Cameron To Candy

Candy stormed into the Paddlewick Prime bathhouse like a woman on a mission. Not a graceful, elegant wife slipping in for a routine soak, more like a boiling teapot with legs and a towel bag. She didn’t pause to admire the painted tilework or the gentle curl of steam rising from the mineral pools. She barely acknowledged the faint scent of lavender and eucalyptus that normally calmed her nerves.

Today, she didn’t want serenity. She wanted someone to vent to. Preferably two someones. She spotted them by the far pool: Vivian, floating on her back like she was born to the mineral waters, and Alyssa, perched on the edge like a sarcastic gargoyle, one ankle crossed over the other. They’d already opened a bottle of something pink and barely legal. Candy didn’t even ease into the water. She dropped her towel like it had betrayed her and sank in with a splash.

“He groped me in his sleep,” she announced.

Alyssa coughed, mid-sip. “Wait…er, your husband, right?”

“Yes my husband,” Candy hissed. “Marcus. I woke up to find his hand fully attached to my boob like it had been assigned there by divine ordinance.”

Vivian raised an eyebrow. “Cuddle quota season starting early?”

“I thought it was just an arm,” Candy grumbled. “He’s done that before. But no. This time we had full-on cuppage. Like it belonged to him, and” She threw her hands up. “he was hard! Poking me in the back like a damn Bayonet of Betrayal.”

Vivian sighed, nodding like someone who’d seen one too many husbands claim sleep as a defense. “That’s... normal. Men always get hard when sleeping, if I recall my wife training classes right.”

Candy groaned. Right, even knowing it was an arranged marriage, most women in Paddlewick wouldn’t find this too egregious. This would probably be easier if they knew who and what she really was. Maybe someday, but for now, she had to punch it up if she was going to get validation on her venting. “Yeah, but they don’t always do it while dreaming about Plinkelle.”

Vivian blinked. “Who’s Plinkelle?”

“His school crush,” Candy spat. “Perfect posture, perfect hair. She once cried because she almost used the wrong fork. She was the Ministry’s fantasy bride. She curtsied like it was an art form.”

Alyssa winced. “Oh, that is truly awkward.”

“And while I’m getting unwillingly spooned in my sleep,” Candy snapped, “he’s dry humping me and whispering her name.”

Vivian nearly choked on her drink. “Okay, no. That’s beyond awkward. That’s dream cheating.”

“I kicked him,” Candy said proudly.

Alyssa perked up. “Balls?”

“Direct hit.”

Vivian wheezed, applauding with her wine glass. “You absolute menace. So, how bad did he punish you for it?”

Oh, right, Candy realized, in a normal Paddlewick marriage, using defense techniques on her husband would probably earn the wife a paddling.

“Er, not after I called him out about Plinkelle," she rallied. “He got pretty embarrassed after that, and I told him he’s taking me out to dinner tonight. Anywhere I choose.”

Alyssa leaned back, clearly intrigued. “Ah, well played. You’re lucky your husband had the decency to be embarrassed. So… what’s the venue of vengeance?”

Candy smirked. “That’s what I’m trying to decide.”

Vivian refilled her glass. “Alright then. You want the classics or the statement pieces? I suggest The Velvet Glove. State-run, hyper-proper, forks arranged like battle strategies. You’d get to order his meal for him and watch him suffer through six courses of soufflé and etiquette drills. Meant to give husbands a break from ‘decision fatigue’, ha! I took Gideon there once, back when he thought he had a chance. Ordered him liver and onions with a warm oat smoothie. Watched his will to live disintegrate over three courses.”

Candy considered. “Tempting. But too quiet. I want pain.”

“Oooh,” Alyssa said, eyes lighting up. “Le Cringette. They make things to a tee, so if you try to change anything they treat you like garbage. You should have see the last guy I was with there."

Candy cackled. “What’d he do?”

“Tried to ask for salt. The waiter gave me a warning look.”

Vivian grinned. “You want something louder? Go to House of Paddles. It’s novelty nonsense, but every table’s got a Correction Bell, and the waiters shout etiquette slogans like it’s a sport.”

