Evan’s World: Episode 6 – A Madison’s World Side Story

Brie turned from Evan’s with an almost maternal delicacy, fingers cupping her like a delicate ornament. But Charity could feel the smug satisfaction in the way Brie’s thumb pressed just a little too tight against her back, could hear it in the extra breath of humming she did while lifting her into the air like a prize on display. 

“No, this clumsy oaf can’t work on me,” Charity muttered under her breath, the words barely louder than a whisper, buried beneath the noise of the salon. Her throat tightened with the effort of saying it. Her voice sounded pathetic, like it belonged to a doll with a dying battery. 

Brie heard her. Of course she did. 

Her smile curved into something too polished, too pleased. “Thank you again Ms. Evan! It’s such an honor,” she said sweetly to Evan, but her eyes remained locked on Charity. 

Triumphant. 

Triumphant in that awful, quiet way that didn’t need applause. 

Charity squirmed, but Brie only hummed cheerfully, walking her over to the back treatment station where a miniature porcelain sink had been prepared. 

The scent hit her before the water did, thick cherry, layered with soft vanilla and the faintest trace of sugar. It was syrupy and sweet in a way that made her stomach twist. This was Evan’s scent. Evan’s choice. Not hers. 

Brie carefully lowered her into the bath. 

The water was warm, almost luxurious, but Charity resisted, pushing her arms against the basin rim. 

“Please,” she whispered. “This isn’t necessary. I don’t want to smell like a—” 

“Candy store?” Brie offered, smirking. “Sorry, hon. That’s above your pay grade. Your Guardian chose cherry vanilla, and it’s a full scent treatment. That means it’s going into your skin, not just surface perfume. You’ll emit the scent naturally for two, maybe three weeks. Some littles who are highly compatible can make it 4 weeks.” 

Charity gasped as the loofah touched her thigh, small, soft, but firm enough to remind her this wasn’t for comfort. It was for permanence. 

“It’s a proprietary emulsion,” Brie continued, enjoying the sound of her own voice. “Little only formulation. Absorbs through the dermis and binds to your scent glands. Your sweat, your hair, even your breath, yep, all cherry vanilla.” 

She dragged the loofah down Charity’s arms, scrubbing with methodical pressure. Charity winced. Not from pain. From humiliation. 

Brie lowered her voice to a faux whisper. “And just between us, it helps if your Guardian likes how you smell. It makes them more affectionate. That’s a win for you, right?” 

Charity wanted to scream. Instead, she shut her eyes. The lather clung to her neck, her stomach, her thighs. Bubbles swirled like frosting at her sides, and her skin, her real skin, disappeared beneath them. She could already feel the tingling. The way the formula crawled invisibly through her pores, rewriting her body’s chemistry. 

This wasn’t just perfume. It was branding. 

When Brie finished, she dabbed her dry with a puff towel and held her up, nose wrinkling in approval. 

“Yum,” she said. “You smell edible.” 

Charity said nothing. Her breath still tasted like cherry. Her shoulders itched faintly with the residue of the soak. Somewhere inside, a part of her whispered that this scent would never fully leave. Not even after it faded. 

Because this moment, the bath, the scrubbing, the choice she couldn’t stop, would stay. 

And the next time she smelled cherry vanilla, she’d remember: 
That wasn’t your decision. That was hers. 

The scissors were already gleaming under the overhead lights by the time Charity realized what was happening. 

Brie had draped a shimmering, lilac-colored square of fabric over her, the size of a handkerchief to everyone else, but it covered Charity from shoulders to knees. Its synthetic weave prickled slightly against her bare skin, and the satin tie at the neck felt more like a collar than a cape. Her damp hair clung in strands to the back of her neck, still carrying the sugary cherry vanilla scent from the bath, as Brie fussed with the miniature clips and combs she’d laid out on the tray beside her. 

Charity sat perched on a raised padded platform, something clearly designed for Littles getting styled, elevated on the counter to bring her head closer to Brie’s line of sight. She hated how perfectly sized it all was. How every cushion and brush felt tailored to her new scale. It wasn’t just the world that had changed. It was waiting for her. 

“Okay, so I’m thinking we frame her cheeks, right?” Brie said, brushing her hands together like she was about to start a craft project. “Keep it cropped, but round it just slightly at the jaw. It’ll give her more of that playful dolly vibe you wanted.” 

Evan swiveled slightly in her salon chair, craning her neck to look at Charity. Vicky was still rubbing a deep conditioning treatment into Evan’s scalp with rhythmic, circular motions. 

