EPILOGUE

Sofie hesitated, not sure what to do. She didn't want to just abandon Colette, no matter that her friend had told her to run. Twice.

Tonight was the first exciting thing she'd done in…years. Instead of spending months working on a piece, only to anti-climatically hand it over on a Tuesday morning, tonight she got to be part of the heist. If she saved the day, maybe Colette would bring her on more jobs.

Assuming Colette didn't end up in jail.

Sofie didn't think Landon would let her get arrested. From what Colette had told her, theirs sounded like a tragic love story, and now he'd come to prove his love and sweep her up into his arms.

The fanciful thoughts were deeply impractical, and she was mildly embarrassed for herself.

But art was romantic, so she excused herself for the flight of fancy.

Sofie looked around again, considering and dismissing several options for how she could salvage this job.

Maybe she could dramatically rescue Colette from Landon. Except she'd googled the man after Colette said his name, and he looked dangerous and too large for her to take down without both a weapon and the element of surprise. She might manage surprise, but she didn't have a weapon.

Maybe she could use Colette and Landon as a distraction and she could complete the heist herself. Colette had told her the steps. In her mind, Colette and Landon were having a loud, dramatic fight that would end with tears and kissing.

The perfect distraction.

But the replica Burglar's Pearl necklace was hidden in the brooch on Colette's dress. She couldn't sneak up and subtly take it while Colette continued to fight with the former Interpol agent. That wasn't subtle.

That left create her own distraction and hope Colette could run away in the chaos.

"I'm going to do…something. Then you run," Sofie said.

There was no response.

Maybe Landon was kissing Colette.

The weight of her heavy satin skirt was unfamiliar against Sofie's legs as she hurried to a black curtain that had been draped across a hallway to keep guests corralled and hide the catering supplies. She slipped through, looking back over one shoulder to ensure no one saw her.

Sofie had spent too long locked away in her studio, studying famous art—sometimes because she had the actual piece right there in front of her—and recreating someone else's emotions. Because art was emotion, even if it was a soft, quiet landscape emotion. She could feel it, what the artist felt, as she painted, or at least she liked to pretend she did.

But it was always someone else's. Someone else's art. Someone else's heist.

Tonight would be different.

Tonight belonged to her.