“Too self-aware,” Alyssa said, waving it off. “Marcus might actually enjoy that one.”

Candy narrowed her eyes. “Okay… what’s that place with the violinists? The one with the romance rituals and the mandatory couple games?”

Vivian’s expression soured. “The Maiden’s Purse. Gludge preserve us.”

Alyssa groaned. “That place is paid sentimentality.”

Candy tilted her head. “Tell me more.”

Vivian took a breath. “Heart-shaped chair cushions. Public serenades. The waiters do a question game, like ‘share your wife’s favorite flower’ or ‘recite your anniversary memory.’ If he wins, it’s free dessert for both of you, but if he messes up, they ring a bell of disappointment. And,,,?”

“He pays for both and you get his dessert too,” Alyssa said, deadpan. “They used to console you with an ‘Affection Affirmation Cookie.’ It’s worse than it sounds, though I’m not sure they do that one anymore.”

Candy’s eyes sparkled with sinister glee. “That’s the one.”

“Wait, I thought you hate that kind of place,” Vivian said.

“Exactly,” Candy said, grinning. “I loathe it. But tonight, I’m going to lean in. I’m going to wear something fluttery, order something that sparkles, and pretend to be delighted by his company. I want him to feel like he’s drowning in a sea of romance and expectations.”

Alyssa raised her glass. “To wartime femininity.”

Vivian clinked in. “To roses, riddles, and righteous humiliation.”

Candy drank deeply. “To Plinkelle, who has no idea she was involved in the most awkward dry hump in paddlewick history.”

Later that night…

Marcus stood alone outside The Maiden’s Purse, nervously scanning the cobbled path, already regretting his entire existence. Candy had sent word, not a suggestion, but a formal directive: Dinner. Maiden’s Purse. Wear something polished. Which meant she was still angry and that something terrible was about to happen.

The restaurant loomed like a pink fever dream. Its scalloped awning was stitched in gold thread. Paper hearts fluttered along the exterior in a windless, enchanted breeze. Warm lighting spilled from the windows in rose-colored tones, and through the etched glass he could just make out someone tuning a violin. The air smelled like sugared plums and financial ruin.

And then, she arrived, stepping out of a passing carriage like a weapon drawn slowly from a velvet sheath.

Her hair, styled by Vivian’s cunning fingers, was swept into an elegant updo Marcus had never seen her wear before. Her dress, unmistakably not Ministry-issued (unlike the majority of her wardrobe that had been given to her upon her transformation), was frothy and fluttering, a deep burgundy trimmed in peach, and cut just low enough to weaponize her cleavage. The color clung to her curves like a declaration of war. Her walk was calm, precise, almost disarmingly graceful… but Marcus knew better. That wasn’t elegance.

What on earth was she playing at? He gawked for half a beat too long.

Candy tilted her head. “You didn’t bring flowers.”

“I didn’t know I was—” Before he could finish, the hostess appeared with a practiced smile.

“Sir, we’ll seat you momentarily. In the meantime...” She gestured to a nearby booth adorned with tiny crystal hearts and satin drapery. “Might the gentleman care to purchase a rose for the lady?” Marcus paled. The flower boy smiled like a knife.

Candy’s voice was syrupy. “Oh, yes. Don’t you care, husband?”

Marcus cleared his throat. “Of course I care.”

“Three silver,” the flower boy said flatly, extending a single pink rose wrapped in tulle.

Marcus fumbled his coin pouch, muttering under his breath as he paid what felt like the tax on his dignity. Candy took the flower with an infuriatingly sweet smile, twirled it once, and tucked it into her bodice.

The hostess beamed. “This way, dear couple.”

Inside, the restaurant was a shrine to romantic absurdity. Heart-shaped sconces glowed from the walls. Every table was surrounded by plush, rounded cushions shaped like hearts, their fabric embroidered with shimmering filigree. Violinists wandered gracefully between tables, serenading guests with soft love ballads. Even the water pitchers had lace doilies.

Marcus pulled out Candy’s chair like a man waiting for the executioner’s drum.

