Chspter 32
Singapore was glass and heat and money.
Lance's penthouse on the 68th floor of the Marina Bay tower looked out over the whole glittering city, the skyline sharp against a white-hot sky. Brett stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the master bedroom, barefoot on cool marble, looking out at a world he'd only ever seen on Instagram, his left hand unconsciously twisting the three-carat diamond on his finger.
Behind him on the huge unmade bed, Lance was on the phone, his voice low and tight.
"Yes, sir. Four pm. We'll be there... No, she's perfect... Yes, I'm aware of the timeline."
Brett turned when Lance hung up, his big blue eyes questioning.
Lance ran a hand through his dark hair, his blue eyes tired for the first time since he'd landed in Montana. "My dad," he said simply. "Richard. He wants to meet you. Today. At the office."
Brett's stomach dropped, the maximum hormones making the anxiety spike sharp and immediate. He'd known this was coming — the man who'd given Lance a year to get engaged or be cut out of the Sullivan family trust, the man who'd made a million-dollar deal feel like a lifeline instead of a fantasy.
"He thinks it's suspicious," Lance added quietly, walking over to Brett and pulling him into his arms, his big hands spanning Brett's tiny twenty-three inch waist. "A year to the day, I show up engaged to a woman no one's ever met. He's old school, Brielle. He's going to be looking for cracks."
Brett leaned his head against Lance's chest, breathing him in, grounding himself. "Then we don't give him any."
An hour later, Brett walked out of the walk-in closet and Lance actually stopped breathing.
Nico had packed for this exact moment.
Brett was wearing a fitted stretch pinstripe skirt suit in charcoal grey with the thinnest white pinstripe, the jacket nipped in viciously at the waist, tailored to show off every curve of his D cup breasts, the single button sitting right under his bust. Under it, a light pink long-sleeved button-down blouse, fitted and silky, the top two buttons left open just enough to show a hint of lace from the pale pink bra underneath.
The matching pencil skirt was knee-length and lethal, hugging his hips and his ass like a second skin, the back vent just high enough to walk in. Under it, black opaque pantyhose, and underneath those, the special tucking underwear Nico had ordered from Paris — high-waisted, compressive, smoothing everything away completely, making his front perfectly flat and feminine. No tenting. No risk. Not today.
On his feet, for the first time in months, not six-inch platforms — black So Kate Louboutins, the classic 100mm patent stiletto, shorter for business but still devastating, making his calves look endless, making his 129-pound frame look taller, leaner.
His long honey blonde hair was blown out straight and sleek, parted in the middle, falling like silk down his back. His makeup was different too — not the smoky seduction of Montana, but boardroom perfect. Soft brown wing, flawless skin, a muted rose lip that made his perfect white veneers with their slightly sharpened canines look expensive instead of dangerous.
He looked like the sexiest secretary who had ever lived. He looked like a CEO's wife. He looked untouchable.
Lance walked a slow circle around him, his blue eyes dark and hot and proud.
"Jesus Christ," Lance breathed, stopping behind Brett and sliding his hands around Brett's waist, pulling Brett's back against his chest, his mouth at Brett's ear. "My dad is going to take one look at you and know exactly why I broke every rule for you."
Brett shivered, the hormones making him hyper-aware of Lance's big hands so close to his breasts, of the hard press of Lance against his backside through his suit pants. He leaned back into him deliberately, just for a second, and felt Lance suck in a sharp breath.
"Behave," Brett whispered, his soft alto full of tease, tapping Lance's hands. "All business, remember? I'm supposed to hide it better."
Lance groaned and let him go, adjusting his own suit jacket. "You're hiding it perfectly. I'm the one with the problem."
Brett turned and straightened Lance's navy tie, his diamond flashing between them, his pink nails careful and precise. "Then think about spreadsheets," he purred, then stood on his tiptoes in the 100mm Louboutins — still shorter than his usual, so he had to reach — and kissed the corner of Lance's mouth, careful not to smudge his rose lipstick. "Think about quarterly reports."
"I'm thinking about you on your knees in that skirt," Lance muttered, and Brett laughed, bright and musical and nervous.
The car was waiting downstairs, a black Maybach with cold air and tinted windows. The whole ride to the Sullivan Tower, Lance held Brett's hand tight in his lap, his thumb stroking over the diamond, over Brett's knuckles.
"You don't have to do this," Lance said quietly as the city blurred past. "We can tell him the truth. About the deal. About everything."
Brett looked over at him, at the man who'd given him everything, and squeezed his hand hard with his small, manicured fingers. "No," he said, his voice steady and sure, his big blue eyes fierce. "I'm not a deal anymore, Lance. I'm your fiancée. Let him be suspicious. Let him look for cracks. He won't find any."
Lance stared at him, at this 129-pound goddess in a pinstripe pencil skirt and pantyhose who'd learned to tuck himself flat for a meeting, who'd learned to walk in 100mm heels like he was born in them, who was willing to walk into a lion's den for him.
He lifted Brett's hand and kissed the diamond, hard.
"I love you," Lance whispered.
Brett smiled, his dangerous, toothy, perfect smile, and for once it wasn't dangerous at all. It was just love.
"I know," Brett whispered back. "Now let's go meet your dad."
The elevator to the 88th floor was all glass. As it rose, Brett smoothed his skirt down over his hips one last time, checking his front in the reflection — perfectly smooth, perfectly flat, perfectly hidden. He rolled his shoulders back, pushing his D cup breasts out just enough, lifted his chin, and became Brielle Sullivan completely.
The doors opened onto a wall of windows and a desk the size of a car, and behind it, a man in his sixties with Lance's blue eyes and none of his warmth.
Richard Sullivan looked up from his papers, looked at his son, then looked at Brett standing in his pinstripe suit and his So Kates and his three-carat diamond, and his eyes narrowed.
"So," Richard said, his voice cool and assessing, "you're the girl."
Brett stepped forward in his 100mm heels, his hips swaying just enough in the tight pencil skirt, his hand extended, his rose lips curved in the most professional, most devastating smile Nico had taught him.
"Brielle," Brett said in his soft, low alto, every inch the sexiest secretary of all time. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, Mr. Sullivan."
And as Lance's hand came to rest possessively on the small of his back, Brett felt the old fear and the new power settle together in his chest, and knew — suspicious or not — he was exactly where he was supposed to be.…