The Sullivan family Thanksgiving was not a paper-plates-in-the-kitchen kind of Thanksgiving.
It was Richard's house in Bozeman, the big limestone one with the white columns and the circular drive full of Range Rovers and G-Wagens, the one he'd owned since Lance was in high school. Inside, crystal and candlelight and a twenty-foot table set with actual name cards in calligraphy, and a dress code printed on thick cream stock that said BLACK TIE OPTIONAL in stern embossing.
Formal. Everything was formal.
Brielle didn't mind. He loved the way expensive lingerie felt against his skin, especially when no one else at the table was allowed to know it was there.
Richard had laid it all out on the hotel bed that morning, the way he always did now, like dressing his doll.
First, the lingerie. A champagne silk set from Fleur du Mal, so pale it was almost nude, so fine it felt like warm water. The bra was unlined Chantilly with a sheer mesh panel, the underwire kissing right under the soft swell the estrogen had given back to him, the straps whisper-thin and adjustable with tiny gold sliders that caught the light. The panties were high-cut, French-cut, a slip of champagne lace with a double-layered power mesh front that held him smooth and flat and secret, the leg openings scalloped so delicately they left no mark at all.
Over that, the hosiery. A sheer black Wolford Individual 10, 10 denier, so fine it was almost not there, so glossy it caught every candle flame in the room. Brielle rolled them up slowly in the marble bathroom, sitting on the bench, feeling the nylon sigh and cling to freshly lotioned skin, feeling the reinforced toe settle over his painted toenails, feeling the wide, soft waistband roll up over the champagne lace and lock everything down. No garter belt for family dinner. Just pure, uninterrupted stocking from toe to waist, smooth as glass under his hands.
Then the dress. Richard's choice. A long-sleeved, floor-length column in deep merlot velvet from Tom Ford, with a high, modest neckline that framed the white leather RICHARD'S WIFEY choker perfectly, like it had been cut for it. Long sleeves that buttoned tight at the wrists with covered buttons. A hidden back zip that Richard had zipped up himself, his knuckles brushing the bare skin between Brielle's shoulder blades. The velvet was heavy, liquid, it moved like oil when he walked, clinging to the champagne lace underneath, clinging to the sheer black nylon underneath that, turning every step into a secret rustle of silk and stocking.
The shoes. Black patent Louboutins, the So Kate 120mm, the red soles flashing like a warning every time the velvet hem lifted. Inside them, his black-stockinged feet arched high and pretty, the pointed toe snug, the heel stabbing the carpet with a soft, expensive thud.
Jewelry. The five-carat diamond, heavy and cold on his left hand. Diamond studs at his ears, new, from Richard that morning. And the choker, always the choker, white leather bright against the dark merlot velvet, the pink embroidered letters unmissable.
Brielle looked in the mirror and saw a billionaire's wife going to Thanksgiving dinner. Hair in a low, glossy chignon. Lips in a deep wine to match the dress. Legs endless in sheer black Wolfords under velvet. Lingerie whispering against his skin with every breath.
He looked expensive. He looked kept. He looked loved.
Richard came up behind him, wrapped an arm around his waist, pressed a kiss to the side of his choker. "You look edible," he murmured.
"Behave, Daddy," Brielle whispered, shivering as the velvet shifted over the lace. "It's family."
"Exactly," Richard said, and smiled.
The first hour was perfect. Handshakes. Air kisses. Richard's sister cooing over the diamond. Cousins staring at the choker and then pretending they hadn't. Brielle perched on a velvet settee in his merlot gown, crossing his black-stockinged ankles, letting one red sole peek out from under the hem, sipping champagne while Richard's hand rested possessive on his velvet knee under the tablecloth, his thumb stroking slow circles through velvet and Wolfords and champagne lace.
Epic. Showing up as Richard's wifey was always epic.
Then the front door opened at 4:13 p.m., letting in a gust of cold Bozeman air, and the whole room went quiet.
Lance.
Brielle's stomach dropped straight through the floor, through the black patent Louboutins, through the Persian rug.
Lance Sullivan, Richard's son, in a navy suit that actually fit him for once, his hair cut, his jaw shaved, holding a bottle of wine like a shield. And on his arm —
Oh.
Oh my.
She was stunning. Tall, taller than Brielle even in the 120mm heels, with a waterfall of straight, jet black hair that fell past her waist, glossy as ink. A black-haired goddess in a black satin slip dress that clung like water, with thin spaghetti straps and a neckline that plunged, showing a delicate gold collar at her throat, engraved, catching the candlelight. Her legs were endless in sheer black stockings with a back seam, her feet in black strappy stilettos with a heel even higher than Brielle's. Her makeup was flawless, smoky eyes, a dark berry lip, cheekbones that could cut glass.