“Such a gentleman,” Candy said, settling in with a flutter of skirts that absolutely wasn’t necessary.

Their table was decorated with rose petals and glitter. A carved wooden heart stood upright between them with a printed phrase etched across it: Two Hearts, One Union. Marcus stared at it like it might bite him.

The violinist approached.

“Would the couple care for a romantic melody to begin the evening?” the man asked, bow poised.

Marcus opened his mouth.

“We would,” Candy said sweetly. “Thank you, sir. Husband, please tip the nice man.”

Marcus sighed and dropped a silver into the violinist’s gloved hand. The man nodded, tucked the coin away, and began to play a trembling, overly emotional rendition of Ode to a Chaste Union.

Candy folded her napkin delicately and turned to Marcus, voice low but sharp.

“I hope you’re ready for tonight.”

Marcus stared at the violinist, then the heart-themed menu, then her cleavage. He wasn’t sure which was more terrifying. The violinist finally moved on to torture another table. Marcus exhaled in relief. That’s when the server returned with the menu scrolls in hand, tied with pink ribbon.

“Our feature selections tonight,” she chirped, unrolling them onto the lace-trimmed table, “are all part of our Lovers’ Devotion Prix-Fixe. Each course themed around a stage of romance, with aphrodisiacal enhancements and optional soul-pairing condiments. Shall I walk you through them?”

“Please,” Candy said before Marcus could object.

The woman beamed. “For starters, we recommend First Glance Figs, lightly seared and sprinkled with cinnamon pollen and whisper salt. Arousal-forward. Very popular. Or for a more traditional opening, there’s Yearning Yam Purses, hand-folded and tied with chive string, served with fermented pepper cream.”

Marcus drummed his fingers once against the table.

“For entrees,” she continued, “we have several shared plates. The Moobie Pearl Fondue is our house specialty. It is imported from Cleavendale, ethically harvested, served with sugared brioche and a tiny ladle. Or for the protein-forward romantic,” she tapped her quill on the page, “there’s Two Steaks, One Flame, an intertwined beef presentation flamed tableside with lover’s clove brandy. Oh, and for the pescatarians: Enchanted Solemates, lightly seared filets that visually resemble each other’s cut, symbolizing marital alignment.”

“...romantic fish?” Marcus questioned flatly.

“We also offer Heart & Tart Duck Duet, which comes with edible petal confetti and a poem recitation by your server, or Vealentine's Cutlets with sweetvine drizzle.”

“I’ll take the fondue,” Candy said, handing over her scroll. “And the figs.”

Marcus coughed. “Uh. I think I’ll just get the simple greens.”

“Nonsense,” Candy cut in. “This is a special night. You’ve worked so hard for us. You deserve Two Steaks, One Flame.”

“Really, I’m good with the salad.”

She smiled. “Marcus. Husband. Don’t be shy.”

The server nodded, already jotting it down. Marcus stared at his lap.

Once she was gone, he leaned in. “Candy, come on. This isn’t you.”

She batted her lashes. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You flinch every time I touch your back. You don’t like romantic crap. You hate this even more than I do.”

“Normally yes,” she said, sipping her water. “But you’re hating it slightly more right now. And that makes it worth it.”

He sighed. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“You dry humped me,” she snapped.

His mouth opened, then shut.

“You were squeezing my boob,” she continued. “I was trapped under you. Do you know how helpless that made me feel?”

“You got out.”

“I had to kick your balls. And for the record, I didn’t enjoy doing that.”

“Oh. Good.”

Candy smirked. “And after dinner, we get to do the Wife Quiz. If you lose, you pay for two desserts and I get them both. Oh, and don’t you dare say something about how I like dessert more now that I’m a woman. That’s low-hanging fruit!”

“I would never,” Marcus protested, raising his hands. A silence fell. Then Marcus leaned forward, voice low.

“Dammit, come on. Cut me a break here.”

Candy looked at him. Her expression didn’t change. He dropped his voice another notch.

“Cameron...”

She stilled. Just for a moment.

“My real name?” she questioned. “You only use that when you’re hiding something, or when you’re desperate.”

“I am desperate.”

She leaned in.

