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It began on a rooftop in Manhattan.
Bree Van de Kamp stood alone at a charity wine auction, clutching a crystal flute of champagne she had no intention of finishing. She wore a tasteful ivory sheath dress, her hair pinned neatly in a French twist, and her heels precisely two inches—practical elegance, she liked to call it. The event was for an animal rescue initiative, hosted by a cousin of a friend of her daughter Danielle. Bree wasn’t sure how she ended up there, but she needed a weekend away from Wisteria Lane, and Manhattan sounded far enough to forget that Andrew had “borrowed” her Lexus and Orson had called her “emotionally claustrophobic” in his last voicemail.
She was reading the label on a particularly pretentious bottle of cabernet when a low, smoky voice cut through the chatter behind her.
“Oh, sweetie. If you’re trying to seduce a sommelier, you’re holding that bottle like it’s your first communion.”
Bree turned, startled.
A blonde woman in a slinky leopard-print wrap dress and five-inch stilettos sauntered up to her, carrying a martini and an attitude that could part crowds. She was older than the girls clinging to finance bros nearby—but somehow younger in spirit, alive in a way Bree hadn’t seen in years. Everything about her shimmered: hair, smile, confidence.
“Excuse me?” Bree blinked.
“I’m Samantha Jones.” The woman extended her hand, bold red nails catching the rooftop lights.
“Bree Van de Kamp,” Bree said carefully, accepting the handshake like it might come with terms and conditions.
“You look like a woman who just gave up carbs and joy in the same week.”
Bree raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know, I make a highly sought-after lemon bundt cake.”
Samantha grinned. “Oh, honey. We’re going to be friends.”
⸻
The Next Morning
Bree sat across from Samantha in a posh little bistro in the Meatpacking District, unsure how she had gotten there. Last night had blurred—laughter, a few cocktails, talk of men and manicures and martinis. At one point, Bree remembered declaring, “I’ve never tried oysters,” and Samantha gasping like it was a felony.
Now she sipped black coffee while Samantha scrolled through her phone.
“So,” Samantha said brightly, “how’s suburbia treating you?”
Bree hesitated. “Neatly. Quietly. Inoffensively.”
“That sounds like a review of a tampon.”
Bree laughed—actually laughed—and surprised herself.
“You’re very bold,” Bree said.
“And you’re very polished. Together, we could run the world… or at least start with lunch.”
They shared a look. Something electric passed between them. Not attraction—though Samantha did compliment Bree’s cheekbones and walk with shocking sincerity—but recognition. Two women used to controlling rooms in entirely different ways.
⸻
Two Weeks Later | Wisteria Lane
Gabrielle stood frozen on her front lawn, watering a flowerbed she hadn’t touched in months.
Because Bree Van de Kamp was strutting down the sidewalk in a coral halter top, white wide-leg pants, and sunglasses larger than her judgment. Her red hair was down, bouncing, and she was… humming?
“Is that lip gloss?” Susan asked from the porch.
“And a spray tan,” Lynette added, stepping out with her baby monitor. “I think I saw glitter.”
“She looks like she’s been on The Real Housewives of Manhattan,” Susan whispered.
Karen McCluskey crossed the street holding her mail. “If she comes out in a crop top, I’m calling NASA. The world’s clearly ending.”
But no one said anything mean. They were too stunned. It wasn’t judgment—it was awe. Bree had transformed.
⸻
Inside Bree’s Kitchen
Bree stirred a vinaigrette with unusual enthusiasm. Samantha’s visit was in two days.
They’d been texting nonstop. Samantha had started referring to Bree’s past as her “tragic apron era.” Bree sent her photos of dresses she was too shy to wear. Samantha replied with one-liners like, “Your thighs called. They’re ready for freedom.”
And maybe—just maybe—Bree liked it.
For once, she wasn’t planning a dinner party for approval. She was hosting for fun. There were wine bottles with cheeky labels, cloth napkins in bold jewel tones, and music playing that wasn’t orchestral or vaguely French.
When Samantha arrived, she swept in like a Chanel-scented hurricane.
“Darling! You live on the cover of a cake mix box!”
“Samantha,” Bree beamed. “Welcome to Wisteria Lane.”
⸻
The Dinner Party
The ladies gathered. Bree wore an off-the-shoulder navy dress that hugged her in ways she hadn’t allowed since Clinton was president. Samantha wore white silk pants and a gold halter top that shimmered every time she raised her wine glass—which was often.
“So you’re that friend,” Lynette said, sipping cautiously.
“Oh, I’m all kinds of friend,” Samantha smirked. “But I specialize in sexual liberation and expensive skincare.”
Susan laughed nervously. “You’re… very confident.”
“I am. Bree’s getting there.” Samantha winked. “I’ve seen her browse lingerie online.”
Bree turned red. Gabrielle leaned in, intrigued. “Wait—like actual lingerie? Not pajamas that flirt with the idea of lace?”
“Stockings. Red,” Samantha confirmed.
Susan dropped her fork. “Bree?”
“I… I was curious,” Bree admitted, dabbing her lips. “And Samantha said it was empowering.”
“It is,” Gabrielle said, almost defensive. “Good lingerie changes your posture and your mood.”
Samantha raised her glass. “To silk, sass, and second acts.”
⸻
Later That Night | On Bree’s Porch
They sat side by side, heels off, sipping the last of the merlot.
“I think they like you,” Bree said.
“They’re curious. But they’re not mean. That’s rare.”
Bree nodded. “They’re good women. But I don’t think they’ve ever seen me like this.”
“Do you see you like this?”
Bree looked at the stars. “I’m starting to.”
Samantha leaned back. “Good. Because honey, I’ve known a lot of women in pearls, and most of them are hiding something wild under those cardigans.”
Bree smiled. “Maybe I’m just… tired of being predictable.”
“Well,” Samantha said, pulling out her phone, “I have a spa reservation tomorrow, a reservation at a rooftop bar in the city, and a sheer black jumpsuit that would kill on you.”
Bree gasped. “I can’t wear a jumpsuit!”
“You will. You’ll strut into that rooftop like your ex-husband’s watching and your enemies are behind you.”
“I don’t have enemies.”
“Then I’m clearly not done with you yet.”
They both laughed.
⸻
Three Days Later | Back in the City
Bree walked into a cocktail bar in the Meatpacking District in that black jumpsuit. She felt scandalous. Alive. The kind of beautiful that wasn’t about perfection—it was about presence.
Men turned. Women looked her over. One woman complimented her lipstick. Samantha ordered a round of cosmos and said, “I could get used to seeing you like this.”
And Bree replied, “Maybe I could, too.”
⸻
Back on Wisteria Lane
Karen McCluskey stood in her robe, watching Bree get out of a cab. The jumpsuit still on. Heels in hand. Hair tousled. Bree looked up, saw her, and smiled.
“Rough night?” Karen called.
“Fabulous night,” Bree said.
And she meant it.