Brielle didn't breathe for a full twelve seconds.

He sat frozen in merlot velvet and champagne lace, in sheer black Wolfords and patent Louboutins, with Richard's diamond heavy on his left hand and Richard's choker tight at his throat, and stared across Richard's candlelit Thanksgiving table at the ghost of the life he'd burned down.

Lance.

His Lance. His ex-husband. The boy from Kalispell who'd held his hand through his first estrogen pills, who'd srmt him to the cacoon retreat to hell him lose the  weight from 175 to 129… who paid him 1,000,000$ to do it not expecting to fall in love…  who'd called him Brielle before anyone else dared to, who'd helped him become her.

The memories hit all at once, hot and sick and fast.

The empty HRT bottles on the counter. The poor Job in Kalispell after Richard cut them off 3 days after the wedding . Brielle sobbing on the bathroom floor because he couldn't afford the next refill.

The lie. God, the lie. Just one night, baby. Richard's rich, he's lonely, he's my dad for Christ's sake, he'll pay. Five million dollars, Brielle. Five million. We can start over. You can get back on hormones.

One night with Lance's father, Richard Sullivan, to earn them five million dollars and get back on his hormones.

He hadn't expected Stockholm syndrome in a Tom Ford suit. Hadn't expected the billionaire to look at him in a cheap satin choker on a private jet and say mine. Hadn't expected to fall, hard and stupid and total, to actually marry Richard three weeks later in Vegas while Lance was still waiting for a wire transfer that would never come.

He'd sent the three-carat engagement ring back in a velvet box with a Dear John letter. I'm sorry. I'm staying. I’m not coming back .

He hadn't seen Lance since.

Now Lance was sitting directly across from him at his father's Thanksgiving table, in a navy suit that finally fit, smirking over a glass of Cabernet, and the gorgeous black-haired trans goddess on his arm was—

Wait.

The candlelight caught it as Elise reached for her water glass, her long black nails clicking against the crystal. A flash. A fire. A familiar brilliant cut.

Brielle's breath stopped again.

On Elise's left ring finger, snug against her smooth skin, was his old three-carat round brilliant. The ring Lance had proposed with in that little Kalispell diner. The ring Brielle had mailed back taped inside a Dear John.

Oh my God.

"Lance," Richard said, his voice like gravel, his hand tightening around Brielle's under the tablecloth, his thumb pressing hard into the back of Brielle's knuckles, right over the five-carat that had replaced the three. "What is the meaning of this."

Lance just smiled, slow and delighted, and lifted Elise's hand to his mouth, kissing those black nails, kissing the three-carat diamond that used to belong to the woman sitting across from him in merlot velvet.

"Thought it was time you met my fiancée, Dad," Lance said, bright enough for the whole table to hear. "Elise and I are engaged. Figured Thanksgiving with family was the perfect time to announce it. Right, Mother?"

Mother.

The word cracked across the good china like a dropped fork.

Brielle flinched so hard the champagne lace bra shifted under his velvet dress, the delicate underwire kissing his ribs. The black Wolfords whispered as his stockinged thighs pressed together under the long skirt.

"Mother?" Richard's sister Margaret choked on her wine.

"Well she used to be my wife," Lance said, all honey and teeth, his eyes locked on Brielle's burning face. "Seems only right to upgrade her to Mom now that she's married my dad. Isn't that sweet? Happy Thanksgiving, Mom."

Elise's perfectly glossed mouth twitched. She was trying not to giggle. She failed, charmingly.

"Oh, honey," Elise purred, looking straight at Brielle, her dark eyes glittering with pure mischief. "Do we have a lot to talk about."

The seating cards. Margaret's perfect calligraphy. Some cruel accident of etiquette had put Lance directly across from Brielle, and Elise — black satin, seamed stockings, gold collar, three-carat ring — right next to Brielle, their chairs so close their skirts brushed under the table.

Elise leaned in immediately, her black hair falling forward in a curtain of ink, her berry lip close enough to Brielle's ear that he could smell her perfume, something dark and expensive and smoky.

"Relax, wifey," she whispered, low enough that only Brielle could hear, her eyes flicking down to the white leather choker. "You're turning pink. Is it the dress? Or is it me? Love the velvet, by the way. Tom Ford?"

Brielle opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Before he could recover, something brushed his calf under the tablecloth.

Nylon on nylon. A slow, deliberate slide. Elise's seamed stockinged leg finding Brielle's sheer Wolford-clad calf under the long merlot velvet, pressing, lingering, then pulling away with a soft, teasing whisper.

Brielle gasped, soft and involuntary. The champagne lace panties shifted under the power mesh, the Wolfords hissed as his thighs squeezed together, a hot, humiliating flush flooding his face, his throat, his chest.

Elise felt it. Of course she felt it. She smiled into her wine glass, her black nails tapping a slow rhythm against the stem, the three-carat diamond winking with every tap.

"Something wrong, Mother?" Lance called from across the table, sweet as pie, while he fed Elise a bite of roasted carrot off his own fork, his fingers lingering on her berry-stained lip. "You look flushed. Dad keeping you warm enough?"

"Mother is fine," Richard bit out, his knuckles white around his wine glass. "Aren't you, baby?"

