The Price of Perfection | Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Mia adjusted the sleeves of her sweater as she paced through Claire's mansion hallway, her fingers brushing against the fabric. The material clung stubbornly, outlining the pronounced ridges of muscle that had become increasingly impossible to ignore over the past day alone. Every subtle shift in her movement sent a faint muscle ripple through her skin.

Ahead of her, Matthew's broad back dominated the hallway, his shoulders shifting like tectonic plates beneath his shirt. But Mia's eyes lingered with something sharper than admiration. Her lips quirked into a smirk as her eyes traced his lats—not to marvel at them, but to measure them. Big. Sure. But how much longer until I'm bigger? The thought sent a thrill through her, her chest tightening with a layer of certainty only she was privy to.

Her pace quickened, her quads flexing visibly through the snug fabric of her jeans. Each step seemed to stretch the limits of the material, her thighs pressing against the seams with every movement. She drew closer to Matthew, looming just behind him, and let her shoulder graze the wall. The subtle contact made the narrow hallway feel suffocating, but she didn't care. In fact, she leaned into it.

"Hey, Matt," Mia called, her voice carrying a teasing lilt that sliced into him. "You think your mum called us here to talk about how I'm catching up to you?"

Matthew faltered, his fists tightening in his pockets. He didn't turn, but Mia didn't need him to. The slight hitch in his step, the barely perceptible rise in his shoulders—she had hit her mark. Her smirk widened as she brushed past him, her shoulders rolling back, pushing against the sweater's fabric. It resisted but couldn't hold back her traps entirely as they moved. She let the awkward silence stretch as Matthew opened the heavy double doors, stepping into Claire's office.

"Mia, Matthew!" Claire's voice cut through Mia's thoughts, bright and welcoming but with a sharpness that demanded attention. "Come in. Sit down. I wanted to talk to you both about something."

Mia strode forward, claiming her seat with a confidence that bordered on audacity. She leaned back, her arms draping over the armrests, pulling her sweater taut across her chest and shoulders. The material stretched to accommodate her, outlining her deltoids and the faint ridge beneath her pectorals. Her forearms, bare where her sleeves had been pushed up, rested on the chair, every sinew and vein standing out like a map. Matthew followed, his movements stiff, his shoulders set too high as though bracing against an unseen weight.

Claire let her eyes linger on Mia for a beat longer than necessary, taking in the way the younger woman filled the chair as though it had been made for her. Claire's lips curved faintly, though she quickly masked the expression as she moved to lean against the desk.

Claire leaned against the edge of her desk, her fingers brushing lightly against its smooth, polished surface. "I've been thinking about how we might make things more interesting," she began, her tone light, almost conversational. "Don't get me wrong—you're both doing fine. But I think it's time to shake things up a little. Push things further, see what you're really made of."

Mia's grin widened immediately, her fingers flexing idly against the armrest. The motion sent a ripple through her forearm, the veins rising faintly beneath her skin as the muscle shifted and coiled. "Push things further?" she echoed, her tone teasing. She turned her head, her smirk sharpening as her gaze landed on Matthew. "Sounds good to me. I've got plenty left in the tank. Can't say the same for Matt, though."

Matthew's head snapped toward her, his glare sharp.

Claire raised an eyebrow, suppressing the smirk threatening to pull at her lips. Her arms crossed loosely over her chest as she gestured for them to settle down. "Alright, alright, settle down. This isn't about who's better—or at least, it's not just about that," she said, her tone hinting at amusement. Her eyes flicked to Mia again, lingering just a moment longer. "This is about figuring out what you can handle, what you're good at, and where you might surprise yourselves."

Her gaze rested on Mia as she spoke, watching the younger woman lean back into the chair. The fabric of her sweater clung to her biceps, the tight weave outlining the growing peaks with unapologetic clarity. Claire let her lips curve slightly before continuing, her voice softening, almost coaxing.

Mia tilted her head, her grin turning sharper, more predatory. She flexed her fingers again, the motion travelling through and up her arm, into her biceps, which pushed visibly against her sleeve. The tension in the fabric was almost audible; the sweater pulled so taut it seemed to cling to every inch.

Matthew's fists tightened on the armrests, the leather groaning faintly under the strain. His jaw clenched, his shoulders stiffening as he opened his mouth to respond. But Claire stepped in before the words could leave him.

"Easy, Matt," she said, her voice carrying a teasing lilt that masked her intention. "You'll get your chance to prove yourself. But let's say,"—her eyes flicked back to Mia for the third time, her expression softening pointedly.

Mia's grin widened further. She shifted slightly, rolling her shoulders. The motion made her rounded delts shift beneath the fabric, the muscles rippling. "He can try to keep up if he wants."

Matthew opened his mouth again, his expression darkening, but hesitated. His gaze flicked briefly to his mother, searching for some indication that his frustration wasn't being ignored. Claire gave him none, her attention locked on Mia with what seemed like a mixture of intrigue, satisfaction and something much darker.

After a beat, Matthew leaned back in his chair, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Fine," he said finally, his tone clipped. "I'll show up."

Claire straightened, her mind turning over her plan, every detail carefully calibrated to push Mia further—to see how far she could go. Matthew was there to balance the scales and create tension, but Mia? Mia was the one Claire wanted to see shine.

"Good," Claire said, her voice brightening slightly. "Wear something you can move in—and bring your A-game. This is going to be fun."

Matthew's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding in frustration. Mia shifted in her seat, her posture exuding confidence that seemed to mock Matthew's frustration. She let her hands rest on her thighs, her fingers tapping idly against the denim.

Claire's eyes flicked between Mia and Matthew with dark intent, taking in the tension between them. It was there, simmering, sparked by every glance, every word, every subtle shift in posture. It's working, she thought, the satisfaction settling like a steady hum beneath her skin.

