The phone buzzed again at 6:31.

Brett was still at the kitchen table in the same t-shirt he'd slept in, which was to say he hadn't slept at all. His big blue eyes were bloodshot, his short blonde hair stuck up on one side, his full lips chapped from biting them all night. The notebook in front of him still said ONE MILLION with the paper torn through.

LANCE was on the screen.

He answered before the second buzz finished.

"Are you serious," Brett said, his voice raw, "or are you messing with me?"

Silence. Then a car door slammed on Lance's end.

"Open your door," Lance said.

Brett stood up so fast his chair screeched. He unlocked the three locks on his apartment door with shaking hands and pulled it open to the February cold.

Lance was in the hallway in a black wool coat that probably cost more than Brett's rent for a year. His dark hair was damp with melted snow. His face was pale under the fluorescent light, his jaw unshaved. At six foot two and two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle, he usually filled a doorway. This morning he looked smaller.

He hadn't slept either.

He held up a manila folder like a shield.

"I'm serious," he said.

Brett didn't move. "You show up at my house at dawn after telling me you want to turn me into your wife and that's all you have? I'm serious?"

Lance stepped inside without being invited and shut the door behind him. The tiny studio suddenly smelled like his cologne and winter air and money.

"Do you think this is funny to me?" Lance's voice cracked. He dropped the folder on the table. It landed next to Brett's three dollars and forty-seven cents. "Do you think I like this?"

He opened the folder. Inside was a printed email on heavy letterhead. CALDWELL HOLDINGS.

Son,

The board meets next November. I will not hand this company to a bachelor who treats marriage like a hobby. You will be engaged within twelve months and provide the expectation of grandchildren, or your trust will be dissolved and redistributed to the foundation. This is not a negotiation.

— Dad

Brett read it twice. His stomach dropped.

"He sent that yesterday at four pm," Lance said quietly. "He called me into his office and watched me read it."

Brett looked up at him. Lance's eyes, usually so confident, were wrecked.

"Last year I brought home Elise," Lance went on, pacing the three steps the kitchen allowed. "She asked my dad what his net worth was over appetizers. The year before that it was Mara, who tried to trademark my last name before we were even exclusive. I am so tired, Brett. I'm tired of being a bank account with a face."

He stopped in front of Brett, too close. Brett could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the pulse jumping in his throat.

"Then I thought of you," Lance whispered. "You with your mom's eyes. You with that mouth that never lies to me. You who punched a guy twice your size for me in tenth grade and then let me cry in your truck after. I thought, if I have to do this, if I have to marry someone, why can't it be the one person in my entire life who has never wanted a single thing from me except me?"

Brett's breath caught. The air between them felt too thin.

"So you want to dress me up," Brett said, and his voice shook with anger he didn't fully understand. "You want me to starve down to a hundred and twenty pounds. You want to put me in a corset until I can't breathe. Heels, makeup, hair extensions down to here," he gestured wildly, "tanning beds, veneers, hormones that will mess with my head, maybe implants in my chest. You want me to cut off everything that makes me me, and parade me in front of your father, and you think that's not using me?"

Lance flinched like he'd been hit.

"It's not," he said fiercely. "It's the opposite. I'm not asking you to be my doll. I'm asking you to save me. And I'm paying you because I know what I'm asking costs something. Your body. Your time. Your pride. A million dollars isn't enough, but it's all I can offer without my dad's lawyers noticing."

He grabbed Brett's hands. His palms were warm and huge and steady.

"I'm not messing with you," Lance said, and his forehead almost touched Brett's. Brett could smell coffee on his breath. "I have never been more serious in my life. I sat in my car outside your building all night because I was scared you would say no and I was more scared you would say yes."

Brett stared at their joined hands. His were calloused from work. Lance's were soft but strong. The contrast made something ache low in his chest.

"You look like your mom," Lance said softly, his thumb brushing over Brett's knuckles. "You have these eyes that just... destroy people. You have these lips. If we do this right, my dad will fall in love with you in five minutes. The board will eat it up. And you..." his voice dropped, "you would be beautiful. Not that you aren't now. God. You'd be stunning."

Brett pulled his hands back like he'd been burned. His face was on fire. His heart was hammering so hard he was sure Lance could hear it.

"Don't," Brett whispered. "Don't say stuff like that."

"Why not?" Lance asked, and for the first time there was something else in his voice, something hot and desperate underneath the panic. "It's true."

They stood in the tiny kitchen while the radiator hissed, two best friends who had suddenly run out of safe distance. Brett's whole body was trembling from no sleep and too much feeling. A million dollars. A new body. A fake marriage. And Lance looking at him like he was already seeing the girl version, and liking what he saw.

Brett finally found his voice.

"Show me you're serious," he said. "Not words. Show me."

Lance reached into his coat and pulled out his phone. He tapped twice and turned the screen to Brett.

It was a wire transfer screen. Payee: BRETT MICHAEL HARRIS. Amount: $100,000.00. Memo: retainer.

His thumb hovered over confirm.

"Say yes," Lance said, his blue eyes locked on Brett's, "and I hit send right now. In front of you."

Brett's mouth went dry. His knees felt weak. The whole world narrowed to that glowing number and the man holding it out to him like an offering.

He opened his full lips to answer.…