Watch how Ovid stages the transformation. Pygmalion touches the statue repeatedly throughout—testing "whether it is a body or whether it is ivory"—so when it finally softens, we've been prepared by twenty lines of obsessive touching. The miracle happens gradually: first she "seems to be warm," then the ivory "grows soft," then it "gives way to fingers." Ovid stretches the moment across six lines, making us feel the uncertainty.
The wax simile does crucial work. "Hymettian wax softens again having been touched by the thumb / it is bent into many faces and becomes useful by use itself." That phrase "useful by use itself" (*fit utilis usu*) is key—the wax becomes what you shape it into through handling. So does the ivory-woman. She's being molded by Pygmalion's desire even as she comes alive.
Ovid loves these in-between states. The statue is "the image of a true maiden whom you may believe is living." It's "nor false" when Pygmalion finally kisses the living woman—meaning what? That the previous kisses were false? That this mouth is real? The language keeps blurring the boundary.
The prayer scene is masterful misdirection. Pygmalion chickens out—he "didn't dare say ivory maiden" so he asks for a wife "similar to" his statue. Venus understands what he really wants ("sensed what the prayers want"). The flame rising three times is a standard omen, but Ovid doesn't tell us it means "yes" until Pygmalion gets home and the statue warms under his hands. We discover the miracle with him.
Finally, notice the victim count: the Propoetides are punished for denying Venus. Pygmalion is rewarded for worshipping her (and for creating beauty). The ivory woman has no choice in any of it—she wakes up married. Ovid's not editorializing, but he's structured the story so you can't miss the pattern.