She let the silence stretch for a moment longer, savouring it. Contrary to Mia's new confidence, Matthew looked like he was fighting to hold himself together. His posture was stiff, his fists still repeatedly clenching and unclenching against the armrests as though the leather might give him the anchor he needed. His broad shoulders seemed locked in place. Claire's eyes flicked to him, taking in the subtle shifts in his jaw, the slight twitch of his fingers. He was holding back, trying not to snap, and Claire knew it was only a matter of time before the pressure found its release. Good, she thought, her mind already turning over how far she could push before the balance tipped.

"I've got a whole workout planned," Claire said, her voice light but steady, carrying just enough weight to pull their attention back to her. She let the words hang for a moment, gauging their reactions. "It's about pushing yourselves in ways you haven't tried before. Finding out what you're really capable of when the usual rules don't apply." She watched as the tension between them shifted, not lessening but morphing into something sharper, more focused and pronounced.

Mia's grin widened "Sounds like my kind of challenge," Mia said, her voice carrying a playful lilt, but her eyes gleaming with something more primal.

Matthew's reaction was quieter, but no less telling. His fists stilled against the armrests, his jaw tightening as he let out a slow, measured breath. Claire could see the anger building behind his eyes. He wasn't one to back down, but, as ever, the game Claire played wasn't about winning or losing—it was about control. Let it stew, she thought. Let it grow.

"And Mia? I have a feeling you're going to love this one."

Mia's grin finally turned feral, her confidence radiating off her in waves. "Oh, I plan to," she said, her voice low but brimming with a cocky sense of certainty.

Matthew, silent but smoldering, remained rigid in his chair. Claire's smile softened, but her thoughts were no less razor-sharp. He was necessary, an integral piece of the puzzle, but he wasn't the focus. Not truly. He was a tool, a spark to ignite Mia's fire, and the rivalry Claire had sown was the fuel she intended to burn.

Mia rose from her seat, stretching her arms overhead as she stood. The motion was fluid, and controlled, the stretch that seemed to highlight every inch of her growing body without even doing much. Her sweater rode up slightly, revealing a sliver of her midsection—a taut plane of muscle that seemed to ripple effortlessly. She let her arms fall slowly, her shoulders rolling back as her traps shifted beneath the fabric. "Got it," she said breezily, her voice casual but tinged with excitement. Her eyes flicked to Matthew, her grin widening. "Just as long as you don't mind me wiping the floor with your son."

Matthew stood more stiffly; his movements clipped as though every motion required conscious effort. His fists remained clenched at his sides. Claire's eyes followed him, noting his rigid posture and his barely restrained frustration. But her attention inevitably returned to Mia.

As they turned to leave, Mia paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk that could have cut glass. "Better stretch, Matt," she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Wouldn't want you cramping up trying to keep up with me."

Claire shook her head, her lips twitching with the hint of a smile. She's cocky. Too cocky, Claire thought, though there was no denying the flicker of excitement that accompanied the thought. For all her bravado, Mia had the strength to back it up and more.

Mia stepped into the basement gym and then adjusted the hem of her leggings, the fabric clinging tighter around her legs than it had just ten minutes earlier. She glanced around, her eyes narrowing as they caught sight of the squat rack and the pull-up bar.

Matthew followed a few paces behind, his posture coiled and tense, his jaw locked as though keeping something volatile at bay. His eyes darted to Mia's legs, and they seemed to ripple, pop, and bulge without much effort. A flicker of frustration burned in his chest, his nails biting into his palms as a single thought consumed him: How is she growing so fast? The slap of her sneakers against the floor was a metronome to his irritation; each beat reminding him that Claire was watching and worse—that she might be impressed. His eyes flicked briefly to the dumbbells stacked along the wall, then to the pull-up bar.

Claire entered last, her heels clicking against the concrete. She paused near a row of kettlebells, her hand grazing one of the heavier ones as her eyes assessed the pairing she sought to groom into rivals. There was no need for a preamble; they knew why they were here.

"Alright," Claire said, her voice slicing through the room. "You've been here countless times, so you know what to expect. But today, it's not about what you know." Her eyes landed squarely on Mia. "Let's start simple. One lap of the room each. Mia, you're up first." She then shifted to Matthew to see his reaction to 'Mia' rolling from her tongue so casually, like ooze dripping from a pipe. As was expected, he squirmed.

Mia rolled her shoulders and stepped to the edge of the room. Her sneakers squeaked against the floor as she bent slightly forward, preparing for the burst of speed. She pushed off, her legs churning powerfully beneath her. The air rushed past her, her strides long and igniting all the muscle beneath her leggings. Her quads roared with effort, the sensation not just of exertion but of something deeper—as if her muscle fibres were swelling and thickening with every push. Her hamstrings worked in tandem, coiling and releasing like loaded springs.

Mia's pace faltered slightly as she rounded the far corner of the gym. Her core twisted slightly, her obliques bracing, the strain radiating outward like molten energy shaping her midsection. It felt like her abs were carving deeper with every breath. Her glutes clenched, heat spreading through them as though they were being sculpted with every step, lifting and rounding with each motion. Meanwhile, her calves burned in protest, their tight contractions grounding her movements with an almost volcanic intensity.

Claire watched Mia closely, calculating. Her thoughts churned, piecing together what she was witnessing. Mia's movements were different today. Claire's eyes narrowed further as she traced the muscle lines along Mia's legs, noting the subtle but undeniable changes. Something was magnetic about watching a body pushing and reshaping itself in real-time. The faintest smile tugged at her lips as her mind began formulating new possibilities, strategies, and, perhaps, challenges to test Mia even further. Her eyes lingered on the pronounced swell of Mia's quads, the way the fibres seemed to surge against the fabric of her leggings with every step. It wasn't just them—her hamstrings coiled and stretched like steel cables, creating a rippling effect that Claire couldn't pull away from. Even Mia's calves rose and bulged with every push-off. "Interesting. She's growing faster than Lyra had in the same period."

