Ethan:

  The night broke like glass.

  We were already dressed in black, of course — not for fashion, but for function. Celeste's heels clicked like gunshots across marble as we walked out of the penthouse elevator, her red lips a violent slash across her face. She wore danger like perfume, intoxicating and deliberate.

  I carried the duffel bag. Not heavy. Not yet.

  The Delacroix Gala was hosted in a centuries-old mansion turned museum, nestled in the expensive throat of uptown. On the surface, it was a charity event — vintage wine, curated art, old money dripping off every laugh. But beneath the crystal chandeliers and oil paintings, there were secrets for sale.

  And we were here to steal one.

  Celeste:

  My father’s voice still rang in my head from earlier.

  "You don’t have to go. Just say the word and I’ll send someone disposable."

  I smiled at him through the phone. Sweet. Deadly. "Father," I said. "You forget — I like getting my hands dirty. And Ethan looks so good when he’s up to no good."

  Truth was? We didn’t need to be here. But I wanted the file. A black folder with photos, names, and leverage. Something my family buried years ago, hidden in the private collection of their “ally.” The kind of thing that could turn bloodlines into liabilities.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  And Ethan?

  He just wanted to burn something.

  Ethan:

  We slipped in during the power outage — one Celeste orchestrated with a fake catering company and a well-placed virus in the security grid. The room went dark for six and a half seconds. It was all I needed.

  The vault was behind a sliding bookshelf. Cliché. Predictable. I cracked it open with the quiet frustration of a man who no longer feared getting caught. I didn’t rush. Adrenaline isn’t speed. It’s precision.

  Celeste watched my back, one hand casually inside her clutch — which wasn’t holding lipstick. She wore a smile like a trap.

  "Three minutes," she whispered. "And no fingerprints this time, darling. I’m tired of having to alibi your chaos."

  "You love my chaos," I murmured back, retrieving the folder. It was heavier than I expected — which meant it mattered.

  "Mm," she purred, eyes glinting. "But I love it more when we don’t get blood on my shoes."

  Celeste:

  We almost made it out clean.

  Almost.

  Until Guillaume Delacroix — the host, the snake, the bastard — cornered us near the sculpture hall, his pale eyes flicking from me to Ethan, knowing. He was old-money aristocracy with a cruel streak, and a fondness for making pretty things scream.

  “Celeste,” he said, like it was an accusation. “Your father sends thieves now?”

  I smiled. Tilted my head. “No, Guillaume. He sends family. Isn’t that sweeter?”

  He reached for the alarm.

  Ethan didn’t even hesitate. The duffel bag dropped. A knife flicked into his hand — clean, silent, sudden. The sound Delacroix made was wet and surprised.

  Blood sprayed across marble. A Pollock painting of regret.

  Ethan:

  I caught her eyes after. The red on my hands. The sirens already starting to scream from outside. The storm we’d just unleashed.

  Celeste grinned.

  "God, I love you when you're useful."

  We ran.

  Not out of fear.

  But because the fun part wasn’t over yet.