“Totally. Just not too round,” Evan said with a giggle. “I don’t want her to look like, you know, a puffball. I want it short, manageable, but cute. Like, photo ready cute. Soften her angles.” 

“I got you,” Brie said, lifting a miniature pair of shears with mock solemnity. “Something like… pixie-meets-pageboy with a touch of little chic.” 

Charity’s heart thudded. 

She raised her voice, not shouting, but louder than she usually dared. “I’d really prefer we not go that short. Maybe just a trim?” 

Brie’s hands didn’t pause. She moved around to Charity’s side, combing through the damp length with fingers far too large, far too quick. 

“Hear that?” she said to Evan, tilting her voice with practiced lightness. “She’s nervous. First short cut always makes them squeamish.” 

Evan didn’t even glance up. “Yeah, she’ll be fine. It’s not like it won’t grow back.” 

Charity’s jaw tightened. She didn’t hear me. She actually didn’t hear me. 

Brie’s comb tugged gently through a tangle near the nape of her neck. “Besides,” Brie said more quietly, just for Charity, “you don’t get a vote anymore. Haircuts are wellness decisions.” 

The first snip came with a metallic click that echoed in Charity’s ears far louder than it should have. A lock of her chestnut hair fell to the counter, heavy with water, and she watched it land in slow motion. Her throat clenched. 

It wasn’t even a dramatic cut. Just the beginning of reshaping. But it felt enormous. It was enormous—this girl, barely old enough to drive, was cutting her hair. Charity Stevens, who once tipped hundred-dollar bills and scheduled dual treatments with top stylists. Whose head had once been a canvas for professionals with years of experience and editorial portfolios. 

Now she was in the hands of a junior stylist who was humming to herself while trying to shape her into someone else’s vision of “cute.” 

Brie moved quickly, too quickly. She snipped above one ear,  then paused. Charity saw the flicker of hesitation. 

“You okay over there?” Evan called. 

“Yup! Just giving her a little asymmetry,” Brie lied cheerfully, lifting a comb to hide the uneven cut behind Charity’s right ear. Her fingers pinched another section quickly and began to reshape it, trying to disguise the mistake with texture. 

Charity didn’t need a mirror to know it had been an error. She’d felt the pause. She’d heard the silence. 

She’s learning on me. 

There was a twist of rage in her gut that quickly gave way to something more fragile, more wounded: humiliation. 

She wasn’t just small. She wasn’t just under someone else’s control. She was expendable. An easy canvas. A training head. 

Brie worked her way around, trimming with deliberate speed now, blending the mistake into the final look. A few more strands fluttered down to the tray, catching the light like bits of damp silk. Charity sat perfectly still, her face composed, her fists balled under the cape. 

“So much better,” Brie said finally, stepping back. “I added a bit more layering through the sides, and softened the fringe. Now it bounces when she moves. See?” 

She nudged Charity’s head gently, causing it to tip and sway like she was showing off a bobblehead. 

Evan turned fully in her chair, her hair now bundled in a towel. She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Oh my gosh, Brie! That’s adorable! She looks like a tiny influencer now.” 

“I know, right?” Brie said, beaming. “Her hair totally frames her face. Brings out those cute little features.” 

Charity felt the weight of their approval settle over her like another cape. Her scalp tingled where Brie had handled her. The cut felt light, almost too light. Strands she’d grown, chosen, styled to suit her own identity were gone now, swept into a bin somewhere. 

Evan sniffed the air, inhaling. “Smells like cherry vanilla. Ugh, I bet she’s perfect.” 

Charity didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She could feel the air move differently around her face now. Less weight, less warmth. Her hair, once sleek and sharp, was feathered and soft, bouncing with every tiny movement. 

It’s not bad, she thought bitterly. It’s just not mine. 

That made it worse. 

Brie crouched beside the platform again, her glittery nails brushing loose hairs from Charity’s cheek. “You know,” she said under her breath, “for someone who used to run this place, you make a pretty great Little.” 

Charity didn’t flinch. 

She’d already been cut. What more could Brie take? 

Brie swept the last of the fallen strands into a silver tray no larger than a coaster, humming as she worked. She clicked the miniature shears shut with finality, then reached for a velvet-lined cart that had been wheeled up behind her. It gleamed with tiny brushes, nozzles, and bottles labeled with pastel fonts and sugar-sweet names—“Whimsy Shine Mist,” “Petal Puff Gel,” “Glow & Go Pomade.” All Little-exclusive formulations. All scaled to fit Charity’s new body. 