Matthew's glare darkened as he stood near the edge of the room, staring at the striations in Mia's legs as they powered her forward. He couldn't ignore how her quads seemed to flex larger now, fuller than they had been just minutes ago. The sight was maddening. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck straining as he swallowed back a growl. "How the hell is she doing that?" he thought. He knew about his mother's machine, which shouldn't have worked this well. At least, that was what he had hoped.

Each of Mia's breaths came a little sharper now. The expansion of her ribcage felt deeper, as though her diaphragm was working not just for oxygen but to sustain the heat coursing through her. Her quads burned with an intensity that bordered on ecstasy, the muscles flexing tighter with each step as if the fibres themselves were multiplying. She could feel her hamstrings pulling, sharper, more defined. She swore she could feel her glutes rounding further with every stride, the heat spreading upward in waves. Even her skin seemed taut, the pressure beneath it hinting at a growth that refused to be held back.

Mia pushed through the final stretch of her lap, her strides deliberate and powerful. The burn in her legs had transformed from a sharp ache to something excruciating. Her eyes turned first to Claire when she stopped.

"Good," Claire said finally, her voice soft but weighted with satisfaction. Her lips curved slightly as she added, almost to herself, "Very good."

Mia turned toward Matthew, catching the barely restrained frustration in his face. She relished his discomfort, letting her eyes drop momentarily to her own legs. What she saw made her pause. Her quads, already prominent, now seemed fuller, the muscles pushing against and tearing through her leggings. Her calves, which had always been strong, now had grown at least twice their size. She ran her hand lightly along her thigh, feeling the skin and the hardness beneath. She flexed, watching the way her muscles responded instantly, the fabric stretching to accommodate before finally ripping clean through like nothing. Then came the moan that was almost too sensual for the moment.

For Matthew, every glance at Mia's legs was a gut punch, a reminder that she wasn't just improving—she was surpassing him in every measurable way. Her quads, the sheer size and shape of them almost mocking his own efforts. And her calves—those perfect, swelling calvbes—seemed to defy explanation, each step making them grow. "How the hell is she doing this?" he thought, his mind racing with excuses and explanations that did little to quell his growing envy. His eyes darted to his mother, searching for any sign that she might be as unsettled as he was.

It hit Matthew with the force of a weight dropping to the floor. There was no way he could realistically beat Mia. Not now, not after seeing this. And yet, Matthew knew Claire would expect him to try. She'd expect him to dig deep, to push harder, to act as if the playing field were still level. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he realized the futility of it all. He could already feel his mother's expectations pressing down on him, heavier than any barbell he'd ever lifted. But no amount of effort would close the gap now. He was outclassed, and he knew it. And yet, the thought of giving up wasn't even an option. Claire wouldn't let him.

Mia turned to Matthew. She shifted her weight, letting one leg extend slightly, her calf tightening into a taut, rounded bulge. The fabric of her leggings strained as though pleading for relief, but Mia gave no quarter. Instead, she flexed, the muscle fibres pushing outward with a slow, almost hypnotic grind. As Mia held the pose, her calf grew, the fibres rippling outward as though feeding on her sheer willingness to grow. Every slight adjustment sent a visible wave through the muscle, the fabric of her leggings audibly straining to keep up. The faint creak was a sound that seemed almost obscene.

"Hey, Matt," she began, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "What's the matter? You look... tense." Her tone sharpened on the last word, turning her leg outward slightly, giving him an unobstructed view of her flexing calf. The muscle pushed upward. "You're not worried, are you? I mean, it's not like I'm bigger than you, right?"

Claire's eyes narrowed, her gaze glued to Mia's lower body. She didn't miss a single detail—how the skin stretched impossibly tight over the bulging fibres and the almost imperceptible twitch that suggested the muscle was alive. Claire was not just observing but calculating, considering the potential of what she was seeing. Claire was desperate to see how far it could go.

"Who would've thought just taking a lap around the gym would make me bigger than you?" Mia teased, her voice low but laced with amusement. She turned slightly, her hamstring twitching visibly under her skin as though something alive writhed beneath. The movement was subtle at first—a flicker, a tremor—but then it became deliberate, the fibers shifting and rippling with a life of their own. A single, massive muscle fibre thick as Matthew's finger pushed itself against Mia's thigh like it was trying to rip itself out. She reached back, her fingers grazing the fibrous meat.

Matthew tried to force himself to look away, not to give her the satisfaction, but his eyes betrayed him, lingering on how her muscles swelled and shifted as she moved. The veins threading along her calves seemed more pronounced now, pumping visibly with every flex as though the muscle beneath was expanding in response to his humiliation.

Rising onto the ball of her foot, her calf surged upward. The thick fibers shifted beneath her skin, swelling outward until the seams of her leggings creaked louder, an audible protest before a second, much more visceral tear sounded. "You can look all you want, Matt," she said, her voice dripping with mock generosity. "But I promise you're not catching up anytime soon. Oh, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice dripping with mock concern. "Feeling a little... small?"

Claire, silent until now, watched with an expression of interest. Her attention tore back and forth between Mia and Matthew, but it always returned to Mia. Claire's chest tightened as she imagined the machine's potential, now that she knew it succeeded—this was what she had envisioned when she built it, though not even her calculations could have predicted such rapid transformation so quickly.

The hamstrings captivated Claire most, their serpentine ripples under Mia's skin moving as if alive. She recalled the machine's parameters. She had designed it to find untapped potential, but what Mia displayed now was beyond them. Claire's lips curved faintly, the whisper escaping her lips, almost involuntary: "Perfect."

As Mia's hamstrings rolled beneath her hand, Claire's thoughts turned to the machine's future applications once it'd been rebuilt. If this was just the beginning, how much further could she push?

Claire turned to her son, her expression softening into something colder, more measured. "Matthew," she said, her voice cutting through like a blade, "your turn. Let's see what you've got."