“Good.”

And that’s when the waiter arrived, balancing a floating dish of figs laced in powdered glitter, followed by two pink plates crowned with steaks curled lovingly around each other like swans.

Next came The fondue, bubbling in a heart-shaped cauldron, surrounded by slices of sugared brioche, poached fruits, and tiny enchanted forks that glowed pink when held.

Candy took the first piece, delicately spearing a hardened moobie pearl and swirling it through the melted sweetness. She bit in. Paused.

“Huh.”

Marcus, across from her, was still chewing steak. He glanced up. “What?”

“It’s…” she hesitated, processing the taste, “Actually good.”

“Fondue?”

“I’ve never had it before. Thought it was just… warm cheese and extra price.”

Marcus stabbed a pearl and tasted it. “It kind of is, but it’s decent.”

Candy tried a poached fig slice. “Okay, that’s stupidly good.”

He reached across for a cube of sweetbread. “Don’t get used to this. You know we’re never affording this place again.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, smirking.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. Just soft chewing, candlelight, and the ridiculous flutter of lace doilies beside their plates. Marcus wiped his mouth with a napkin shaped like a swan.

“You ever think,” he said, “if we’d met under normal circumstances…”

“I wouldn’t have looked at you twice,” Candy finished. “You’re exactly the kind of guy I’d expect to send me to etiquette jail for wearing pants.”

He grinned faintly. “Fair.”

A beat passed. The fondue dwindled, the plates were cleared, and then it happened. The lights above dimmed and a chime rang. The waitress reappeared, holding a scroll tied in pink ribbon and a little velvet pouch.

“Congratulations,” she beamed, “on completing your Lovers’ Feast. Now, as part of our Maiden’s Purse Marital Bonding Experience, you’re eligible for the Know Your Wife Challenge! Five questions. You’ll need three correct to win. If you win, dessert is free. If you fail, desserts are full price, and both will be for the lady, of course.”

Candy was already smiling. The pouch was passed to her. She removed a delicate slip of enchanted paper and began filling out her answers with the silver wax pencil provided.

Marcus swallowed hard. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

Candy didn’t look up. “I considered lying. But no. I’ll play fair.”

“Oh good,” he said. “Except fair for you is like fighting a griffin with a salad fork.”

“I mean… you know me, right?” She looked up, all mock innocence. “From our deep romantic connection?”

He groaned.

She handed the scroll back. “Answers sealed.”

The waitress clapped. “Then let’s begin!”

What’s Candy’s favorite color to wear on special occasions?

• Her answer: Burgundy.

• Marcus guesses: Sapphire.

• Oops, wrong.

• 0/1

• Answer: Black.

• He guesses: Black.

• Correct!

• 1/2

Marcus thinks back. He’s known Cameron for forever, but what if Candy’s tastes are different?

• She answers: Lemon Myrange Pie.

• “Mint sorbet?”

• 1/3

Which of these values matters most to Candy?

A) Loyalty, B) Freedom, C) Success

• Answer: Freedom.

• “Freedom?”

• Finally, another correct! Staying alive.

• 2/4

1. When Candy feels overwhelmed by rules she doesn’t understand, what helps her recalibrate? A) A nap and a note that says “wake me when the kingdom’s sane again”

   B) A structured breakdown of the regulations with margin commentary

   C) Physical touch from someone she trusts

   D) The chance to argue with someone until she wins or collapses from smugness

(Even as Cameron, Candy relied on clarity to regain control. While she might say A or D when not under oath to answer correctly, she only actually improves with B.)

Marcus answers D. Wrong.

⅖. He has lost the game.

“Two out of five,” the waitress said with a practiced pout. “No discount. The lady may now select her desserts.”

“Oh,” Candy said, turning to Marcus, “I believe I’ll take the Moobie Heart Mousse here… and the Triple-Petal Tartelette boxed for later.”

The waitress nodded and whisked off, leaving Marcus to stare at the cursed table runner embroidered with Love Is Obedience.

Candy folded her napkin with military precision.

“I didn’t even rig it,” she said softly. “You know.”

