I never imagined I’d be boarding a plane alone at 48 years old. Not for a cruise, not for a beach resort—this was Exchange Island. The infamous destination where every guest trades bodies with someone else for the duration of their stay. A complete escape. After losing my husband last year, I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted something different. Something that made me feel alive again.
When I landed, I joined a small group of strangers at the island’s welcome center. No one knew who they’d become—we were all just told to pack light and sign the waivers. “Everything will feel natural once the exchange is complete,” the staff reassured us with unnervingly calm smiles. Then we were each led to our own private pods.
The pod was sleek and clinical, like something from a sci-fi movie. I laid down, heart pounding, as soft music played and a warm mist filled the chamber. I closed my eyes, uncertain—and then everything went dark.
I awoke moments—or maybe minutes—later, gasping. My body felt off. Heavier. Stronger. Tighter. When I looked down, I nearly screamed. Instead of my familiar curves, I was staring at a rock-hard chest, chiseled abs, and sun-kissed skin stretched over defined muscle. My hands were huge. My legs thick with power. I reached up and felt a sharp jawline, short dark hair, and stubble that wasn’t mine.
Stepping out of the pod, I caught my reflection in the mirrored glass across the hall. I looked like a man in his late 20s, the type of guy women whisper about at the beach. Tanned, confident, handsome. And I—he—was smiling.
That afternoon, I strolled shirtless along the poolside, wearing only snug white swim briefs, basking in the way eyes lingered on me. Women flirted. I flirted back. My laugh was deep, my posture loose, cocky, alive. I'd been bottled up for so long I forgot what it was like to be wanted. To be free.
Exchange Island had promised transformation. I just hadn’t realized how much I needed it.
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