Matthew didn't move immediately. How could he possibly follow what Mia had just done? It was an impossibly high bar set. But there was no room for defiance under his mother. Resentment simmered as he forced himself forward. As he approached the edge of the room, Matthew cast a quick glance back at his mother, searching for even a flicker of reassurance. There was none. Claire's eyes remained fixed on him, sharp and calculating, as though she were dissecting him with her eyes alone. His shoulders tightened further, but he bent slightly, preparing for the lap.

Matthew pushed off with a burst of speed. His movements were strong but lacked the fluidity Mia had displayed. Claire's eyes narrowed as she watched him, cataloguing every error. The slight inward collapse of his knees with every step, the uneven pull of his hamstrings—everything spoke to inefficiency — Weakness.

"Don't waste energy in your upper body," Claire called out. "Your arms are moving too much, throwing off your rhythm." Her voice carried none of the admiration she had reserved for Mia, only the clipped authority of a drillmaster correcting a wayward recruit.

Matthew's fists clenched mid-stride, but he forced himself to focus on the movements she criticised. He couldn't forget how her calves flexed and swelled with each stride, the ridges of muscle snapping into place as though they were pieces of a jigsaw. In contrast, his own muscles felt sluggish and unresponsive, lacking the explosive power Claire clearly expected.

From across the room, Mia let out a quiet chuckle, her arms still crossed over her chest. "Hope you're not trying to copy me, Matt," she said, her tone dripping with smugness. Her gaze flicked to his calves, her smirk widening. "That's a high bar to reach."

Tighten it up!" Claire barked. Her expression hardened further as she watched her son. She didn't miss the slight falter in his stride as he adjusted, the way his quads flexed without the same precision she had just witnessed in Mia. Her eyes narrowed her thoughts as cutting as the words she chose not to speak: Not enough. "Your calves are barely firing. You're dragging. Fix it!"

Matthew rounded the far corner with a grimace, the muscles in his legs tightening. The burn in his thighs and calves wasn't the productive kind—there was no thrill of progress, only the punishing ache of falling short.

Claire's voice rang out again, more relaxed but no less cutting. "Lift your knees higher. You're shuffling again," she said, shaking her head.

Look at him struggling, Claire thought. He knows it, too. Good.

This wasn't just about pushing Matthew harder but also sharpening Mia's edge. By exposing Matthew's weaknesses, Claire would make Mia shine brighter. The contrast would push them both. For Mia, it would be confidence. It would be humiliation for Matthew—a fuel Claire hoped would ignite something stronger in him. If it didn't, then she already had her answer about which one was worth investing in — regardless of Matthew being her son.

Mia was the future—Claire could see that much. Matthew was a tool, a stepping stone to bring Mia closer to perfection. The stronger Mia became, the more evident that Matthew's role wasn't to shine but to be outshone. He was her son—her blood—and that connection stirred something within her, something heavier than disappointment. A part of her wanted to see him succeed, to rise above the frustration and prove her wrong. But another part, colder and sharper, knew that wasn't likely. He was still hers in ways others were aware. But was he worthy of being hers?

Her possessiveness over Matthew allowed Claire to catch his external and internal flaws. He wasn't just failing to meet her expectations but failing her. That idea gnawed at her, sour and uncomfortable. She had poured so much into, shaped, and guided him.

When his gaze flicked toward her, searching for reassurance, Claire felt a twist in her chest that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Let him figure it out, she thought. He'll come back around.

Watching him falter, Claire couldn't ignore the sting of disappointment that mingled with her possessiveness. He was supposed to be hers in every sense that mattered. His struggles felt like a betrayal of everything she had poured into him, everything she had demanded of him. She wanted to pull him back, to remind him of his place—not just in the gym, but…with her. The thought lingered, warm and possessive, but she let it sit. He would come to her eventually, as he always did. But not until he understood her approval wasn't given freely—it had to be earned.

The rivalry wasn't just for them alone—it was for her. Seeing Mia's dominance sharpen against Matthew's struggle proved Claire held the reins. She was the architect. Every misstep Matthew made illuminated Mia's perfection. Every falter reminded Claire why this rivalry needed to exist: to elevate Mia for the sake of reactions from others, particularly Matthew. Watching him look at Mia as he paced by—however briefly—ignited a possessive anger Claire didn't care to acknowledge. He wasn't supposed to look at anyone else that way. He wasn't supposed to be anyone's but hers. That thought settled uneasily.

When Matthew finished his lap, Claire gestured toward the rack of dumbbells lined neatly against the wall. "Alright, Matthew, you're turn to start. Let's see what you've got. Fifty clean reps. No wobbling, no stalling, no excuses."

Fifty reps. With the 100-pound dumbbell his mother pointed at? His stomach turned at its sheer absurdity. That weight was designed for shorter, explosive sets, not the blitz his mother had constructed. She couldn't possibly be serious. But as he looked up, the intensity in her eyes confirmed it: she wasn't joking. He wasn't being tested; he was being set up to fail — intentionally, and he knew it.

Mia leaned against the squat rack, her arms crossed. "This should be good."

Matthew didn't look at her, but the slight flare of his nostrils showed the effect her words had. 'Fifty reps? With this weight?' He adjusted his grip on the dumbbell, his fingers tightening reflexively as he bent forward. He glanced toward his mother, the strain in his voice evident as he forced the words out. 'You know this is insane, right? "I'm not Mia."

Claire moved closer, her heels clicking softly against the concrete as she positioned herself just behind him, her arms crossing loosely over her chest. "Just do it. It's only fifty.' The deliberate emphasis on 'only' landed like a blow, a jab meant to twist the task's weight deeper into his psyche. Claire's resembled a constant pressure that constantly bore down on him, even when his body was screaming for less. At least he was trying, but it wasn't enough. Not yet. She would catalogue every misstep, not out of malice but of a meticulous need to understand where he faltered.