Lance's new girlfriend. And yes, Brielle could see it in the elegant line of her shoulders, in the graceful strength of her hands, in the confident tilt of her chin — she was trans, like Brielle, gorgeous and unapologetic and absolutely glowing.
Lance's eyes found Brielle first, in the merlot velvet, in the white choker, in the diamond that used to be his mother's. His mouth curled into something that was half smile, half knife.
"Well look who it is," Lance said, loud enough for the whole dining room to hear, his voice dripping honey and venom. "Dad. And Mom."
The word landed like a slap.
Mom.
Brielle felt the champagne lace go tight against his ribs, felt the sheer Wolfords suddenly prickle against his skin, felt the merlot velvet turn to lead. His black-stockinged toes curled inside the Louboutins. His hand flew, instinctive, to the choker at his throat, fingers closing around those pink letters — RICHARD'S WIFEY — like they could protect him.
Lance kept coming, towing his gorgeous date behind him, enjoying every second. "Elise, darling, this is Brielle," he said, sweet as pie, his eyes never leaving Brielle's face. "You remember, I told you all about her. She used to be my wife. Now she's my mom. Isn't that sweet? Happy Thanksgiving, Mom."
Elise's perfectly glossed mouth twitched. She was trying not to smile. She failed.
"Oh, honey," Elise said, looking straight at Brielle, her dark eyes glittering with cruel delight. "Do we have a lot to talk about."
Brielle forced a breath through the suddenly too-tight choker, forced his shoulders back, forced the wine-red lips into a smile that didn't shake. "Elise. Lovely to meet you."
Elise held out a black-manicured hand. Long, perfect ovals, gloss black to match her dress. Her handshake was firm. Her eyes flicked, just once, down to Brielle's white choker, then back up, amused.
Richard stood. Slowly. Deliberately. The patriarch at the head of his own table, in a charcoal Brioni suit that cost more than Lance's car.
"Lance," Richard said, his voice flat and cold as January. "I don't recall inviting you to my house."
"Aunt Margaret did," Lance said, chin up, still holding that wine bottle like a weapon. "Family is family, Dad. Even the new additions. This is Elise."
Then Richard looked at her.
Really looked.
Brielle felt it before he even moved. That slow, appraising sweep Richard did when something expensive caught his eye. From Elise's black satin straps, down the plunge of her dress, over the gold collar at her throat, down the long, long line of her seamed stockings, to those vicious strappy heels.
He stared. A beat too long. Two beats.
Jealousy hit Brielle like ice water dumped straight down the back of his merlot velvet dress. Cold, shocking, soaking through the champagne lace, through the sheer Wolfords, all the way to his bones.
Richard Sullivan, his Richard, his Daddy, the man who'd collared him and diamonded him and dressed him in champagne La Perla that morning with his own hands, was staring at his son's new transgender girlfriend like she was a painting he wanted to buy.
Lance saw it too. His jaw tightened. His hand found Elise's black satin waist and pulled her close, possessive, his knuckles white.
"See something you like, Dad?" Lance said, too loud, too sharp, that coy smile turning ugly at the edges.
Richard blinked, slow, and dragged his eyes back to Brielle. To the white choker. To the diamond. To the merlot velvet hiding champagne lace and black nylon and a heart that was suddenly hammering so hard he was sure the whole room could see it through the Tom Ford.
"No," Richard said smoothly, but his voice was hoarse. "Just admiring your taste, son. Seems it runs in the family."
Elise laughed, a low, delighted sound, and leaned into Lance's side, her seamed stocking brushing his trouser leg, her gold collar catching the candlelight. "Oh, this is going to be a fun Thanksgiving," she purred, looking straight at Brielle over her champagne flute. "Don't you think, Mom?"
Brielle forced another smile, feeling the Louboutins dig into the rug as he curled his black-stockinged toes inside them, feeling the champagne bra suddenly too tight, feeling the choker suddenly too tight, feeling Richard's hand find his under the tablecloth and squeeze — apology, reassurance, possession, all at once.
Thanksgiving dinner hadn't even started yet.
And across the candlelit table, in black satin and seamed stockings and a gold collar that looked suspiciously familiar, his ex-husband's gorgeous new girlfriend winked at him over the rim of her glass.
Oh my.…
