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Once upon a midday under the suspiciously judgmental eyes of a dozen ceramic men with mustaches, Lexa stood at the edge of destiny. Or more precisely, at a picnic table, scrubbing a dusty bottle that looked like it moonlighted as a tax collector in a Hungarian folk tale.

Lexa had heard rumors. Old ones. Passed down from one slightly tipsy bartender to another.

“If you wipe the moustache-jug just right,” they whispered, “a genie will pop out. And not just any genie. We’re talking fashion-forward, waterproof mascara-wearing, ‘I grant wet wishes only’ genie.”

So there she was—sponge in hand, expression focused—buffing the bottle with the kind of hope only someone who’s binge-watched all of Aladdin three times could hold.

But nothing happened. No poof. No glitter. Not even a snarky puff of steam.

“Maybe it needs water to activate…” she murmured, side-eyeing a nearby pool that sparkled like it had secrets. And with the logic only legends and slightly bored models employ, she dipped her elegant boot into the water, preparing for whatever wet miracle awaited.

Still no genie.

So naturally, she dove in.

If magic wasn’t going to come out of the bottle, Lexa would become the magic.

In seconds, her sleek black dress and chic jacket were soaked, shining like she’d been styled by Poseidon himself. The ceramic army looked on in silent ceramic judgment. Somewhere, a frog-shaped bin chuckled softly.

Laughing at her own soggy boldness, Lexa swam like a woman possessed—by the spirit of wetlook couture and unfulfilled bottle-bound dreams. When she emerged, she was soaked, smiling, and still without a genie.

But here’s the thing: the genie was never in the bottle.

He’d escaped years ago.

Bought a Vespa. Got into ceramics. Opened an Etsy shop.

And Lexa?

She didn’t need him.

She had style. She had humor. She had six soaking wet ceramic witnesses.

And most importantly, she had the mop because someone was definitely going to need it after this magical splash session.