'Don't let Mia make you look weak, Matthew,' she added, every syllable sinking like a hook into his skin. Her words carried no warmth she'd reserved for Mia, only the coldness of someone who expected nothing less than perfection.

Matthew exhaled sharply through his nose, his muscles tightening as he prepared for the lift. The first rep was slow, the weight rising steadily as his legs and arms worked in unison. Every movement felt heavier than it should have, the strain building in his shoulders and lower back like a slow, insistent burn. Each breath he drew felt sharp, cutting against his chest as he forced his body to comply. The dumbbell hovered at the apex of his rep, his legs shaking as though the weight were growing heavier with every second.

Claire watched every detail, her eyes narrowing at the slight tremor in his forearms and his shoulders' uneven pull. "Too slow," she remarked with disappointment.

Behind them, Mia let out a low chuckle, her fingers tapping idly against the squat rack. It was cute watching him try. "Oh, come on, Matt. Don't make me feel guilty for enjoying this." She had the inkling of a thought to step in before he hurt himself. She wouldn't want him breaking something. "It's okay to admit when you're out of your depth." She paused, letting the words hang before glancing at Claire with a smirk.

Matthew's grip on the dumbbell tightened as he lowered it back down, the metal clinking softly. His palms were raw, his forearms trembling under the strain, but his jaw clenched tighter with each rep. 'You want fifty? Fine,' he muttered. The words were barely audible, meant more for himself than anyone else, a promise to push through even as his muscles screamed in protest. He gritted his teeth as he bent to lift it again, the weight feeling like it had doubled since his last attempt. His breaths came harsher now, each one a battle against the growing fire in his arm.

Claire stepped in again, and leaned slightly to the side. "Don't let get to you."

Of course, that was a lie. It was all part of the plan.

Mia tilted her head further. "You know," she murmured, her voice almost reflective as if she were speaking more to herself than anyone else. "I'm starting to think I need bigger sleeves." Her tone carried a casual amusement, but the way her smirk grew as she flexed slightly suggested something far more deliberate. The fabric of her sweater groaned faintly under the strain, the material accentuating every detail of the bulging muscle.

Her fingers hovered over the peak of her bicep, pressing gently as though testing its density. She pressed harder, watching as the muscle swelled even further, rising higher under her touch, the vein along its edge throbbing visibly as if it, too, was responding to her, growing more pronounced with every flex.It

"It's funny, Matt,' she added, her fingers tracing the vein along her bicep. 'I don't even have to try, and I can feel it getting bigger."

The remark landed like a gut punch. The dumbbell in Matthew's grip loosened slightly, the handle slick with sweat as he struggled to maintain composure. Mia watched him fight to avoid looking at her arm. Her bicep flexed again, the muscle pushing against the fabric as though demanding his attention.

"Careful, Matt,' she added, stepping closer, her bicep brushing against his shoulder as she passed. 'Wouldn't want to drop that now. You've got an audience, after all.”

Matthew exhaled shakily, the dumbbell slipping from his hands to the floor with a heavy thud. How did it come to this? he thought bitterly, his muscles screaming in protest as though mocking his inadequacy. He felt every failure weigh down on him—Claire's gaze, Mia's smirk, his own body refusing to meet his ever-controlling mother’s demands. The question looped in his mind, gnawing at his confidence.

Claire’s heels clicked against the floor as she approached. She stood over him, arms crossed, eyes dissecting every inch of his slouched posture, every modicum of failure. “That’s it? You’re giving up?”

Matthew didn’t respond immediately. When he finally had the will to meet his mother’s eyes, there was no defiance in his—only exhaustion and frustration. He couldn’t keep going. He…just couldn’t.

“Mia,” Claire called without looking back. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Her fingers drummed lightly against her forearm. She had poured so much into him, shaped him, molded him—She inhaled slowly, letting the disappointment settle deep into her soul before turning away with a sharp flick of her wrist. “Take over.”

Mia’s smirk was instantaneous. She pushed off the squat rack where she’d been leaning. “Gladly.” As she stepped forward, her muscles seemed to come alive, every shift, ripple, bulge and flex exaggerated to an obscene degree. Her sweater sleeves rode up slightly, revealing the thick forearms Matthew could scarcely dream of having. His eyes dropped to the floor, shame and anger warring within him. He knew what would come next. And it would burn worse than any strain in his muscles.

Mia crouched by the 100-pound dumbbell, her fingers wrapping around the handle. She paused for a moment, letting the weight settle in her grasp, before lifting it effortlessly. The motion was clean, her biceps swelling under the fabric of her sweater, the muscles rounding into perfect peaks with each repetition. The material stretched audibly, as if protesting against the sheer force beneath it.

Claire’s eyes never left Mia. She studied the younger woman’s form, noting the ease with which she handled the heavy weight. There was a glint in her eye, something akin to satisfaction tempered by a simmering desire for more—always more. “Add another twenty pounds,” she instructed, leaving no room for argument.

Without missing a beat, Mia set the dumbbell down and adjusted the weight, the clink of additional plates ringing out. When she lifted the adjusted weight, there was no hesitation, no falter. The veins along her arms became more pronounced, her muscles rippling with each precise movement. As Mia worked through the heavier reps, Claire’s gaze grew sharper. Every lift, every ripple of muscle beneath Mia’s skin was another piece of evidence confirming what Claire already suspected: Mia was worth more investing in than her own blood.

“Impressive,” she murmured. “How does it feel?”

Mia let out a soft laugh, lowering the dumbbell. “Feels good,” she replied, “Though, I could probably go heavier.”

Claire’s expression morphed into something almost calculating. Her eyes darted across Mia’s mass as though dissecting every inch of it. “Perfect,” she whispered, almost to herself, a word laced with satisfaction and something darker. This wasn’t just about progress anymore. “Add another hundred.”

