"He's a corporate stooge, Romy. Open your eyes," Tamsin hissed, tapping an acrylic claw against the marble sink. "Nobody who makes forty grand a year drives a bespoke Phantom or sports a half-million-dollar Patek Philippe."
The restroom door swung open before Romy could snap back. Maximilian stood framed in the doorway, holding two mint toothpicks and wearing the vacant, agreeable expression of a golden retriever waiting for a tennis ball.
"Did somebody say phantom?" Max asked cheerfully. "Because my boss told me the engine sounds like an angry ghost, but honestly, I just think the oil needs changing. Anyway, babe, the dessert bill came. Good news! The owner—total lunatic, looks like a potato—comped our lemon tarts because he felt bad about the manager yelling at us."
Tamsin crossed her arms, narrowing her mascara-rimmed gaze at his crisp, sculpted jawline. "Don't play dumb with me, 'Max.' I saw you texting five different fund managers during the appetizers."
"Candy Crush," Max corrected without blinking. "Level four thousand and twelve. The candy drops are vicious this week. And the watch? Complete knockoff from a guy named Squeegee Pete under the highway bypass. If you shake it too hard, the hour hand spins backward."
He gave his wrist a theatrical flick. A tiny screw did not fall out, but he grinned with such open, slack-jawed confidence that Tamsin’s mouth twitched in disgust.
"Leave him alone, Tamsin," Romy said, stepping between them. Her tone dripped cold acid. "Not everyone is an undercover hedge-fund princeling playing practical jokes on the working poor. Some people are just tall, pretty, and entirely devoid of corporate ambition. He irons shirts and forgets where he parked. Let the man exist."
Max’s smile stiffened at the edges. A sharp ache of guilt clamped under his ribs. Here she was, shielding him with venomous loyalty, treating him like an honest wage-earner while he stood on three hundred million dollars of inherited capital and bald-faced fabrications.
"Fine," Tamsin said, checking her watch—a real Cartier, though distinctly second-tier compared to Max's supposed replica. "If you want to play house with the hired help while our careers burn, be my guest. But the annual Oakhaven Publishing Gala starts in forty-eight hours at the Grand Veranda. Gemma will have her master drive on her laptop. If we don’t extract the royalty logs and bank routing numbers during her keynote address, she locks down the autumn catalog, signs your influencer trash book under your name, and buries us both under non-disclosure agreements."
"I'll get the files," Romy said. "Just make sure you have the press contacts queued up."
***
Two nights later, in the Zenith Tower penthouse, Romy stood in the center of the walnut-paneled dressing room with her hands planted on her hips. Laid out across the ivory duvet was a bias-cut emerald gown of heavy silk crepe, shimmering under the recessed lighting with the quiet, devastating elegance of four months' rent.
"Explain this," she commanded, pointing an accusatory finger.
Max lingered by the doorway in his chauffeur's dark blazer, hands tucked safely into his pockets to keep from touching her bare shoulders. "Lost-and-found bin. Zenith Tower basement locker."
"A couture slip dress from an Italian atelier that doesn't even have a public website was in a forgotten basement box?"
"Rich people lose things all the time, Romy. They shed vintage garments like golden retrievers shedding fur. The building super told me if nobody claimed it by Tuesday, it was going to the rag bin. I figured you'd look... passable in it."
"Passable," she echoed, raising a brow. "Right. And the strappy heels? Also rolling around next to the laundry detergent?"
"Sample size. Fate." Max shrugged, his throat working swallows against a sudden dryness. In truth, he had summoned an entire fashion house's private trunk team to a suite three floors down at four in the morning, browbeating their head tailor into altering the hem by hand so it matched her exact inseam. "Put it on. If we're crashing high society to commit white-collar computer espionage, you might as well look like you own the joint."
Twenty minutes later, Romy emerged. The emerald silk pooled at her feet, framing her collarbones and emphasizing the sharp, defiant posture she wore like armor. Max went still, unable to drag in air for three solid seconds. He cleared his throat, desperately reaching for his regular doofus persona. "Well. Definitely better than the asbestos sweatpants."
Romy threw a velvet hanger at his head. He caught it with one hand, laughing, though he tracked her reflection in the glass long after she turned.
***
The Grand Veranda was a temple of self-congratulation. Crystal chandeliers cast buttery light over four hundred publishing executives, critics, and ghostwriters pretending not to hate one another over trays of smoked salmon blinis. Champagne flutes clinked like miniature cash registers.
"Distraction is in position," Tamsin muttered into an earbud, stationed across the ballroom near the ice sculpture. "I'm about to dump half a glass of vintage Pinot Noir onto the chairman's lap. You have four minutes before Gemma leaves the stage. Move."
Romy slipped through the velvet rope guarding the VIP coatroom corridor. It was dim and deserted, smelling of dry-cleaned wool and expensive tobacco. On a brass console table sat Gemma’s monogrammed leather tote, half-zipped, the silver edge of her titanium laptop peeking out.
Romy’s fingers flew over the keyboard. She inserted the black thumb drive Tamsin had provided. The bypass script booted instantly, green code cascading over the screen like falling rain.
"Look at you, still digging through other people's garbage."
The voice came from behind the rack of fur coats. Dallin Royce stepped into the aisle, swirling a rocks glass of single malt. His tailored tuxedo couldn't mask the smug condescension curving his thin mouth.
"Hello, Dallin," Romy said, keeping her gaze pinned to the progress bar on the screen. *Forty-two percent.*
"Did the driver drop you off at the service entrance?" Dallin took a slow step forward, checking the cuff of his sleeve. "I saw you slip back here. You really can't help yourself, can you, Romy? Always lurking on the periphery of real talent, desperate for crumbs. Gemma told me you refused the influencer contract. Such a shame. Hubris doesn't pay the rent. But then again, maybe your new husband can pawn his steering wheel to buy you dinner."
*Sixty-eight percent.*
"You should get back to your fiancée, Dallin. I hear she's considering upgrading to a fiancé whose credit cards don't get declined at brunch."
Dallin’s face curdled. "You think you're clever. You're an uncredited shadow. You'll die in an eighty-square-foot walk-up with nothing to show for your life but a stack of anonymous dust jackets."
"Oh, please shut up. Your voice has the texture of wet drywall."
Tamsin strolled into the coatroom, tossing her clutch onto a chair. Her lips curled in pure, unadulterated disgust as she looked Dallin up and down.
"Excuse me?" Dallin sputtered.
"You heard me, Royce," Tamsin drawled, crossing her arms. "You strut around this room acting like a literary patron, but everyone on the third floor knows your trust fund pays out quarterly in grocery vouchers. The only reason your firm signed you is because your uncle sits on the board, and even he edits your quarterly memos because your grammar reads like a concussed middle-schooler's diary. Your tuxedo is rented—the barcode tag is literally sticking out of your left vent—and your hair plugs are fighting a losing battle. Now scurry back to the buffet before I explain your liquid asset portfolio to your new father-in-law."
Dallin’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The red flush crawling up his collar reached his ears. He turned on his heel and fled down the hallway without another syllable.
"Ninety-nine percent," Romy whispered, watching the final sector fill. "Complete."
She yanked the thumb drive and snapped the laptop shut. But as she moved to slide the computer back into the tote, the heavy door slammed open against the wall.
Gemma Prentiss stood under the doorway light, flanked by two towering security guards in navy blazers.
"Step away from that bag, Romy," Gemma barked, her voice cutting through the corridor and echoing out into the main ballroom. Her manicured hand pointed straight at Romy's face. "Security! Detain her right now! She just stole proprietary company hardware! Call the police—we have an active case of corporate espionage!"