Brielle tried to nod. The choker felt three sizes too tight.

Elise's leg found his again under the table. This time a full press, calf to calf, seamed stocking against sheer Wolford, slow and firm and unmistakably playful. She held it there through the entire salad course, her black satin knee nudging Brielle's velvet-covered one every time she shifted.

"Mom," Lance said suddenly, leaning forward with his chin on his hand, all wide-eyed innocence, "do you approve? I mean, you're basically my mother now, right? Motherly approval is important to me."

The table went dead silent. A cousin snorted into her napkin.

"Lance," Richard warned.

"What? I'm serious, Dad," Lance said, grinning, never taking his eyes off Brielle's burning face. "Mother always had such good taste in lingerie. And in men, obviously." He winked. "Elise was so nervous to meet you, Mother. I told her, don't worry babe, Mom is super sweet. Mom loves pretty girls. Isn't that right, Mother?"

Brielle's breath caught high in his throat. The champagne bra felt suddenly two sizes too small under the merlot velvet. His black-stockinged toes curled inside the Louboutins.

Elise took pity on him. Sort of.

She turned in her chair, her black satin dress whispering, her seamed stocking sliding another inch up against Brielle's Wolfords under the table, and stage-whispered, loud enough for three seats in either direction, "Oh my God, are those Wolford Individual 10s? I can feel them. They are, aren't they? God, I love a man with good hosiery taste."

Brielle made a tiny, strangled squeak.

"See?" Lance beamed across the table, feeding Elise another bite, his thumb swiping a crumb from the corner of her berry lip. "I told you she'd love you. Mother loves it when girls notice her stockings. Don't you, Mother?"

"Mother always did love expensive things against his skin," Lance went on, relentless and flirty and absolutely gleeful, playing with the end of Elise's black hair, his eyes flicking to Brielle every few seconds to watch him squirm. "Tell Elise what color you're wearing under that dress, Mother. Is it pink? It's always pink with you. Or did Dad upgrade you to champagne?"

Elise gasped, delighted, and bumped Brielle's leg hard under the table, nylon shushing against nylon, her stiletto finding Brielle's patent Louboutin and stroking, once, up the arch. "No! Are you? Champagne? Oh that's so classy. Mom has taste, Lancey, you didn't tell me."

"Stop calling him that," Richard growled.

"What? Mom?" Lance said, all innocence, sliding his arm around Elise's black satin shoulders, pulling her in for a loud, smacking kiss right there at the Thanksgiving table. "But she is my mom now, Dad. Technically. Stepmom. Bonus mom. Mommy." He blew Brielle a kiss. "Love you, Mother."

The whole table was watching now. Cousins with their wine glasses frozen halfway to their mouths. Margaret fanning herself with her napkin. Everyone pretending not to stare at Brielle melting into his merlot velvet chair, cheeks scarlet above the white RICHARD'S WIFEY choker, breath shallow enough to make the champagne lace rise and fall visibly under the Tom Ford.

Elise was loving every second. She kept bumping him under the table, little playful nudges with her seamed stockinged calf, little footsie taps with her stiletto against his Louboutin, leaning in close enough that her black hair brushed his bare shoulder, whispering, "You okay, wifey? You're shaking. Is it the nylons? I get it, Wolfords do that to me too."

Then louder, for the table, twirling the three-carat ring on her finger so it caught the candlelight, "Lancey, did I tell you Mom and I have the same taste in jewelry too? Twins!"

Lance howled with laughter, reaching across the table to squeeze Elise's hand, the three-carat flashing, then blowing Brielle another kiss. "Mother, any tips for a first-time fiancé? You were married to me for two years, then married my dad in three weeks, you're basically an expert. Mother knows best, right?"

"Mother always knows best," Elise echoed solemnly, then dissolved into giggles against Lance's shoulder, her seamed stocking pressing hard against Brielle's Wolfords under the tablecloth and staying there.

Brielle sat there shaking in champagne La Perla and black Wolfords and Tom Ford velvet, his face on fire, his breath coming in short, shallow pulls that made the choker dig in, his stockinged knees pressed desperately together under the table while Elise's nylon-clad leg kept bumping his, kept teasing, kept flirting.

Turned on and humiliated and dizzy and furious and cringing so hard he thought he might actually melt right through his chair, while his ex-husband called him Mother and Mother and Mommy between kisses with his super-sexy fiancée, and his ex-husband's fiancée played footsie with him under his new husband's father's Thanksgiving table, wearing his old engagement ring.

Richard's hand found his thigh under the tablecloth, hard, grounding, furious. A claim. A warning. Mine.

Across the table, Lance raised his glass, Elise tucked under his arm, both of them glowing, both of them stealing every single eye in the room.

"To family," Lance said, grinning right at Brielle, his voice dripping with playful venom. "Isn't this nice, Mother? All of us together for Thanksgiving."

Elise clinked her glass against his, winked at Brielle over the rim, and mouthed, love the stockings, wifey, while her seamed calf slid slow and teasing up against Brielle's sheer Wolfords one more time.

Brielle whimpered into his wine glass and wanted the floor to swallow him whole.