Matthew’s stomach churned. He felt smaller than ever, both physically and in Claire’s eyes. But he couldn’t bring himself to argue. What was there to say? Mia had outclassed him completely, and they all knew it.

“Don’t feel bad, Matt,” Mia said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.

The words were a dagger, and Matthew’s fists tightened, his nails biting into his palms. Claire watched him closely. She had seen what she needed to see. Between Mia’s dominance and Matthew’s failings, this was the perfect setup, the precise balance Claire needed to refine her experiment.

Despite his apparent defeat, Matthew didn’t leave. He wanted to say anything to salvage the situation, but the words caught in his throat. Claire’s eyes flicked to him briefly, settling on him once more. “Stay,” she said abruptly, her voice cutting through the room. “Watch. You’ll learn more this way. Mia, let’s see how far you can really go.”

Mia reached for the heaviest set of dumbbells, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal handle. Her grip tightened, veins rising along her forearms like rivulets. The first lift was, as ever, effortless—almost insultingly so. Her biceps swelled, pushing against her sweater like a second skin.

As Mia pressed on, her muscles expanded, not with sudden drama but with a steady intensity. The fabric of her sweater stretched tighter, the weave straining visibly around her biceps. Her triceps pressed hard against the seams, the faint groaning of fabric under stress accompanying every lift. Each rise of the dumbbell pushed her arms closer to the inevitable.

Eventually, the sweater seemed to hold on out of sheer stubbornness, each fibre straining visibly against the relentless growth beneath—a faint crease formed along the seam of her right sleeve, stretching wider with every flex. By the sixth repetition, the fabric looked painted on, every ripple of her muscles rendered with perfect clarity beneath the material.

“Wow, I can feel it!” Mia said, her voice rising with excitement.

With each rep, her upper body reshaped itself. Her traps rose slightly, creating a defined slope from her neck to her shoulders. Even her chest began to push forward, her pectorals becoming more prominent, forcing the already tight sweater to strain further. The changes were controlled, as though Mia had come to expect every inch of growth.

“Keep going,” Claire said, almost urgently, her tone low but firm. Her heels clicked as she circled Mia, taking in every ripple and flex of muscle from every perceivable angle, no matter how pervasive it might be the eyes.

By the twentieth repetition, the inevitable happened. A sharp, high-pitched snap broke the air as a single thread gave way. The sound cascaded into a rip that seemed almost deafening, each fibre splitting with agonizing slowness as her biceps surged forward, claiming the space the fabric once held. The first tear revealed a sliver of her skin, and with a drawn-out rip, the seam along her bicep surrendered entirely.

“Yes!” Mia exclaimed, her eyes bright. She grinned at the sight of her growing biceps pushing free. “Uurgh fuck, it feels amazing!”

The tear didn’t stop there. The fabric along her triceps followed suit, splitting downward as though being peeled apart by an invisible hand. Her sleeves fell open in stages, each new rip exposing more of the muscle beneath.

“Oh, come on, is that all you’ve got?” Mia teased, flexing her arms slightly, pushing the remnants of her sleeves to their limit. She laughed as another small tear formed near her shoulders. “This feels too good to stop!”

She rolled her shoulders, causing the already compromised sweater to surrender further. Threads unravelled, and with one deliberate flex of her arms, the sleeves burst completely, the remnants hanging in tatters around her elbows. Veins crisscrossed her forearms and biceps like a roadmap, her skin taut over the muscle that seemed almost sculpted to perfection. Her lats flared, broadening her back and giving her an imposing silhouette. Even her abs appeared more pronounced.

“Looking good,” Claire said. Her hand hovered briefly before brushing lightly against Mia’s exposed bicep. The muscle was solid, harder than anything Claire could think of.

Mia flexed her arm, the motion making her bicep swell further, pushing against Claire’s fingertips. “Think I should go for more? Bigger?”

Standing silently by the wall, Matthew couldn’t tear his eyes away. The comparison between himself and….whatever Mia was turning into gnawed at him. Yet, beneath the simmering frustration, a seed of curiosity began to take root.

Claire finally stepped back after a few sneaky gropes of Mia’s arm. “That’ll do for the day. I’m sure Matthew’s learned a few things.”

Mia turned, catching Matthew’s eye. Her muscles gleamed under the gym’s lights, every contour and striation highlighted in crystal-clear detail.

“Not bad for lil ol’ me, dontcha think,” Mia teased.

Matthew sat on the edge of his bed, the only light coming from the small lamp on his nightstand. His muscles ached from the earlier workout, but it wasn’t the physical pain that gnawed at him—it was the humiliation. Mia’s words, her smirk, and how she had effortlessly outclassed him in front of his mother played on a loop in his mind. He couldn’t shake the image of her flexing, her muscles rippling and growing with every movement, while he struggled to keep up.

He stood up abruptly, pacing the room. The mirror on the wall caught his eye, and he stopped, staring at his reflection. His broad shoulders, his chest, his arms—they were strong, he knew that. He had worked hard for this body and spent countless hours in the gym, pushing himself to the limit. But now, it felt like it wasn’t enough. Not compared to her.

Matthew stepped closer to the mirror as he flexed his biceps. The muscles bulged, the veins popping slightly under the strain. He held the pose, studying himself, searching for anything that could rival what he had seen in Mia earlier. The image of Mia’s legs, her calves swelling with every step, her quads tearing through her leggings, was burned into his mind. And then there were her arms—her biceps, her triceps, her lats—all of it growing, expanding as if she were some kind of fleshy balloon.

He turned away from the mirror, his chest heaving as he tried to calm himself. But the anger, the frustration, the sheer helplessness of it all, was too much. He slammed his fist against the wall, the impact sending a sharp pain through his knuckles. He didn’t care. The physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional one raging inside him.

Matthew sank back onto the bed, his head in his hands. He felt small, insignificant, like a shadow of the man he thought he was. His mother’s disappointment, coldness and apparent preference for Mia hurt him.

