23. Vogue

I'm brushingout my hair when there's a soft knock on the door. "Yeah?"

Thayer opens it and leans in the doorway, sexy as fuck. "Can we talk?"

"That doesn't sound good," I murmur, placing the brush down and turning to him.

He chuckles. "It's nothing bad, but you wanted a glam job, we've got one."

"Oh?" My ears perk up at that. "What is it?"

He edges further into the room and sits on the window seat overlooking the garden. This room is huge and luxurious, but it doesn't feel like mine. Not yet.

"This masquerade party we're throwing for Crestmont is at a gallery in the city. There's a job, which has just turned into a double job: two paintings taken from the vault."

"The vault," I ask, more intrigued now than ever. "How?"

Thayer's eyes spark with that thrill of planning something risky yet meticulously crafted. "We've got blueprints, access codes, and a window of time when security shifts change. Not to mention, the party itself is a perfect distraction."

I nod. "What do I need to do?"

"Same as you did before. Lookout. I need you to keep your ears and eyes open for anything suspicious while I crack the vault. It will take me a bit of time."

"How much time?"

"Up to five minutes, depending on if they've switched out the codes recently or not."

I exhale slowly, considering the tight timing. "Five minutes in a situation like that is an eternity."

Thayer gives me a knowing look, his confidence never wavering. "I know you can handle it. You've proven yourself more than capable."

There's a sense of pride bubbling up inside me, mixed with the thrill of the challenge. "Of course I can handle it. Just tell me when and where, and I'll make sure we're golden."

He grins, that signature smirk that suggests he knows something I don't. "If shit starts to hit the fan, you give the signal, and we abort. No heroics—we can't afford for this to go south."

"Noted," I reply sharply. A beat passes before I add softer. "No fucking up."

"Once we get the merch, I'm going to need you to take one of them, roll it carefully and slot it into one of the transportation tubes. Once you have it, hand it off to Quen, who will make sure it gets where it's going. Don't worry about me. That's your job as soon as you have the item in your hands. Okay?"

"Okay," I say, with a nod. "So, when is this?"

"A week."

"And it's a masked ball?"

"Yep."

"Fun." I give him a grin which he returns.

"It's going to be epic. We are going to rise to the top, baby girl, and you will be right there alongside us."

He rises and gives me a kiss on the top of my head. As he leaves, I'm left alone in my room—this gilded cage that doesn't quite feel like home yet. I walk over to the window Thayer was sitting at and look out into the darkness beyond the garden. This place is beautiful, no doubt about it, but it's what it represents that makes my stomach flip-flop with both anxiety and anticipation.

One week. A week to get myself as trained up as possible because I'm not letting Thayer walk into that situation with me as green as that grass outside. No. He's going to be accompanied by a pseudo-badass who can fight her way out of a tricky situation or, at the very least, fire a gun without it missing its mark.

I let out a long breath and turn away from the window. Harry might have given me a taste of perfection tonight, but now it's back to reality—the dark, twisted reality where every move is a calculated risk, and every breath could be your last. And there's no time to waste. Sleep is for the dead, as they say.

In my sleep shorts and tee, I make my way to the gym and flick on the lights.

The punching bag hangs heavily from its chain, and I wrap my hands like Adam showed me before going at it with a fury that's as much about preparation as it is about release. Each hit reverberates back into my fists and through my whole body. I'm too weak. I need to do better. Be better.

An hour passes, maybe two. I don't keep track. Instead, I let my body dictate when I've had enough. When I'm finally spent, muscles trembling and lungs heaving, I peel off the wraps and head back to the shower.

The hot water eases my aching muscles, but it does nothing for the restlessness that churns in my soul. Life wasn't supposed to be like this. Yet here I am, entangled in schemes that could either lead to riches or ruin.

Or maybe salvation. Who knows at this point?

Wrapped in a towel with droplets of water trickling down my back, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. There's a hardness to me that wasn't present before—a sharpness to my eyes that speaks of things seen and done that can't be unseen or undone.

I feel a shiver skitter down my spine as I stare at the stranger in the reflection. I know what needs to be done, though. If I'm going to survive in this world, the old Vogue has to toughen up, wise up. It's adapt or die, and I sure as hell don't plan on laying down my life for anyone.