The speaker tinny squawk rattled against the polished cherrywood tabletop: “Sir, Gillian Farrow has initiated the final phase to have your wife arrested at tomorrow’s gala.” Bastian, who had been mid-reach for a third breadstick, froze. His face, usually a mask of endearing cluelessness, cycled through alarm, then a flicker of something raw and dangerous before settling back into a bewildered frown. He snatched the ancient flip phone from the tablecloth, his movements oddly swift. “Oh, that? Haha! Just… just a prank call! My cousin, Barnaby, he’s a real jokester. Always trying to get a rise out of me with these… dramatic scenarios.” He offered a shaky laugh that sounded more like a cough. Petra stared, not at him, but at the pristine white tablecloth. The delicate truffle foam, meant to amuse her palate, now tasted like ash. *Tomorrow’s gala. Arrested.* Gillian planned to parade her past San Margo’s elite in handcuffs, leaving Cleo alone to face the state caseworkers. She looked up, her gaze pinning Bastian. His eyes, usually crinkling with warmth, seemed to avoid hers. “Barnaby, you say? Quite the theatrical flair. Does he also send you messages about… black obsidian credit cards that cause hospital administrators to bow?” The question was quiet, but it landed like a hammer blow. Bastian’s carefully constructed facade finally cracked. A faint flush crept up his neck, and his lips parted, then closed. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a very expensive, very fast car. “Petra, I…” he began, his voice surprisingly deep, devoid of its usual lighthearted lilt. She held up a hand. “No. Not now. We’ll discuss Barnaby’s… entrepreneurial ventures later. Right now, we have a different problem.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “The gala. Gillian’s suite. She keeps a paper logbook that backs up her digital figures, something I can present before anyone calls the precinct.” Bastian’s expression shifted, morphing from guilt to a strange intensity. “You want to… break into her suite? At the Grand Olea Spring Gala? In front of hundreds of patrons and patrol staff?” He sounded genuinely incredulous, but there was an underlying current of excitement she couldn’t quite place. “It’s the only way,” Petra said. “They’ll watch the perimeter, not her private desk.” “Right.” Bastian nodded slowly. “A sort of… reverse psychology heist. I’ve seen that in the movies. The best way to hide is in plain sight.” His eyes suddenly gleamed. “Okay. We’ll need a distraction. And a good exit strategy. What about… the ventilation shafts? Or a laundry cart?” Petra blinked. “Ventilation shafts? Bastian, this isn’t a movie. This is my life. And Cleo’s.” She studied him, noticing the firm posture replacing his usual round-shouldered slouch. “Right, right, no ventilation shafts,” he quickly amended, his goofy persona snapping back into place. “Just… thinking out loud. I’ll tag along, though. For moral support. And because, you know, I watched a lot of heist movies when I was a kid. For research.” He offered her an easy grin. An hour later, Petra found herself at the Grand Olea Spring Gala, a dazzling spectacle of crystal, orchids, and high-society chatter. She wore a simple charcoal gown she’d owned for years, feeling acutely out of place amidst the glittering silks and bespoke suits. Bastian stood beside her in a bespoke tuxedo that hung on him like tailored armor, despite his theatrical fussing over the cufflinks. “Alright,” Petra whispered, her eyes scanning the ballroom. “Gillian’s suite is on the third floor, past the lounge. It’ll be locked, but my maintenance key still turns the cylinder. We need to go unnoticed.” “Unnoticed is my specialty,” Bastian murmured, steering her toward an uncarpeted staff passageway. “Follow my lead. The security cameras on this floor… they have a blind spot right behind that colossal floral arrangement of yours. A little gift from the night crew, I hear.” He winked. “They’re very good at their jobs.” Petra’s brow furrowed. “How do you know about the camera blind spots?” “Movie knowledge!” he chirped. “Always check the florists. They know everything.” He gestured towards a discreet service door. “This way. Less traffic.” They moved through a labyrinth of back hallways, the muffled strains of a string quartet a distant backdrop to their hushed footsteps. Petra followed Bastian, a strange mix of disbelief and growing intrigue bubbling within her. He navigated the staff passages with practiced ease, cutting past linen hampers and guiding her up fire stairs that didn't appear on guest maps. It was like he knew the building’s hidden arteries better than she knew her own hands. “Almost there,” Bastian breathed, his voice tight with controlled excitement. They were nearing the executive wing when a sudden clang echoed from around the corner. A security guard, his heavy boots sounding a rhythmic thud against the polished linoleum, appeared at the end of the hall, heading straight for them. “Down!” Bastian hissed, his hand shooting out, not to grasp her hand, but to firmly shove her. Petra stumbled back, colliding with a tower of fresh white sheets outside a storage nook. The latch gave way under their weight, tumbling them among shelves of percale before Bastian pulled the panel shut. Darkness enveloped them, thick and immediate. The enclosed space smelled of dry starch and warm cotton. Petra found herself pressed against Bastian’s front, his body a solid, unyielding wall. Her back was against the rough fabric of a pile of towels, and his arms, strong and possessive, had instinctively wrapped around her to keep her from falling. His breathing was ragged against her ear, and she could feel the frantic thrum of his pulse beneath her cheek, where it lay pressed against his chest. Her own heart beat a rapid, frantic rhythm. The confined space, the unexpected proximity, the shared danger – it all coalesced into a powerful, dizzying sensation. His scent, a mix of crisp linen and something uniquely him, warm and slightly spicy, filled her senses. “Stay still,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. His muscles locked rigid against her ribs until the patrolman’s heavy sole-leather clacked past the doorframe and faded toward the elevators. He loosened his hold without stepping back, his chin resting millimeters above her temple in the dark. Petra felt a blush creep up her neck, her skin tingling where it touched his tuxedo. The man who claimed he lived on ramen was pinning her against hotel linens with effortless control. “All clear,” he murmured, his voice now a little breathless, a faint tremor betraying his composure. He pushed the door open a crack, peering out. “Coast is clear. Let’s go.” Petra, still reeling, managed to nod. They slipped out, continuing their mission. Gillian’s study was locked, but the brass cylinder gave way to Petra's key. Under a spread of blueprint paper lay a calfskin account register. “Got it,” Petra whispered, leafing through the ink entries detailing dummy supplier firms and routed accounts. Petra tucked the volume beneath her arm and stepped into the rear hallway, pausing as two voices echoed from the adjoining vestibule. “Honestly, Helena, I figured you would have guessed,” Gillian said, tone dripping with condescension. “Your daughter is so predictable. Too proud to ever ask for help. It was almost too easy to set her up.” Then, Petra’s mother, Helena, her voice laced with a whine, replied, “But the blind date, Gillian! You said it would distract her. I still don’t understand why you wanted her to marry some… nobody.” Gillian’s laugh, cold and brittle, echoed in the quiet corridor. “A nobody? No, darling. Just someone Petra *thought* was a penniless schlub. The perfect distraction. I paid you handsomely to set up that blind date, didn’t I? She’s been so busy trying to save her broke beau from eviction, she never even glanced at the books. It bought me all the time I needed. And tomorrow night, it all comes crashing down for her.” Petra went rigid. The volume slipped from her fingers, striking the tile floor with a sharp crack.

The Gala Heist