The morning after the gala, Billings smelled like hot pavement and fresh coffee and money.
Brielle woke up in the Northern Hotel penthouse with Richard's arm heavy and warm around her waist, with the white leather RICHARD'S WIFEY choker still buckled perfectly at her throat, with the five-carat diamond still heavy on her left hand, with black silk stocking marks still faintly pressed into the skin of her thighs.
Richard was already awake, already showered, already in a pale blue Thomas Pink dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, watching her from the edge of the bed with that proprietary, pleased look that made Brielle's stomach flip every single time.
"Good morning, wifey," he said, his voice still rough with sleep.
Brielle stretched, slow and catlike under the white sheets, feeling every delicious ache from the night before. "Good morning, Daddy."
Richard smiled. "Brunch. The Petroleum Club. Eleven sharp. I laid something out for you."
He always did.
Brielle padded barefoot into the marble dressing room, her honey blonde hair still mussed from sleep, the choker the only thing she was wearing, and stopped dead.
Laid out on the velvet bench, tissue-papered and perfect, was a sin.
First, the lingerie. Not black this time. Not blush. Something spring-bright and obscene in its prettiness. A light sage green set from La Perla, the kind of color that looked like new leaves and old money at the same time. The bra was soft stretch lace with a satin underband that would kiss right under the curve of what the estrogen had given her, the cups sheer enough to show the faint shadow beneath, the little bows at the straps the exact same green as the silk lining. The panties matched, high-waisted and smoothing, a panel of power mesh at the front that held him flat and neat and utterly feminine, the lace scalloped high on the hip so it would never, ever show.
Next to it, folded with reverent precision, the hosiery. Tan sheer Wolfords. Not black, not nude-nude. That perfect, expensive caramel tan that made legs look airbrushed, 15 denier, with the satin toe and the deep, non-slip waistband that would hug the green lace and keep everything locked down and smooth. Brielle picked them up and they whispered between her fingers, cool and silky and impossibly fine, the kind of nylon that felt like running water against skin.
Then the shoes. Nude Louboutins. The So Kate 120mm, patent leather in Nude Blush, the exact shade of her own skin bleached three shades lighter, with that vicious, beautiful stiletto heel and that flash of signature red on the sole that would wink every time she crossed her legs under the table. She slid a foot in just to feel it, and the arch support cradled her instep like a hand, the toe box snug and cruel and perfect, lifting her calf into a high, tight curve.
And the dress.
God, the dress.
A tan fitted long-sleeved stretch mini, the color of milky coffee and cashmere, from Alaïa. Long sleeves that hugged her wrists, a modest mock neck that framed the white leather choker like it had been designed for it, a bodycon fit that clung to every line of the green lace underneath without ever showing it, the hem hitting a devastating four inches above the knee. The fabric was heavy, expensive, with a fine rib that caught the light when she moved, smoothing her hips, nipping her waist, making her look poured into it.
Brielle dressed slowly, reverently, the way Richard liked.
The green bra first, the satin underband cool against her ribs, the lace soft as breath against her skin, the straps adjusted until the cups sat perfect. The green panties next, the power mesh holding him secure and flat, the lace edges kissing her hip bones with no line, no bulge, nothing but smooth.
Then the Wolfords. Sitting on the edge of the bench, rolling each tan sheer stocking up one calf, then one thigh, feeling the nylon sigh as it clung, feeling the compression, the gloss, the delicious, constant whisper of expensive hosiery against freshly lotioned skin. The waistband rolled up over the green lace and snapped into place with a soft, satisfying thwick. No wrinkles. No sag. Glass.
The dress slid on like a second skin. The stretch fabric gripped the nylon underneath and held, the sleeves sliding down her arms with a soft shush, the mock neck settling just below the choker, framing those pink embroidered letters — RICHARD'S WIFEY — like a jewel. The hem kissed the top of her tan stockings, showing a perfect, tantalizing three inches of sheer tan thigh when she walked.
