Richard's cedar cologne and Brielle's perfume — something soft and pink and expensive that Richard had chosen for her at Neiman's last week.

It was a three-hour drive east across Montana to the gala in Billings, and Brielle was determined to make every mile count.

She was dressed for it. Of course she was. Richard never let her leave the penthouse less than perfect.

Tonight it was the black version of the pinstripe — a charcoal wool mini skirt suit with a razor-sharp peak lapel, the jacket tailored so tight she could feel the lining sigh against her ribs every time she breathed. Underneath, a blush silk camisole, so thin she could feel the cool air from the limo's vents through it, the fabric sliding like water over the new softness of her breasts — the estrogen was working, God, it was working, she was filling out again.

Her legs were sheathed in the good pantyhose — Wolford Neon 40s, black, opaque enough to be gala-appropriate but sheer enough that when Richard's hand was on her knee she could feel the heat of his palm right through the nylon. The waistband sat high on her hips, smoothing, holding, making her feel cinched and feminine and kept.

On her feet, the black Louboutin Pigalle 120s, pointed toe, red soles flashing whenever she crossed and uncrossed her legs — which she was doing a lot, on purpose.

Around her throat, the white leather RICHARD'S WIFEY choker, the little diamond heart at the back catching the passing highway lights. On her left hand, the five-carat emerald cut that weighed her hand down in the most delicious way.

She was perched sideways on the limo's bench seat, her mini skirt riding up just enough to show the top inch of her stockings, her legs angled toward Richard like an offering.

Richard was in his midnight tuxedo, bow tie undone, sprawling in the corner like a king in his carriage, one arm along the back of the seat, watching her with those blue eyes that missed nothing.

Brielle batted her lashes, slow and deliberate, her pink lips parting.

"Are you going to just stare at me all the way to Billings, Daddy?" she purred, her voice high and breathy and shameless, the estrogen making it musical again. She trailed one manicured fingertip down the center of her silk camisole, between her breasts. "Or are you going to do something about how pretty your wifey looks?"

Richard's mouth curved, just slightly. "You tell me what you want me to do about it, baby."

Brielle giggled, the sound bright in the quiet car, and shifted closer, the wool of her skirt whispering against the leather seat, the nylon of her thighs hissing softly as they rubbed together.

She lifted one Louboutin-clad foot and rested it lightly on the edge of his thigh, the pointed toe pressing just enough to be teasing. "You could start by telling me my pantyhose are straight," she said, fluttering. "I can never tell in the back seat."

Richard's hand — big, warm, possessive — dropped from the seat back to her ankle. His fingers wrapped around the delicate bone, his thumb stroking over the black nylon, feeling the fine knit, the warmth of her skin beneath.

"They're perfect," he murmured, his hand sliding up, slow, reverent, over her calf, the nylon whispering under his palm, the muscle flexing under his touch. "Just like you."

Brielle shivered, her head falling back against the seat, her throat exposed, the WIFEY choker stark against her pale skin. "Higher, Daddy," she whispered, shameless, wanton, completely his. "Check the seam."

Richard obeyed, his hand gliding up the back of her leg, following the straight black seam of the Wolfords from ankle to knee to the sensitive hollow behind it, his palm cupping her knee, squeezing gently through the hosiery.

Brielle moaned, soft and deliberately loud, her mini skirt inching higher with the movement, the wool catching on the leather. "Mmm, you make me feel so kept," she breathed, reaching for his bow tie, playing with the silk end. "My billionaire daddy, taking care of his wifey's stockings."

"You are kept," Richard said simply, his hand now on her thigh, his thumb stroking the thick band at the top of her pantyhose through her skirt, feeling the silicone grip, the heat of her. "Every inch of you."

He leaned in and kissed her then, deep and slow, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, careful not to muss her hair, his mouth tasting her pink lip gloss. Brielle melted into it, her Louboutins slipping off the floor, her pantyhose-clad legs tangling with his tuxedo trousers, the fine wool of his pants catching on her nylon with a soft, electric hiss.

She pulled back, panting, her lipstick slightly smudged, her eyes bright. "When we get to the gala," she whispered against his mouth, flirting shamelessly, "everyone's going to see your wifey on your arm. Are you going to be proud, Daddy?"

Richard tucked a strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear, his knuckles brushing her choker. "I'm going to be the proudest man in Montana," he said, and Brielle felt it in her bones, in the snug waistband of her pantyhose, in the pinch of her Louboutins, in the weight of his diamond on her finger.

She curled into his side for the rest of the drive, his hand never leaving her leg, stroking idle patterns over the black nylon from knee to mid-thigh, claiming her in the quiet, while the highway lights strobed across her glossy lips and her wifey choker.

Nine hundred miles west, in a small rental in Kalispell, Lance Sullivan sat on the edge of his unmade bed in a faded t-shirt and sweatpants, an overnight FedEx envelope torn open in his lap.

The three-carat round brilliant he'd proposed with caught the dim lamplight as it rolled out into his palm. Cold. Heavy. Returned.

Under it, the cashier's check for five million dollars. And under that, a single sheet of cream linen paper in loopy, feminine handwriting he knew better than his own.

Dear Lance, I'm not coming home.

He read it once. Then again. Then a third time, his hands shaking so hard the paper rattled.

I left you for me.

The letter slipped from his fingers to the floor. Lance didn't pick it up. He just stared at the ring in his palm, at the check, at the words Richard's wifey that weren't written but screamed at him from between every line.

His chest caved in, a silent, gutting sob that had no sound. He doubled over, his forehead pressing to his knees, the diamond digging into his palm until it hurt.

She was gone. Brielle was gone. Brett was gone. And he'd taken the money — God help him, he'd cashed the check in his mind before he'd even finished the letter, because he was a Sullivan and Sullivans didn't leave money on the table — but the money didn't matter.

He was crushed. Absolutely, completely crushed, alone in the bedroom where she'd first told him she wanted to be a girl, holding the ring she'd worn for two years and the letter that said she was never coming back.

In the limo heading east, Brielle giggled as Richard's hand slid higher on her pantyhose, whispering "Daddy, behave, we're almost there."

In Kalispell, Lance finally made a sound — a raw, broken keen — and wept for the wife who'd just become his stepmother.…