Three weeks later, Brett didn't recognize the girl in the mirror.
No — that was wrong. He recognized her perfectly. He'd just forgotten how much he loved her.
Brielle stared back at him from the floor-to-ceiling glass in the penthouse dressing room, and she was glowing.
She was back on hormones. Richard's private doctor in Whitefish had restarted her estrogen the morning after the first night, a discreet little injection in the penthouse, then a prescription called in, then a schedule. No more running out. No more flatness. No more Brett feeling like a stranger in his own skin.
It had taken ten days for the softness to return. For the tears to come easier. For the world to go pink at the edges again.
It had taken three weeks for her to feel whole.
And today, Richard had laid out her outfit himself.
The grey pinstripe skirt suit — the exact one she'd worn on the plane that first night, tailored to within an inch of its life. The jacket nipped in at the waist, the skirt a true mini, barely covering the tops of her thighs. Under it, a silk pink blouse, the color of cherry blossoms, with a little bow at the throat that sat just above—
Her choker.
Not the satin slutty tramp. Not the white leather RICHARD'S MISTRESS.
The new one. White leather, soft as butter, with a tiny diamond heart on the silver clasp at the back, and on the front plate, in delicate pink script:
RICHARD'S WIFEY
Brielle's fingers trembled as she touched it, adjusting it in the mirror, making sure it sat perfectly centered. It did. Of course it did. Richard accepted nothing less than perfect.
She was wearing black pantyhose — sheer, 15 denier, with a little seam up the back that Richard had insisted on — and on her feet, the black Louboutin So Kate pumps, 120mm, closed toe, the red soles flashing like a secret every time she took a step.
Her honey blonde hair was down in soft waves, her makeup perfect — soft pink lips, not cherry red, winged liner, glowing skin. Her spray tan was fresh, her nails were a pale French manicure, and on her left hand—
Oh God.
On her left hand, on her ring finger, was a five-carat diamond.
Emerald cut, flawless, set in platinum, so big it caught the light from the dressing room LEDs and threw rainbows across the black marble walls. Richard had slid it on her finger at breakfast that morning, over coffee and croissants on the terrace overlooking the lake, with no speech, no knee, just a simple, absolute statement:
"For my wifey."
Brielle had sobbed into her napkin for ten minutes while Richard just watched her, smiling that small, possessive smile that made her knees weak.
Now she turned sideways in the mirror, smoothing the pinstripe mini over her hips, watching the way the skirt flared, the way the pantyhose made her legs look endless, the way the Louboutins gave her that extra four inches that put the top of her head almost to Richard's shoulder.
The door opened behind her.
Richard stepped in, and Brielle's breath caught, just like it always did.
He was in his power suit — charcoal Tom Ford, peak lapel, crisp white shirt, silver tie the exact color of his hair. His shoulders filled the doorway. His blue eyes swept over her from head to toe, slow and deliberate, taking inventory of what was his.
He didn't say anything for a long moment. He just looked.
Brielle felt herself flush under his gaze, her nipples tightening under the pink silk blouse and the lace bra beneath it, her stomach fluttering with that delicious mix of nerves and want that only Richard could give her.
"Well?" she asked finally, her voice high and breathy and girlish, the estrogen making it soft again, making her her again. She did a little turn, the mini skirt flaring, the Louboutins clicking on the marble. "Do I look okay, Daddy?"
The nickname slipped out before she could stop it — something she'd started calling him in bed two weeks ago, when he'd held her after and told her she was perfect. He'd gone still then, his eyes darkening, and he'd said "Say that again."
She'd been saying it ever since.
Richard walked to her, his movements unhurried, controlled, the walk of a man who owned the building they were in and the town it overlooked. He stopped inches from her, his hands coming up to adjust the bow at her throat, his knuckles brushing the RICHARD'S WIFEY choker.
"You look," he said quietly, his voice that low rumble that vibrated straight through her, "like you were made to be on my arm."
Brielle whimpered, her hands flying up to clutch at his lapels, her big diamond flashing. "Really?"
"Really." Richard leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, his breath warm. "My beautiful wifey. My perfect Brielle."
He offered her his arm, bent at the elbow, the way a gentleman would for his wife.
Brielle slid her hand into the crook of his arm, her red-bottomed Louboutin pressing close to his polished Oxford, her head tilting to rest briefly on his shoulder.
She looked up at their reflection in the mirror — the alpha billionaire in his power suit, and the blonde in the grey pinstripe mini and pink blouse, with black pantyhose and a five-carat diamond and a choker that told the whole world exactly who she belonged to.
She didn't see Brett anywhere. Brett was gone, tucked away somewhere safe, where he didn't have to feel flat and lost anymore.
There was only Brielle. Richard's wifey.
"Ready?" Richard asked.
Brielle nodded, her eyes shining with tears and estrogen and love. "Ready, Daddy."
They walked out of the dressing room together, her Louboutins clicking in perfect time with his stride, her hand tucked securely in his arm, the diamond on her finger catching the light with every step.
Downstairs, a black SUV waited to take them to lunch in town, where everyone would see them. Where everyone would see her.
Lance hadn't called in three weeks. Brielle hadn't thought about him in two.
She was exactly where she was meant to be — back on hormones, back in her skirt suit, back in her power, on the arm of the man who'd earned it all.
Richard's wifey. Forever.…
