Brett was half-asleep when Richard left the bed.

He felt the loss of heat instantly, even through the fog of exhaustion. One moment Richard's big body had been curled around his back, one heavy arm locked around his waist, his breath warm against the nape of Brett's neck. The next, the black silk sheets were cool, the mattress shifting as Richard stood.

Brett made a small, wounded sound in his sleep and reached back blindly, his hand patting the empty space where Richard had been.

A low chuckle from across the dark bedroom. "Miss me already, pet?"

Brett's eyes fluttered open, bleary and swollen from crying. Richard was standing by the dresser in nothing but black boxer briefs, his silver hair mussed, his broad back to Brett as he opened the top drawer of the penthouse's built-in dresser. The drawer slid open silently.

Brett pushed himself up on one elbow, the oversized black t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, the white satin choker — slutty tramp in cursive — still tight around his throat, catching the low light from the bathroom.

He watched Richard's hands move, careful and deliberate, like a man choosing a tie for an important meeting. Richard lifted something out of the drawer, something white and soft that glinted faintly.

He turned back to the bed, and Brett's breath caught.

It was another choker.

Not the cheap satin one Mara had bought for the plane, the one with the cruel joke in looping script. This one was different. It was wider, made of soft white leather, with a small silver plate in the front, engraved. Even from across the room, Brett could see the words catching the light.

Richard walked back to the bed slowly, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world — which, for the next twenty hours, he did. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the frame dipping under his weight, and held the new choker out in his palm for Brett to see.

RICHARD'S MISTRESS

The letters were small, elegant, all caps. Not a joke. Not a humiliation for strangers on a plane. A claim. A title. A brand.

Brett stared at it, his mouth going dry, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, against the choker he was already wearing.

Richard reached out with his free hand and brushed his thumb gently over the satin choker at Brett's throat, over the words slutty tramp. His touch was almost tender.

"Do you want to keep the slut tramp," Richard asked softly, his blue eyes locked on Brett's, his voice that low, intimate rumble that made Brett's stomach flip, "or wear this one, baby?"

Baby.

Not pet. Not bitch. Not tramp.

Baby.

Brett's lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands came up automatically to touch both chokers — the one he was wearing, damp with sweat and tears, the one Richard was offering, clean and new and terrifying.

The choice felt heavier than it should have. It wasn't just about leather and satin. It was about everything.

Slutty tramp was what he'd been for Lance. For the cameras. For the world. A joke, a costume, a pretty wife in white lace who didn't exist anymore now that the hormones were gone. It was humiliation. It was the past six months of his life. It was Brielle.

Richard's Mistress was... what? A promotion? A demotion? It was ownership, yes, but it was specific. It was chosen. It wasn't for everyone to laugh at on a plane. It was for one man, in private, in this penthouse, in this bed.

It was for the man who had seen him untuck and hadn't flinched. Who had washed the makeup off his face and called him beautiful. Who had held him after and whispered "I've got you" like he meant it.

It was for the man who made Brett feel like a man again, even while wearing his t-shirt and a collar.

"I..." Brett's voice cracked, low and male and wrecked from begging. He swallowed, his throat working against the satin. "I don't... I don't know what I am anymore."

Richard didn't rush him. He just waited, his thumb still stroking over Brett's pulse, his other hand holding the new choker steady, patient as a king.

"You don't have to know," Richard said quietly. "You just have to choose who you belong to for the next twenty hours."

Brett's eyes filled with tears, hot and fast. He thought of Lance, asleep in Kalispell, believing his wife was with a girlfriend. He thought of the five million dollars. He thought of the empty estrogen vial.

He thought of the way his body had arched and begged and said "I need you inside me again" not an hour ago, and meant it.

His trembling fingers left the old choker and touched the new one, tracing the cool silver plate, the engraved letters.

RICHARD'S MISTRESS

It should have humiliated him more than slutty tramp ever could. It should have made him feel small and used and dirty.

Instead, it made him feel... claimed. Seen. Wanted for the mess he actually was, not the pretty doll he'd been pretending to be.

"Please," Brett whispered, his voice barely audible, his eyes dropping in submission, his forehead almost touching Richard's hand. "Can you... can you put it on me?"

Richard's expression didn't change, but something dark and satisfied flared in his blue eyes. He set the new choker down for just a moment to reach behind Brett's neck, his fingers finding the tiny clasp of the satin choker.

The slutty tramp choker fell away with a soft whisper of fabric, leaving Brett's throat bare and pale and vulnerable for the first time since the plane.

Brett gasped at the sudden lightness, his hand flying up to touch his naked skin, his pulse hammering against his fingertips.

Richard picked up the white leather choker, opened it, and with a reverence that made Brett's chest ache, fastened it around Brett's throat.

It fit perfectly. Snug, but not tight. Heavy enough to feel. Real.

Richard's fingers lingered on the silver plate, adjusting it so it sat centered just above Brett's collarbones.

"There," Richard murmured, his voice thick with possession. "Perfect."

He leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the new leather, right over Brett's pulse, making Brett shiver violently.

"My mistress," Richard whispered against his skin, and Brett felt the word settle deep in his bones, in the hollow place where Brielle used to live.

Brett closed his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks, his hands clutching at Richard's shoulders, and nodded.

"Yours," he breathed. "I'm yours, Sir."

Richard pulled him into his chest, holding him tight, one big hand cradling the back of Brett's head, the other splayed over the small of his back.

"Good baby," Richard praised softly, rocking him gently. "My good baby."

And as Brett curled into the warmth and safety of the man who now owned him, wearing a collar that told the truth for the first time in months, he didn't think about Lance at all.

He only thought: twenty hours left, and I never want to take this off.…