If you really love me, you’re not going to ask how much they need. You’re going to donate, period.”

The Montgomery estate in Del Mar looked like a gilded fortress perched above the Pacific cliffs. Valets in crisp black uniforms lined the circular driveway, parking European sports cars under the warm glow of hanging paper lanterns.

Brendan held my arm as we stepped out of Mason’s sleek Mercedes. His grip was tight, his fingers digging slightly into the muscle of my forearm—right over the spot where the nurse’s needle had bruised me that morning.

“Keep your chin up,” Brendan murmured into my ear, his voice dripping with condescending affection. “Try not to look so overwhelmed by the decor, Chloe. People will think I picked you up at a bus stop.”

“I’m fine, Brendan,” I replied, offering him the widest, most docile smile I could muster.

The emerald dress moved against my skin like liquid ice. Beneath the heavy fabric of the lower hem, Leo’s modified micro-transmitter was already humming, recording every breath, every whispered comment, every dismissive laugh.

As we entered the grand foyer, the chandelier above cast a dazzling, diamond-patterned glare across hundreds of guests in tailored tuxedos and couture gowns. Across the room, standing beside a ten-foot marble fountain, was Scarlett Montgomery.

She wore a backless champagne gown that showed off her dancer’s posture. Draped around her throat was the *Tears of Seville*—a cascading collar of platinum set with fifty carats of deep, oceanic emeralds.

When her eyes landed on me, a flicker of pure, venomous triumph flashed through her gaze before she smoothed it into a radiant society smile. She whispered something to the tall, silver-haired man beside her—her father, Arthur Montgomery—and began gliding across the polished floor toward us.

“Brendan, darling!” Scarlett purred, kissing both of his cheeks with theatrical intimacy. “And Chloe. You actually wore the dress. It fits you... surprisingly well. I was worried the waist would be a bit restrictive for someone with your frame.”

“It’s exquisite, Scarlett,” I said, dipping my head with an expression of timid gratitude. “Thank you for including me.”

“Of course! We have to support the arts, don't we?” Scarlett laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. She turned to Brendan, her fingers casually trailing down the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. “Brendan, could you be an angel and fetch me a glass of vintage brut? The service near the garden terrace is dreadfully slow.”

“Right away,” Brendan said, not even glancing at me before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

The moment he was gone, Scarlett leaned in closer. Her perfume smelled of expensive jasmine and cold malice.

“Enjoy the evening, Chloe,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a sharp, private hiss. “Because after tonight, nobody in California is ever going to let you near an arts program again.”

She turned to walk away, deliberately brushing her shoulder against mine. In that split second, I felt her manicured fingers dip toward the small evening clutch tucked under my arm. She was slick, fast, and practiced—the classic sleight-of-hand move designed to drop the stolen property into an unsuspecting victim’s bag.

Except I was ready.

As her hand grazed my clutch, I pivoted smoothly on the balls of my feet—a dancer’s pivot, precise to the millimeter. My elbow caught her wrist with just enough leverage to deflect the motion, while my left hand smoothly intercepted the small, velvet-wrapped object she had palmed from her own neckline.

Scarlett gasped, stumbling back half a step, her hand flying to her bare throat.

The *Tears of Seville* was gone from her neck. But it wasn't in my clutch.

With a flick of my wrist, I had slipped the velvet packet into the deep, pleated pocket of Liam’s girlfriend’s designer coat, which was draped over the back of a nearby cocktail chair.

“Is something wrong, Scarlett?” I asked loudly, my voice ringing with innocent concern. Several nearby patrons turned their heads.

Scarlett’s face went completely white. She looked down at my hands, which were empty, then at my clutch, which remained firmly closed. She patted her own waist frantically, realizing the handoff had failed completely.

Across the room, Mason gave the signal to the private security detail stationed at the main exits. The guards moved forward, their radios crackling.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen!” Mason announced, raising his voice with fake urgency from the steps of the grand staircase. “We have a serious situation. Miss Montgomery’s heirloom necklace has just been reported missing from her person. The exits are temporarily secured until private security can conduct a routine check!”

A murmur of shock rippled through the high-society crowd.

Brendan emerged from the bar, holding two champagne flutes, his eyes locked onto me with a predatory, excited gleam. He walked straight toward me, ready to play the shocked, disappointed boyfriend who discovers the thief in his midst.

“Chloe,” Brendan said, his voice carrying clearly to the gathered guests. “What’s going on? Why are you shaking? You didn't touch anything, did you?”

“Why would I touch anything, Brendan?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye.

Arthur Montgomery marched forward, flanked by two burly private security officers carrying handheld metal detectors. “Start with the alumni guests,” Arthur barked, his face dark with calculated fury. “Particularly those who weren't on the original VIP donor roster.”