The reply came three minutes later.
Brett was still sitting in the vanity chair at the Cocoon, the honey blonde wig heavy on his shoulders, the corset laced tight around his ribs, his big blue eyes lined and glassy in the mirror. His phone lit up in his shaking hand.
Lance: No more pictures till I'm back.
Brett read it twice. His full lips parted. The little gold B at his throat suddenly felt cold.
Then another text came through.
Focus on the work. Don't do this for me. Do it for you. Be a good girl for yourself. — L
Brett stared at the screen until it went dark and he saw his own reflection in it. Made up. Wigged. Softened by Julian's highlighter and still so obviously a boy playing dress up.
He had thought the picture would make Lance proud. He had thought the "good girl" at the airport meant something warm and private between them. He had spent all of Day 1 hearing Lance's voice in his head.
Lance wasn't attracted to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. This wasn't a romance. This was a job. A million dollar job his best friend needed him to do.
The realization hit him like cold water in the hot tub.
He didn't cry in front of Julian. He waited until he was alone in the massive marble shower, the water as hot as it would go, the corset finally off for his thirty-minute skin break. He sat on the teak bench while steam filled the glass room and sobbed silently, his shoulders shaking, his short blonde hair plastered to his head under the wig cap he'd forgotten to take off.
He was twenty-one, five foot eight, and he was starving on twelve hundred calories a day for a man who didn't even want a picture of him.
Week 1 began the next morning at 5:30 am without Lance's good morning text.
Elena left his green juice and his pink hormone pill on the kitchen island with a note: Day 2. Proud of you. — E
He swallowed the pill dry. It was already becoming routine.
Nico didn't care about his feelings. "Incline fifteen, Brielle. No holding on. Walk like you have somewhere to be."
Brett, corseted under his workout tank, walked until his calves burned and his hundred and seventy-five pound frame started to feel lighter. By day three the scale said 171. By day five it said 168. The weight was coming off his face first. His cheekbones, always hidden under boy softness, started to show.
Mara made him walk the length of the pool deck in four-inch heels for an hour every afternoon. He fell twice on day two and skinned his knee. She didn't help him up.
"Again," she said. "A lady doesn't crawl."
He learned to take tiny steps, to lead with his hips, to keep his shoulders down. The corset forced him to stand straight. It hurt for the first three days, then on day four he realized he could take a full breath in it if he breathed into his back like Mara taught him.
Julian taught him how to do his own face. "You won't always have me, Brielle. Blend the edges. Less is more until you learn more is more."
Brett sat for hours practicing winged liner on his big blue eyes until his hand stopped shaking. He learned how to overline his already full lips just enough to look pouty, not clownish. He learned that his smaller than average nose was actually perfect for contour.
David made him read children's books out loud in his new head voice. "The cat sat on the mat. Again. Higher. Smile while you talk, Brielle, it lifts everything."
On day four his voice didn't crack. On day six he recorded himself and played it back and didn't recognize the soft alto that came out of the phone.
At night, alone in the huge bed, he wore the honey blonde wig because the house felt less empty when he saw long hair in the dark windows. He would touch the gold B at his throat and tell himself he was doing this for his mother, for the house he would buy her, for the future where he never counted change again.
He did not text Lance.
Lance texted him every night at exactly 9 pm Montana time, which was noon in Singapore.
Day 2: How's the corset?
Day 3: Nico says your form is improving.
Day 4: Elena sent me your macros. Good.
Day 5: Voice notes sound better.
Day 6: Proud of you.
Day 7: One week down.
Never I miss you. Never you looked pretty. Never anything that made Brett's heart race the way "good girl" had at the airport.
On the seventh night, Brett stood in front of the full-length mirror in his suite wearing nothing but the corset, a pair of black seamless boy shorts, and the wig. The lights in the vanity were on bright. He turned sideways.
His waist, cinched for a week, had already started to remember the shape. His stomach was flatter from the diet. His skin, thanks to the low dose estradiol and Julian's ten-step routine, had a glow he'd never seen before. His shoulders were still broad, his arms still muscled from years of warehouse work, but in the soft light, with the long hair framing his face, he didn't see Brett.
He saw the beginning of Brielle.
His phone buzzed. 9 pm.
Lance: Week 1 check in. Send measurements, not pictures. I meant what I said.
Brett's big blue eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them back hard so he wouldn't ruin his eyeliner practice. He wasn't doing this for Lance's attraction. Lance wasn't attracted to him. Not yet. This was business.
He typed back with steady fingers.
Waist 30 inches. Down 2. Weight 168. Down 7. Voice holding at A3. I can walk in heels without falling. I'm being good.
He hit send and set the phone face down.
He looked back at the mirror and placed both hands on his corseted waist the way Mara taught him, hips popped, weight on one leg.
"I'm being good for me," he whispered out loud in his new voice, testing the words.
The girl in the mirror with his mother's eyes and his full lips and the long blonde hair mouthed it back at him.
Week 1 was done. No more pictures till Lance came home...