Chapter 2: New Year's Eve Party

The messages started innocently enough. Over the weeks, their Snap Chat exchanges grew from casual check-ins to something more charged. One night, after the warm buzz of a few too many beers loosened inhibitions, the 1AM question arrived: “What are you wearing right now?” The dim blue light of the phone illuminated her face as she lay beside her sleeping husband. Nothing, was the honest answer. Feeling flirtatious, she slipped the covers back just enough as the flash of her smartphone illuminated just enough of her body to tease. Happy with the racy photo she sent the image with a racing heart. The response came quickly—a video that left nothing to imagination, followed by bold words about their upcoming New Year’s Eve party and what could happen there. Her thumb hovered over the screen for just a moment before typing a quick response. She placed the phone face down on the nightstand and closed her eyes, the promise of something forbidden following her into dreams.

The day of the party finally arrived. Purdey’s chosen dress for the night was an Elle Zeitoune masterpiece, a little black number that perfectly complemented her petite 5’2” frame and hourglass 34C-24-36 figure. The sweetheart neckline accentuated her décolletage without overwhelming her shorter stature, while the intricate lace detailing draped elegantly over her curves. The sheer long sleeves added a touch of sophistication while the mini length showcased her legs, creating an illusion of height. She paired the ensemble with black strapped 4-inch heels, further elongating her silhouette and adding a confident stride to her walk. This ultra-feminine bustier lace mini made a daring yet sensual statement, proving that trendsetting style need not be intimidating on a smaller silhouette.

Invitations had gone out with the kind of precision Purdey liked to believe she still possessed: polite notes to neighbours, a modest splurge on champagne, a playlist Ian insisted would please “everyone.” She arranged the platters as if preparing a presentation—cheeses by texture, fruit by colour, napkins folded so the crease caught the light. The living room smelled of citrus and warm pastry; the lamp over the sofa threw the kind of soft, forgiving light she preferred for gatherings. She told herself the evening was routine, a small social obligation, but beneath that tidy surface something thrummed—an undercurrent of possibility she had not expected to feel again.

People arrived in familiar waves. Couples from the cul‑de‑sac drifted in, new parents with tired eyes but bright smiles, a few neighbours who lingered at the edges of conversation. The house filled with the small noises of civility: the clink of glass, the scrape of chairs, laughter that never quite reached the depth of anything true. Purdey moved among them, smiling, topping up glasses, smoothing a napkin here, adjusting a platter there. Her attention kept slipping away, back to the vibration in her pocket, back to the memory of a bathtub and a look that had felt like a promise.

It was 10pm when Lloyd arrived with Kim at his side, carrying his usual slab of beer and an apologetic grin. He threaded through the rooms with the easy confidence of someone who belonged to this small world, handing off bottles, trading jokes. When his eyes found Purdey they held for a fraction longer than politeness required.

She felt it as a physical thing, a quickening under the ribs, and when his text came—I want to taste you at midnight.

She typed—Is it too late to say No? feeling nervous, but the refusal felt thin, like tissue paper against a flame.

His reply—I’ll be waiting—sat on the screen like a dare.

Ian moved through the party with a practiced, almost theatrical ease. He kept a casual distance that let the rooms breathe; he laughed at the right moments, poured the right wines, made the right jokes. A week earlier he had said to Purdey, over a couple of wines on the sofa, that sometimes a controlled risk could restart a stalled engine. She had smiled then, a designer’s scepticism in her eyes, but the phrase had lodged in her like a seed. Tonight she had chosen a dress with quiet recklessness—black silk that skimmed her body, a line that felt true to her and daring enough to register. Underneath she wore lingerie that was private and precise, an anchor she could feel against her skin. Dressing had been a ritual; it had turned thought into action.

The house hummed with raucous cheer of neighbours celebrating and discussing the latest Test Cricket results, conversation then skimmed the surface — from work, the weather, the new café down the road—while undercurrents moved in quieter channels: a glance that lasted too long, a laugh that carried a note of something else. Purdey felt both exhilarated and exposed. Desire, she realized, was not only about Lloyd. It was about the small rebellions she had been denying herself: the pleasure of being seen, the thrill of stepping outside the tidy lines she had drawn around her life.

At 11:35pm Purdey slipped toward the guest bedroom, the air changed. The hallway felt narrower, the rug muffling her heels, the house’s laughter receding into a distant hum. Lloyd was already there, a relaxed silhouette against the bed, his smile folding the room into a private space. His cologne—clean, a little spicy—mixed with the faint scent of linen. He reached for her as if the movement had been rehearsed a thousand times; his hands were warm, sure.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “Do you think people outside can hear us? These walls seem paper thin. I can hear everything outside.”

Purdey closed the door behind her, leaning against it. The moonlight shone through the wearing framing her perfectly. “Don’t worry, the music is so loud it will block out anything that goes on in here, plus they’re all getting ready for the countdown.” she said as the silk of her dress whispered as it slid, the fabric catching briefly on her hips before pooling at her feet. The black lace lingerie beneath was a small, intimate architecture against her skin, and the sensation of it made her breath hitch.