The back of the stretch limo smelled like new leather and Richard's cologne.

Brielle could feel every inch of her outfit against her skin — and that was the point. Richard liked her to feel what she was wearing.

The grey pinstripe wool of the mini skirt suit was crisp and structured over her shoulders, the jacket nipping in at her newly soft waist, the lining cool silk against her arms. Under it, the pink silk blouse slid like water over her breasts, the little bow at her throat brushing the top edge of her white leather choker — RICHARD'S WIFEY in pink script, the tiny diamond heart catching the limo's ambient light every time she breathed.

Her legs were encased in black Wolford pantyhose, 15 denier, sheer enough to see the faint blush of her skin underneath, the seam up the back perfectly straight because Richard had knelt in the penthouse and rolled them up her legs himself, his big hands smoothing over her calves, her knees, her thighs. She could still feel the ghost of his palms.

On her feet, the black Louboutin So Kates, 120mm, the patent leather hugging her arches, the red soles hidden against the limo's black carpet. Every time she shifted, the shoes clicked softly against the floor.

And on her left hand, the five-carat emerald cut from Richard glittered so hard it hurt to look at. On her right hand, loose in her palm, was another ring.

Lance's. Three carats, round brilliant, the one he'd proposed with in Kalispell two years ago. She'd taken it off that morning and hadn't put it back on.

In her lap was a cream linen envelope, heavy stock, Richard's personal stationery embossed at the top. Inside was a letter she'd written in her best, most feminine handwriting — loopy, soft, tear-blotted in places — and a cashier's check for five million dollars, made out to Lance Sullivan.

Richard's hand was on her knee.

Not high. Not sexual. Just possessive. His big, warm palm resting on the black nylon over her kneecap, his thumb stroking slow, absent-minded circles over the sheer fabric, feeling the heat of her skin through the pantyhose.

Brielle stared down at the letter in her lap, her pink-manicured fingers trembling.

Dear Lance,

She'd started it four times.

The first draft had been cruel. The second had been cold. The third had tried to explain about the hormones running out and feeling flat and not knowing who she was.

This one — the one folded neatly in the envelope with the check — was the truth.

Dear Lance,

I'm not coming home.

I tried to be Brielle for you for so long, and I loved being her with you at first. You gave me the gift of her, and I will always love you for that. But somewhere between Singapore and the empty vial in our bathroom, I stopped feeling like her. I stopped feeling like anything at all.

Then I met your father.

I know how that sounds. I know what I'm doing to you. I know I'm breaking every vow I made in that little chapel in Whitefish. I'm so sorry, my love. I am.

But Richard sees me. Not the costume, not the Instagram wife, not the pretty doll. He sees Brett and he sees Brielle and he wants both, and for the first time in months I feel whole again. I'm back on my hormones because he made sure I never run out again. I'm wearing the grey suit you always loved, and I feel beautiful in it again, and it's for him.

I'm returning your ring. It deserves to be on the hand of someone who can love you the way you deserve. I'm also returning the money. All five million. I don't want it. I don't need it. I have everything I need on his arm.

Please don't hate me. Please try to understand that I didn't leave you for money. I left you for me.

With all my love, always,

Brielle

She'd signed it Brielle, not Brett. Because Brett was the one who'd married Lance. Brielle was the one leaving him.

Richard's thumb kept stroking her pantyhose-clad knee, the nylon whispering softly under his touch. He glanced down at the envelope, then at her face, at the tears tracking down her carefully contoured cheeks.

"You did good, baby," he murmured, his voice low in the quiet limo. "Heartfelt. Clean."

Brielle sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue so she didn't ruin her mascara. "Do you think he'll cash it?"

Richard smiled, that slow, alpha smile that made her stomach flip. "He'll cash it," he said. "He's a Sullivan. We don't leave money on the table."

He lifted her hand — the one with his five-carat diamond — and kissed her knuckles, right above the stone. Then he looked at the envelope with Lance's ring and the check.

"At least be poor," Richard joked softly, his blue eyes dancing, his hand squeezing her knee through the sheer black nylon, feeling the give of the fabric, the warmth beneath. "He can't have you and be rich, wifey. That would just be greedy."

Brielle let out a wet, startled laugh, half sob, and leaned into his side, the pinstripe wool of her jacket brushing the fine wool of his Tom Ford suit, her Louboutin-clad foot hooking around his ankle under the privacy partition.

"You're terrible," she whispered, her voice high and girlish and utterly in love.

"I'm yours," Richard corrected, turning her face to his with a finger under her chin, right below the RICHARD'S WIFEY choker. "And you're mine. That's all that matters."

He kissed her then, slow and deep, in the back of the stretch limo rolling through Whitefish, his hand still on her pantyhose knee, her grey skirt riding up just enough to show the black silicone band at the top of her stockings.

When they pulled up to the FedEx, Brielle slipped out, her Louboutins clicking on the pavement, the envelope clutched tight in her manicured hand. She dropped it in the overnight box herself — the ring, the check, the letter — and watched it fall.

She didn't feel guilty. She didn't feel sad.

She felt the cool Montana air on her sheer pantyhose, the weight of the five-carat diamond on her finger, the snug hug of her wifey choker, and Richard's eyes on her from the tinted limo window.

She slid back into the leather seat, into his arms, and Richard pulled her across his lap, his hand sliding back to her knee, playing with the seam of her pantyhose.

"All done?" he asked.

Brielle nodded, curling into his chest, breathing in his cologne, feeling the silk of her blouse slide against his shirt.

"All done," she whispered. "I'm all yours now, Daddy."

And as the limo pulled away, leaving Lance's past in an overnight envelope, Brielle Sullivan — Richard's wifey — finally stopped pretending she was ever going home.