And right now, it wasn’t him.

He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind racing. He thought about Mia, about how she had looked at him, how she had taunted him, and how she had effortlessly surpassed him. He thought about his mother, about the way she had watched Mia with that glint in her eye, the way she had dismissed him, pushed him aside. He thought about himself, about everything he had worked for, everything he had built, and how it all seemed to crumble.

Matthew closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they kept coming, relentless, unyielding. His rage toward Mia felt like a living thing, coiled tight in his chest, ready to lash out. He hated her. He hated the way she had humiliated him, the way she had made him feel small, weak, insignificant. He hated how she had effortlessly surpassed him, how his mother had looked at her with that glint in her eye. He hated it all.

But as the minutes ticked by, something shifted. The sharp and consuming anger began to dull, replaced by something else—something he couldn’t quite name. It started as a flicker, a faint spark in the back of his mind, but it grew slowly, steadily, and instead of feeling anger, he felt… something else. Admiration? No. No, he couldn’t admire her. He couldn’t. She had humiliated him, made him feel weak, made him feel like he was nothing. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he couldn’t deny it.

He shook his head, trying to push the thought away, but it was no use. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be feeling this way. Not about her. Not about Mia. His mother wouldn’t permit it. Mia was the future, the one Claire was investing in, the one she wanted to see shine. Matthew was just…there.

And yet, the thought of Mia sent a shiver down Matthew’s spine. He felt a strange, unfamiliar ache in his chest that he couldn’t quite explain. He wanted to hate her, to despise her, to push her away. But he couldn’t. Not anymore.

He was attracted to her.

A knock at the door broke the silence. He stiffened, already knowing who it was before they spoke.

"Matthew," Claire's voice was smooth, coaxing. "May I come in?"

He didn't answer, but the door creaked open anyway. Claire stepped inside. When she stepped fully into the glow of his lamp, he saw it—his breath hitched. She wore a silk robe, but it barely concealed the deep crimson lingerie beneath, a colour he had unconsciously claimed as his favorite years ago. The fabric clung to her in ways that accentuated her perfect feminine curves. The delicate lace of her bralette pressed against her firm chest, the high cut of her underwear exposing her thighs.

Matthew swallowed hard, turning his face away. "What are you doing?"

Claire stepped closer. "I came to talk."

Matthew let out a sharp breath, forcing himself to stare at the wall instead of how the silk robe slid over her shoulders. "This isn't how we talk."

Claire ignored the resistance in his voice and instead perched on the side of his bed, one leg crossing over the other. "You seemed upset earlier." Her voice was low, honeyed. "I don’t like seeing you that way."

Matthew scoffed, still refusing to look at her. "Since when? You spent the whole day tearing me down."

"I was pushing you. There’s a difference." Claire hummed, tilting her head as if considering his words. She reached out, fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path down his arm. His muscles twitched, a war raging within him. She was always like this—demanding, cruel even, yet she wielded warmth like a weapon, knowing exactly when to use it. Her fingers curled lightly around his wrist. "And I’m here to make up for that. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Matthew’s shoulders slumped, gripping the sheets tightly. The frustration still simmered, and he couldn’t shake the image of Mia’s smug grin. Her ego grated on him like sandpaper against raw skin.

“I can’t stand her,” Matthew muttered, bitter. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the physical pain could distract him. “She’s insufferable. Always flaunting, always showing off. It’s like she can’t go five minutes without reminding everyone how much better she is.”

“I know,” Claire said, her voice smooth and calm, almost soothing. “Mia’s ego is… noticeable. But it’s not entirely her fault.”

Matthew’s head snapped toward her, his eyes narrowing. “Not her fault? She’s practically gloating every time she breathes. How is that not her fault?”

Claire’s lips curved into a faint smile, and she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his forearm. The touch was deliberate, her nails grazing his skin as she traced the lines of his muscles. “It’s a side effect of the machine,” she explained, her tone matter-of-fact. “The rapid growth, the surge of power—It changes people, Matthew. It makes them… bolder. More confident. Sometimes, that confidence can come across as arrogance.”

Matthew’s jaw clenched, and he looked away, his fists tightening in his lap. “That doesn’t excuse it. She’s acting like she’s invincible like she’s already won. And Mum, you’re just letting her.”

Claire’s fingers continued their slow exploration, moving up his arm to his shoulder, where she pressed her palm against the hard muscle. She leaned in slightly, her breath warm against his ear. Claire wasn’t letting Mia do what she wanted without permitting, without a motive. She was observing and testing. The machine’s effects were still new, and Mia’s reaction was… fascinating. “But it’s temporary. The ego, the bravado—it’ll settle once her body adjusts.”

Matthew’s breath hitched as her hand slid down to his chest, her fingers splaying over his pectorals. He tried to ignore how his heart raced and how her touch always made him feel a certain way, even when he attempted to fight against it. “And what about me?” he asked, his voice strained. “Am I just supposed to sit back and let her humiliate me while you ‘observe’?”

Claire’s lips curved into a sly smile, and she leaned closer, her other hand resting on his thigh. “You’re not just sitting back, Matthew. You’re learning. And you’re stronger than you think. Mia’s confidence might be loud, but yours is quiet. Steady. That’s what makes you special.”

Her words were meant to reassure him but only fueled his frustration. He turned, his eyes blazing. Special? He couldn’t even keep up with her. How was he supposed to be ‘special’ when she’s— Claire cupped his face in her hand, her thumb brushing against his cheek.

“You’re not seeing the bigger picture,” she said gently. “This isn’t about who’s stronger right now. It’s about who has the potential to go further. And you, Matthew, have always been my greatest project.”