“I did know that pie one,” Marcus muttered. “Back at the outpost, you hoarded the whole box.”

“Then maybe you should’ve remembered that before you tried to grope a breast that wasn’t yours in a dream about a girl you haven’t seen since school.”

He flinched. “Okay. Fair.”

A few minutes later, dessert arrived. Candy took one careful bite of the mousse, made a pleased hum, then left it half-eaten and boxed the rest with the tartelette. They stepped out together beneath the enchanted hearts that shimmered like dying fireflies overhead. Marcus carried the box without being asked. His face was tired.

“Are we done?” he asked.

Candy looped her arm through his, not sweetly.

“Hmm, I’ll say we’re even, but I’m still lording it over you indefinitely.”

Marcus let out a short huff. “Of course you are.”

It was painful. Not just financially, though that part stung too, but in the exhausted, jaw-clenched way a man pays when he knows there’s no winning. Candy didn’t say much either. She just took her pair of boxed desserts, including a glitter-frosted selection of Cherridip Puffs, basically donut holes coated in passionfruit glaze and spun sugar, back from Marcus and led the way outside.

The cobblestones were slick underfoot, the evening humid. Crickets chirped somewhere nearby.

Marcus sighed. “So… how long are you gonna hold this over me?”

Candy popped a puff into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Mm. Not sure yet. This was a solid start. I might escalate.”

Marcus groaned. “I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”

She smirked. “The dry hump? The boob grab? The Plinkelle murmur?” She tapped her lip with mock contemplation. “No. No you will not.”

He muttered, “I can’t believe you went to all that trouble just to make me feel awkward.”

Candy licked a bit of frosting from her fingertip. “That’s how awkward I felt. So… now we’re even.”

It might have ended there, maybe even softened, but fate was not kind to Paddlewick wives.

She wasn’t watching the path. The edge of her heel caught a crack in the stone. She stumbled, gasped, caught herself, barely. But the dessert box flew.

It flipped once, twice, then opened like a villain in an opera, flinging its contents into the chest of a seated Ministry officer at a nearby café table.

The splat was wet. Sticky. One Cherridip Puff rolled down his collar.

Candy gasped. “Oh no! Sir, I’m so sorry, I tripped!”

The officer stood slowly, face blank.

“Well,” he said flatly, “I don’t usually get assaulted with dessert.”

“I, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—!”

He held up a gloved hand. “I see. Still, protocol is protocol. I’m going to have to write this up. Public correction required.”

Candy’s breath hitched.

Marcus stepped forward. “Sir, come on. You saw it. She tripped. Open box. It was an accident.”

“No law against open dessert,” the officer agreed, “but there is a law about pelting uniformed officials.”

“She didn’t pelt you—”

“Sir,” the officer cut in, eyes narrowing, “if you continue to argue, I’ll have to fine you. And if you’re unwilling to perform the correction yourself, that enforcer over there,” he gestured to a uniformed bruiser across the square, “will be summoned.”

Marcus’s nostrils flared. He looked the officer up and down. “How old are you, son?”

“That is not relevant.”

“I think it is.” Marcus’s voice dropped. “You’re the kind who racks up discipline points like it’s a game. Doesn’t care about context. You enforce by tally, not judgment. People like you are why the women of Paddlewick still take self-defense classes. You get drunk on power.”

The officer’s jaw tightened. “Sir, watch your tone.”

“Oh, I am. And believe me, son, this isn’t over.”

Marcus turned to Candy, laid a hand gently on her back.

“I tried,” he whispered. She didn’t answer. He began guiding her to the public corrections bench.

The officer cleared his throat. “Enjoy your evening, madam. And don’t forget: oral apology within twenty-four hours.”

Marcus winced. Candy didn’t flinch. Not until they were further from the man's view. Then her shoulders dropped. Of course it ended like this. Of course Paddlewick couldn’t let her be happy for more than an hour. For once she’d had fun; planned, executed, dominated… and now? Now her desserts were gone, her pride bruised, she was about to be publicly spanked, and her night would end with a law that required her to suck her husband’s cock, again! Gods damn Paddlewick.

Moobee Pearl: