Brett didn't answer with words at first.

He stared at the phone in Lance's hand. One hundred thousand dollars. Retainer. The numbers glowed in the dim kitchen and reflected in his big blue eyes. His full lips parted, but no sound came out. His chest rose and fell too fast under the thin t-shirt he'd worn all night.

Lance didn't move. He stood there in his expensive black coat with snow melting off his shoulders, six foot two and two hundred and twenty pounds of barely controlled panic, holding the future out like it was fragile.

"Say it," Lance whispered. "Just say yes, Brett."

Brett's throat worked. He thought about the three dollars and forty-seven cents on the table. He thought about his mother's roof leaking every spring in that trailer. He thought about the warehouse rejection email. He thought about fifty-five pounds gone, about a corset laced tight, about heels and makeup and hair extensions, about hormones changing the chemistry of his blood.

He thought about Lance sitting outside his building all night because he was scared.

"Yes," Brett said, and his voice broke on the single syllable.

Lance's thumb hit confirm.

The phone made a soft chime. Transfer initiated.

Brett flinched like he'd been shot. Lance let out a breath he must have been holding for hours and his knees actually buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the table.

"It's done," Lance said, and his voice was wrecked with relief. "God, Brett. Thank you."

Brett couldn't look at him. Shame and adrenaline flooded him so fast his hands shook. He pressed his palms flat on the cold Formica to keep from falling over.

"You just bought me," he whispered.

"No," Lance said fiercely, stepping in close again. He was too warm, too big, too present in the tiny kitchen. He cupped Brett's jaw with one hand, his thumb brushing the edge of that smaller than average nose, the curve of his cheek. "I just hired the only person I trust with my life."

Brett's blue eyes lifted to his. The touch was gentle and it undid him. He'd known Lance since they were kids, had wrestled with him, punched with him, slept on the same couch, and Lance had never touched him like this. Like he was something precious.

"Don't look at me like that," Brett said, but he didn't pull away.

"Like what?" Lance's thumb traced his lower lip, just barely.

"Like I'm already her."

Lance's gaze dropped to Brett's mouth and lingered. "Maybe I am."

The air went electric. Brett's heart hammered against his ribs. He was twenty-one, five foot eight, a hundred and seventy-five pounds of muscle and fear, and he was suddenly very aware of how much bigger Lance was, how his hand completely cradled his face.

Lance let go first, like he remembered himself.

"We start today," he said, switching back to business, but his ears were red. "I already made calls. We have an appointment at nine with Dr. Ellison in Whitefish. She's discreet. She works with trans clients and models. She'll do bloodwork, talk hormones. Low dose to start, so you don't... change too fast."

Brett swallowed. "Hormones."

"Just to soften you," Lance said quickly. "Your skin, fat distribution. It will make the weight loss easier. It will help your face."

"My face," Brett repeated hollowly.

"Your beautiful face," Lance corrected, and his voice went soft again. "Then at eleven we see Marco for measurements. Corset training starts tonight. He'll build you three to start. And we need to get you down to one-twenty, so I hired a chef. No more ramen."

Brett laughed, a sharp, startled sound that was almost a sob. "A chef."

"And a trainer. And a stylist. And a makeup artist who will teach you, not just do it for you. My dad is old school, Brett. He will notice if you don't know how to walk in heels or hold a teacup. You have to pass."

Brett walked to the cracked bathroom mirror and stared at himself again. Short blonde hair. Big blue eyes rimmed red from no sleep. Full lips pressed tight. The face his mother gave him.

He imagined it with longer hair, with soft waves brushing his shoulders. He imagined his jaw less sharp, his cheeks fuller, his skin glowing from tanning instead of pale from Montana winters. He imagined veneers making his smile perfect.

He didn't recognize the flicker of want in his own eyes, and it terrified him.

"What do I call myself?" he asked the mirror.

Lance came up behind him. In the reflection, Lance towered over him, his hands settling lightly on Brett's shoulders. The contrast was obscene and perfect. The billionaire's son and his broke best friend.

"What did your mom almost name you?" Lance asked quietly.

Brett's breath hitched. "She told me once... if I was a girl, she would have named me Brielle."

Lance met his eyes in the glass and smiled, slow and devastating.

"Brielle," he said, tasting it. "Hi, Brielle."

Brett shivered. The name settled over his skin like silk. It felt wrong and right and too intimate.

Lance's phone buzzed. A car service downstairs.

"It's time," Lance said.

Brett turned around. They were chest to chest in the tiny bathroom. Lance reached up and brushed the short blonde hair off Brett's forehead, his fingers lingering.

"Last chance to run," Lance whispered.

Brett looked up at him, at the man who had just wired him more money than he'd ever seen, who was asking him to give up his body and his name for a year, who was looking at him like he was already saving him.

He thought about his mother's leaky roof. He thought about never counting change again. He thought about being looked at, really looked at, for the first time in his life.

Brett took Lance's hand off his face and held it tight.

"Let's go," he said. "Before I change my mind."

Lance's answering grin was pure relief and something hotter underneath. He pulled Brett, soon to be Brielle, out of the apartment and into the waiting black SUV, into the snow, into the beginning of everything.

The door shut behind them.

So it began.