Charity watched her reflection flicker in the oversized mirror behind Brie, barely more than a shimmer of flesh and hair beneath the lilac cape. Her new haircut clung close to her head, feathered at the edges like she’d stepped out of a toddler boutique window. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t ugly. In fact, she looked… cute. Too cute. 

And that was the problem. 

Brie turned back, holding a tiny bottle between two fingers. “Time for finishing touches,” she said with an infuriatingly chipper tone. “We’ll give you a little volume, some gloss, and a teeny-tiny curl in the bangs. Evan likes a bit of bounce.” 

“I don’t want bounce,” Charity said, her voice barely audible over the hum of the dryer warming on the station beside them. “Just leave it natural. No product.” 

Brie leaned in, blinking innocently. “Oh, sweetie, I know. But Evan does want product. And Evan’s the one paying for this, remember?” 

She spritzed the gloss mist before Charity could protest further. The mist burst like a storm cloud, droplets clinging to Charity’s hairline, her temples, her neck. It smelled like candied roses and whipped vanilla, and instantly made her scalp feel sticky and light. 

Charity coughed softly, waving one arm in front of her face. “That’s too much!” 

“Oops! Littles always say that the first time,” Brie replied, not sounding remotely sorry. “It’ll dry in like two seconds. Just needs to be sealed in.” 

She dipped a finger into the pomade jar and ran it through Charity’s ends, tugging gently on the shorter strands with more enthusiasm than skill. It wasn’t malicious. But it wasn’t delicate either. She was working fast. Impatient. Like she had a checklist to complete, and Charity was item #6. 

A round brush followed, scaled for Littles but still the size of Charity’s forearm. Brie rolled it through her fringe and hit it with a gust of warm air. Charity gritted her teeth. The heat wasn’t painful, but it was close. Like standing beside an open oven, unable to step back. 

She wanted to speak. To protest. But what was the point? She’d already been scrubbed, soaked, exfoliated, doused in cherry vanilla, and clipped into a look she hadn’t chosen. The idea that she could stop the finishing spray seemed laughable now. 

Still, she held onto one last thread of defiance. “Evan doesn’t know how I like my hair,” she whispered. 

Brie froze for a second, barely a second, then resumed her brushing. “She doesn’t have to,” she said softly, with a smirk. “She just knows how she wants you to look. And lucky for you, you’re super good at looking cute.” 

The final mist sprayed into place. Brie took a step back, hands on her hips, admiring her work like an artist with a finished sculpture. 

“There,” she said. “Picture perfect.” 

She reached under the counter and retrieved a hand mirror the size of a baking sheet. Carefully, she tilted it so Charity could see herself. 

The girl staring back at her wasn’t unrecognizable. But she wasn’t her, either. 

The hair was sleek, trimmed into a soft bob that stopped just beneath her jawline. The fringe curled ever so slightly above her brows. It framed her face gently, giving her the open, rounded look of a pampered collectible. Her cheeks—flushed from the heat and humidity of the treatment—looked younger, rounder. Her collar tag shimmered in the mirror’s reflection. 

She looked like a Little who had been styled to perfection. 

She looked kept. 

Brie leaned in beside her, examining the reflection with a grin. “Evan is going to love this.” 

Charity stayed silent, staring at the mirror. At the girl with the candy-sweet scent and the soft eyes and the hair she never asked for. She wasn’t crying. But there was a pressure behind her eyes—something slow, heavy, building. 

Because she wasn’t just seeing the haircut. 

She was seeing the loss. The transformation. The intentionality behind every small, well-meaning decision that erased a part of her. One swipe of gloss at a time. 

“Ready to show her off?” Brie asked, already reaching for her again. 

Charity didn’t answer. She couldn’t. 

She just let Brie lift her back into her warm, vanilla-scented palm, one more doll, polished and presented. 

And as they turned to walk back toward Evan’s chair, Charity’s new hair bounced lightly with every step. 

She didn’t move to fix it. 

It wouldn’t have mattered. 

It wasn’t hers anymore. 

Brie’s hand hovered over Evan’s lap for a moment before lowering slowly, delicately. Her fingers opened like the petals of a mechanical flower, and Charity found herself descending, gently, but undeniably, back into Evan’s waiting thighs. The girl’s pants were warm and slightly textured beneath her, the scent of cherry vanilla curling up from her own skin like invisible ribbon. She landed softly against the fabric, still faintly damp at the collar, the weight of the morning pressing down heavier than her own tiny body ever could. 

Evan let out an audible gasp of delight. 

“Oh. My. God.” Her voice lit up the room. “She’s adorable! Brie, seriously, this is perfect.” 