For a moment, Matthew felt a flicker of hope. But the memory of Mia’s smirk quickly overshadowed it, her muscles rippling as she effortlessly lifted weights he could barely handle. He pulled away from his mother’s touch, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t feel like your greatest project,” he muttered, his voice thick with resentment. “I feel like a stepping stone.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned back, her hands resting on her thighs. “You’re my son. And I have higher expectations for you than anyone else. But you need to stop comparing yourself to Mia. She’s not your competition—she’s your motivation.”

Matthew let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Motivation? She’s a walking ego trip. How am I supposed to find motivation in that?”

Claire’s lips twitched, and she reached out again, her fingers trailing down his arm. “By using it,” she said. “Let her ego fuel you. Let it push you to be better. Because when the time comes, and it will, you’ll stand tall. Not her.”

Claire’s words were meant to inspire him, but they only deepened the ache in his chest. He wanted to believe her, to trust that she had his best interests at heart. But the way she looked at Mia and praised her made it hard to shake the feeling that he was being left behind.

“You’re stronger than you think, Matthew. And I’m not just talking about this.” Claire’s hand moved to his bicep, her fingers squeezing the muscle gently. Her fingers traced the veins that ran along his arm. He wanted to pull away, to tell her to stop, but he couldn’t.

“I’ll try,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Claire’s fingers lingered on Matthew’s bicep, her possessive and teasing touch, her eyes locked on his face as she studied his reaction. Claire’s lips curved into a sly smile, her voice dropping to a low, sultry tone.“I know you’ll try. You always do.”

Her hand slid down his arm, her fingers brushing against his inner wrist before moving to his thigh. She pressed her palm against the muscle there, feeling the hardness. Her touch was deliberate, calculated, and designed to elicit a reaction. And she got one. Matthew’s body stiffened under her ministrations, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. Not from her. Not ever.

Claire leaned back slightly as her hand moved higher, her fingers brushing against the waistband of his underwear. She paused. “Now… take off those underwear,” she commanded, her voice firm but laced with a seductive edge that made it impossible to refuse.

Matthew wanted to resist and push her away, but the look in her eyes—raw hunger and possessiveness—was too much. He was powerless against her, always had been. And deep down, he knew he didn’t want to resist. Not really.

He reached for the waistband of his underwear, his fingers fumbling slightly as he hesitated. Claire’s gaze never wavered, her lips curving into a satisfied smile as she watched him. “That’s it,” she coaxed, her voice a low, sultry whisper. “Don’t think. Just feel. Do.”

Her words were like a spell, breaking down the last of his resistance. With a shaky breath, Matthew slid the fabric down his legs, his body exposed. Claire’s eyes darkened as she took him in, her lips parting slightly as she let out a soft, appreciative hum.

Matthew’s breath came in short, ragged gasps as he obeyed, his body trembling with anticipation. Claire’s touch was everywhere, her hands and lips exploring every inch of him with a possessiveness that left him breathless. She was relentless, her movements designed to drive him to the edge and keep him there.

“You’ve grown so much, Matthew.” Claire’s voice dripped with possessive admiration that made his stomach twist. Her hand slid down his chest, her fingers brushing over each indentation of his abs. Her fingers continued their exploration, moving lower, tracing the V-cut that led to his hips. Her touch was almost reverent, as if she memorised every curve and of his body. She paused, her hand resting just above his bare waist.

“And this,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I see you’ve been taking those pills like Mummy asked. Thank you.”

Her hand wrapped around his cock, her fingers tightening just enough to make him gasp. She leaned in closer. He was bigger than his father. Much bigger. And so much harder. Her grip tightened slightly, her thumb brushing over the tip in a way that made his entire body tense as a vein thickened to bulge across his shaft. “Do you know how proud you make me? To see how much you’ve grown?”

Matthew’s fists tightened in the sheets as he tried to hold back the moan that threatened to escape. Claire’s words were like a drug, and he couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of pride in her perverted praise.

“You’re a god, Matthew,” she murmured, her voice low and husky. Every inch of him. His chest, his arms, his abs… and his cock. Her hand tightened around him again, her thumb brushing over the tip in a way that made him shudder. He was everything Claire ever wanted in a man. Strong. Powerful. “Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Not even Mia.”

Her words sent a jolt of heat through him, his body responding to her touch in ways he couldn’t control. She leaned back slightly, her eyes raking over his body again, taking in the way his muscles flexed and rippled under her touch. Her hand moved to his chest, her fingers tracing the deep split between his pectorals.

Jerry stood frozen in the doorway, his hand gripping the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles turned white as he watched the scene unfold. He had always known Claire was controlling, manipulative, even cruel at times, but this—this was beyond anything he could have imagined. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat.

How long had this been going on? The question burned in his mind, sharp and unrelenting. He had dismissed it as her being overprotective, as her way of pushing Matthew to be the best. But now, standing here, watching her touch their son in a way that was anything but maternal, Jerry felt like a fool. How had he not seen it? How had he not noticed how she looked at Matthew, spoke to him, and touched him?

Jerry’s teeth ground together as he fought the urge to storm into the room and tear her away from their son. But he couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, his body betraying him as he continued to watch, his eyes glued to the scene before him. Claire’s fingers feverishly brushed over Matthew’s abs. Jerry’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his emotions in check. He wanted to scream, lash out, and do something, but he couldn’t. He was paralysed, trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

And then Claire’s eyes flicked to the doorway, and Jerry’s blood ran cold. She had seen him. Her lips curved into a sly smile, her eyes locked with his briefly before she turned back to Matthew. She didn’t say a word, didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way, but that smile—that damn smile—said everything. It was a smile of triumph and satisfaction, as if she had been waiting for this moment and wanted him to see.

Jerry’s stomach churned, his mind racing as he tried to understand what was happening. Was this her way of punishing him? Of asserting her dominance? Or was it something darker, something he couldn’t even comprehend? He didn’t know, and the not knowing was driving him mad.

“Nothing to worry about, babe. It’s just us,” Claire quipped. But Jerry was watching, and Claire knew it. And that, more than anything, was what made her smile.