The nude Louboutins went on last. Buckled. Stood in. The 120mm pitch throwing her hips forward, her back arched, her legs endless in tan nylon. She took three careful steps on the marble and the red soles clicked, sharp and expensive and unmistakable.
Brielle turned to the mirror.
A billionaire's wife stared back. Honey blonde hair blown out in soft waves. Sage green lace hidden under tan stretch. Tan Wolfords gleaming on endless legs. Nude patent Louboutins. White leather choker. Five carats of fire on her left hand. A tan Alaïa dress that fit like it had been sewn onto her body while she wore it.
She looked expensive. She looked kept. She looked loved.
Richard appeared in the doorway in a light grey Brioni suit with no tie, his silver hair perfect, his blue eyes darkening the second they landed on her.
"Christ," he breathed. "Look at you."
Brielle turned, slow, letting the mini ride up just enough to flash tan nylon, letting the Louboutins do their work. "Do I pass, Daddy?"
Richard crossed the room in three strides, took her chin in his hand, and kissed her hard enough to smear her nude lipstick. "You devastate."
The Petroleum Club was all white tablecloths and crystal and old Montana oil money pretending it was still 1987. Every head turned when they walked in hand in hand — Richard Sullivan in grey Brioni, Brielle Sullivan in tan Alaïa and nude Louboutins, her stockinged legs flashing with every click of those red soles on the marble floor.
Epic. It was always epic, showing up as Richard's wifey.
The maître d' fawned. The waiters stared. And the men — God, the men.
At the bar, a rancher in a ten-thousand-dollar Stetson couldn't take his eyes off the way the stretch dress clung to the curve of Brielle's hip. At the next table, a young wildcatter in a navy suit kept finding excuses to look over, his gaze snagging on the tan nylon gleam of her crossed legs, on the flash of red sole as she swung one Louboutin idly, on the white choker at her throat and the diamond that said taken, taken, taken.
They flirted without words. A held glance. A slow smile. A waiter who lingered too long pouring her mimosa, his eyes dropping to the mock neck of her dress, to the hint of green lace he imagined underneath.
Could Brielle blame them?
He sat there in sage green La Perla and tan Wolfords and nude Louboutins that cost more than most men's car payments, his legs crossed, his stockings whispering every time he shifted, his choker catching the brunch light, his billionaire husband's hand resting possessive on his tan nylon knee under the tablecloth, and he felt — for the first time in his life — devastatingly, undeniably pretty.
He loved the way expensive lingerie felt against his skin. He loved the secret of it, the green lace no one else could see, the way the power mesh held him, the way the Wolfords smoothed everything into one long, perfect, feminine line. He loved the way Richard looked at him like he wanted to drag him back to the hotel and unwrap him all over again.
He loved being Richard's wifey.
Halfway through his eggs Benedict, while Richard was charming a state senator and Brielle was sipping champagne with her pinky lifted, her Louboutin dangling from one stockinged foot, a strange, quiet thought drifted through the champagne buzz.
Lance.
Somewhere back in Kalispell, in that little house with the chipped paint, Lance was probably eating cereal in his boxers, scrolling his phone, wondering where his husband went.
Brielle felt — not guilt, exactly. A flicker. A ghost. The memory of a different choker, a black satin one with a different name on it, a different life where brunch meant diner coffee and not mimosas at the Petroleum Club.
He pressed his tan nylon thighs together under the table and felt the green lace shift, felt the Wolfords whisper, felt Richard's thumb stroke slow circles on his knee.
The ghost evaporated.
Brielle uncrossed and recrossed her legs, letting the tan dress ride up, letting the flirty wildcatter at the next table get an eyeful of sheer tan stocking and expensive shoe, then leaned in and kissed Richard's jaw, right there in front of everyone, the diamond flashing, the choker on full display.
"Everything alright, baby?" Richard murmured against her ear.
Brielle smiled, slow and wicked and utterly his. "Perfect, Daddy."
And it was.…