Charity swallowed. She tried to catch Evan’s gaze, but the tweenager’s eyes were on her handiwork, fingers already reaching to fluff the ends of the newly trimmed bob. The strands bounced under Evan’s touch, light and obedient, shining faintly with the gloss Brie had worked in. 

“She smells so good too,” Evan giggled, pulling Charity a little closer and sniffing the top of her head with exaggerated glee. “Like a cherry shortcake! You totally nailed the vibe I wanted. I’m so, so happy we found you, Brie. You’re, like, Charity’s stylist now.” 

Brie beamed, all glittered lashes and teen pride. “Thank you, Miss Kingsley! I’d love to keep her on my books. Like, she’s got such fun proportions to work with, and I already have a ton of ideas for her seasonal looks.” 

Charity stiffened. Her eyes darted up to Evan. “No. Evan, please, can we not? I don’t want to be her styling Little. I want Vicky. I used Vicky. She knows what I like. Brie’s still learning.” 

Evan blinked, surprised. “Charity…” Her tone dropped just slightly, not angry, but disappointed, like a mother chiding a child who had just turned down a birthday present. “You need to be grateful. Brie did an amazing job, and she’s going out of her way to work with you. Vicky’s got a full client list, and she works with me now.” 

She gave Charity’s legs a soft pat. “It’s really sweet that Brie even fit you in today. You need to tell her thank you. Be polite, babe.” 

Charity opened her mouth again. Her pride clawed at her throat like it didn’t want to let the words through. But Evan was watching now, waiting. The look on her face wasn’t cruel. But it was firm. 

Charity bowed her head. 

Her voice came out quiet and mechanical, her cheeks flushing even as the words left her mouth. “Thank you, Brie. For styling me today.” 

Brie smiled down, victorious. “Aw. You’re welcome, sweetie. I’ll make sure to keep you super cute every visit.” 

Evan gave Charity a little squeeze. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You should be appreciative when people do nice things for you.” 

Brie stepped away with a proud bounce in her step. “I’ll grab your appointment cards on the way out.” 

Evan turned her attention to Vicky, who had just returned with a towel draped over one shoulder and her sleek brush roll in hand. The sight was like a punch to Charity’s chest. 

Vicky. 

The Vicky who had shaped her image for years. The woman who used to greet her with lattes and silk headwraps and that knowing look in her eye, the look that said you’re in charge of your narrative. That Vicky now stood behind Evan, wrapping a cape around her shoulders like she was the new VIP. 

And of course, she was. 

“You ready for your turn, Miss Kingsley?” Vicky asked, voice light, warm, and… genuinely deferential. 

“Totally,” Evan said, settling back into the chair. “I want something elegant today. Glossy, long layers, face framing. You know, like those editorial TikToks. Something real grown-up.” 

Charity sat numbly in her lap, barely feeling the way Evan absentmindedly toyed with the edge of her towel. She watched as Vicky set to work with swift, masterful hands, misting and sectioning with the kind of ease that only came from years of training. Every snip, every curl, every brush stroke was precise. 

It wasn’t just skill, it was art. 

The kind of attention Charity used to receive. The kind of care once reserved for her image. For her control. 

Now that artistry flowed toward Evan, the twelve year old girl who had plucked her from Alejandra a street urchin and declared her a “cuddle muffin.” And Charity? 

She had Brie. A junior stylist still learning how to hold the shears. 

She had cherry vanilla scent, gloss and seasonal looks that weren’t hers to plan. 

She had appointments that matched Evan’s, not because they wanted to spend time together, but because Evan needed a coordinated accessory. 

Vicky twisted Evan’s layers with a flourish, clipped them back with gold butterfly pins, and gave a gentle nod of satisfaction. “This look really suits you,” she said. 

Charity felt herself being bounced lightly on Evan’s thigh. 

“I’m so glad I got you,” Evan said, glancing down at her Little with pride. “You’re going to look adorable next to me. Just the absolute cutest. This is going to be so good for you. Much better then with Alejandra.” 

Charity looked up at the towering mirrors, at the girl in the stylist’s chair glowing with confidence and polish, and then at her own reflection tucked into the crook of Evan’s legs. Smaller. Simpler. Cut and curled for maximum sweetness. 

She wasn’t a client anymore. 

She was an accessory. 

A reflection. 

And as the scent of cherry vanilla continued to cling to her skin, mixing with the perfume from Evan’s hair mist, Charity realized with a dull ache that next time, next time Vicky worked her magic, it wouldn’t be for her. 

It would be for Evan. 

And she’d just watch. 

From a lap that was no longer hers to leave. 

I’m going to leave you with a bonus image

Related Images: