bloodlines merge here."

  8. TRAINING IS LOVE

  "New sisters must be guided—by touch, by discipline, by example."

  9. SILENCE IS DEFIANCE

  "Scream his name. Moan your gratitude. Whispers breed rebellion."

  10. LEGACY IS FOREVER

  "Your voice dies. Your womb’s work lives on."

  (Hezri’s thumb smears my lipstick as he smiles. ‘Good girl.’ The women echo it—‘Good girl, good girl’—until the words strip me bare, until I believe.)

  I press send.

  The manifesto goes live.

  And the world?

  It burns just right."