The text came at 8:59 pm.

Brett was already in bed at the Cocoon, propped up against a mountain of white pillows, wearing a black silk slip dress that skimmed over his new curves, his long honey blonde hair fanned out around him, his legs lotioned and bare for once instead of in stockings. He'd just taken his nighttime hormone pill, the darkest pink one, and his breasts felt heavy and tender against the silk. His big blue eyes were sleepy, his full lips bare and soft.

His phone lit up.

Lance: I have bad news.

Brett's stomach dropped before he even opened it.

Lance: Dad is extending Singapore. Another month minimum. The board wants me here. I'm so sorry, Brielle.

Brett read it three times. The words blurred. Another month. That made three months total. He had been at the Cocoon for nine weeks, he weighed one hundred and thirty-nine pounds, his waist was twenty-four inches, he had real breasts, real hips, real hair, a real walk, a real voice.

And Lance wasn't coming home.

He stared at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling fast under the silk, tears pricking his eyes from hormones and disappointment. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted Lance to walk through the door right now and see what he'd made.

His phone buzzed again.

Lance: Please. Just one picture? I need to see you. I miss you.

Brett's tears spilled over, hot down his temples into his hair. He wiped them away with a pink-nailed hand and felt something harden in his softening heart. Something powerful.

He sat up, swung his long legs over the side of the bed, and typed back with steady fingers, his soft girl voice in his head even though he was typing.

Sorry, Lance. You made the rules. No pictures until I see you in person. I'm sticking to it.

He added a little smiley face, then deleted it. Then added it back.

He hit send before he could feel guilty.

The three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again for a long time.

Lance: You're killing me.

Brett smiled through his tears, a slow, cat-like smile that felt brand new on his face. Good. Now you know how it feels to wait.

He set the phone face down and felt a rush of power so intense it made his nipples tighten under the silk.

He was in control for once.

Charm school the next day was different.

Matteo arrived at noon in his usual white t-shirt and jeans, dark hair perfect, jaw sharp, smelling like that delicious spicy cologne that used to make Brett's knees weak.

Brett came down the staircase to meet him and Matteo froze halfway through taking off his sunglasses.

Brett was wearing a red bodycon midi dress, long-sleeved, with a high neck in front and a back that dipped all the way to his waist. No bra, because he didn't need one anymore, his full C cup breasts held perfect by the tight fabric. Black sheer stockings with the seam up the back, black patent 120 mm Louboutins. His long honey blonde hair was straight and glossy, his makeup was full glam, smoky eyes, contoured cheekbones, his full lips painted classic red to match the dress.

He walked down each step slowly, hips swaying, letting the heels click, letting Matteo look.

When he reached the bottom, he stopped a foot away from Matteo, close enough to smell him, and tilted his head.

"Ciao, Matteo," he purred in his low alto, and held out his hand the way he'd been taught.

Matteo stared at his hand like he'd forgotten what to do with it. His dark eyes flicked from Brett's red lips, down over his breasts straining the red dress, down his tiny cinched waist, down his long stockinged legs, and back up.

He swallowed audibly.

"Brielle," he said, and his voice was rougher than usual. He took Brett's hand and instead of kissing his knuckles like always, he just held it, his thumb stroking over Brett's pink nails.

Brett felt the shift instantly. The power had flipped.

For weeks, Brett had been the nervous one, the student who shriveled, who blushed, who couldn't hold eye contact with this hunky, sexy, confident alpha male.

Now Matteo was the one who couldn't look away. Now Matteo was the one whose pulse Brett could see hammering in his throat.

"Lesson today?" Brett asked sweetly, stepping closer, invading Matteo's space the way Matteo had taught him to do. He placed his free hand lightly on Matteo's chest, feeling the hard muscle jump under his palm. "Or are you just going to stare?"

Matteo laughed, a short, surprised sound. "You are... different today."

Brett smiled, slow and knowing, his red lips curving. "I'm exactly what you trained me to be."

They moved to the sofa for the lesson, but Matteo kept messing up. He forgot the exercise. He stumbled over his Italian. When Brett crossed his legs slowly, letting the red dress ride up to show the lace top of his stocking, Matteo's eyes dropped and stayed there.

"Eye contact, Matteo," Brett teased, tapping his chin with a red nail. "Up here."

Matteo dragged his gaze back up, his cheeks actually flushed. "Scusa. You are distracting."

Brett leaned in, his breasts pressing against the tight dress, his perfume, the vanilla jasmine, wrapping around them both. "Good," he whispered. "That's the point, isn't it? To be unforgettable?"

Matteo's hand, when he reached to adjust Brett's posture, lingered on his bare back where the dress dipped low. His fingers were warm and trembling just slightly against Brett's golden skin.

Brett didn't pull away. He arched into the touch just a fraction, letting Matteo feel the softness of his body, the heat of him.

The lesson ended early. Matteo stood up abruptly, running a hand through his dark hair.

"I think... we are done for today," he said, his voice thick.

Brett stood too, in his impossible heels, and was almost eye to eye with him. "Are you nervous, Matteo?"

Matteo looked at him, at this beautiful, sexy woman he'd helped create, and his confident alpha mask cracked completely.

"Yes," he admitted quietly. "You are very powerful now, Brielle."

Brett felt the words hit him right in his soft, hormone-filled heart. He reached up and straightened Matteo's collar, his red nails bright against the white t-shirt, his big blue eyes locked on Matteo's dark ones.

"Good," he whispered. "Now you know how it feels."

After Matteo left, Brett walked to the mirror in the foyer and stared at himself in the red dress, the stockings, the heels, the hair, the makeup, the breasts, the hips, the tiny waist.

He wasn't the scared boy from Whitefish anymore. He wasn't even the nervous student from week one.

He was a sexy woman, and the power of it was real and intoxicating and his.

His phone buzzed at 9 pm.

Lance: Still no picture?

Brett smiled at his reflection, ran his hands down his red dress over his curves, and typed back one-handed, slow and sure.

Nope. You made the rules, handsome. See you in a month. x

He hit send, kicked off his Louboutins, and padded barefoot through his glass palace, feeling every eye that wasn't there watching him, wanting him, waiting for him.

And loving every second of it.…