Chapter 1- Camille

Camille huffed and plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

God, they were all so…so full of themselves.

She took a small sip and tried not to grimace.

She hated champagne.

Too dry. Too fizzy. And somehow, everyone here drank it as though it were the finest thing ever produced.

A moment ago, a wealthy-looking young man had approached her with the confidence of someone who had never experienced rejection and said, “Since I’m so charming, you’d regret not dancing with me.”

Camille had stared at him.

His forehead was far too small for an ego that enormous.

And his nose was crooked.

Very crooked.

She'd almost told him so.

Instead, she'd smiled sweetly and said, “Perhaps.”

Apparently, that had been enough encouragement for him to wink and disappear into the crowd.

Camille watched him go, and sighed.

Men.

She took another sip of champagne.

Men like that were everywhere tonight—rich, handsome, or at least convinced they were. Completely unaware that half the room was probably only pretending to enjoy their company.

Camille certainly was that half.

She wouldn't even be here if it weren't for a certain piece of jewelry.

Her eyes drifted across the ballroom.

There.

The ring.

It belonged to the host's fiancée. Camille had spotted it on Instagram a few weeks ago and had been thinking about it ever since.

Apparently, it was worth an obscene amount of money. Millions, if the articles were to be believed.

That was nice.

Very nice, actually.

But if Camille were being honest, she didn't particularly care how much it was worth.

It was shiny.

That was enough.

The fact that it happened to be worth a small fortune was simply an added benefit.

She had always had a weakness for beautiful things. Jewelry, antiques, paintings, old books, anything that caught the light or had an interesting history was liable to catch her attention. She supposed that was unfortunate, considering her profession. Or perhaps it was the reason for it.

“Miss?”

Camille turned.

A waiter stood beside her, holding another tray.

“Would you care for something else?”

Camille glanced down at her glass.

She had barely touched it.

“No, thank you.”

The waiter smiled politely and moved on. Camille watched him go before turning her attention back to the room.

She needed to stop looking at the ring so often. A thief staring at the thing she intended to steal was not exactly subtle. So she forced herself to look elsewhere.

The ballroom was enormous, naturally. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, scattering warm light across the crowd. Gold-framed paintings covered the walls, and every surface seemed designed to remind the guests that they were very, very wealthy.

There were politicians scattered throughout the room, businessmen laughing too loudly, socialites pretending not to watch one another, and enough security to make the whole thing mildly insulting.

Camille counted six guards.

Then seven.

She frowned.

A man near the staircase had the posture of security, even though he wasn't wearing the same uniform as the others.

Eight.

Interesting.

She casually looked away.

Security was always more complicated at parties like this. The obvious guards were rarely the only problem. Wealthy people tended to hire private security and then place them in suits so they could pretend the evening was perfectly civilized.

Then Camille smiled.

She had decided to become British tonight.

Not actually British, obviously.

Just British enough.

Her natural French accent had been tucked away for the evening, replaced with a polished English one she'd been practicing for weeks.

She'd always been good with accents. Languages came easily to her, and accents were even easier.

It was fun, really. People heard the voice they expected to hear, and suddenly, they stopped paying attention.

She lowered her glass and caught her reflection in one of the tall mirrors lining the ballroom.

Dark hair.

Green eyes.

A borrowed dress.

Borrowed jewelry.

A perfectly convincing wealthy British woman.

She smiled at herself.

“Absolutely dreadful weather we've been having, hasn't it?” she murmured under her breath.

Perfect.

Well, almost perfect.

There was still the tiniest trace of French beneath it, but no one here would notice.

“Indeed, it is a lovely evening, isn't it?”

Camille nearly jumped.

She turned to find an older woman standing beside her.

“Oh, terribly,” Camille replied, immediately slipping into her English accent.

The woman smiled.

“First time attending one of Mr. Briggs' parties?”

Camille hesitated for half a second.

“Yes.”

“Oh, I thought so. You look rather lost.”

Camille laughed lightly.

“Do I?”

“Just a little.”

The woman offered her hand.

“Margaret.”

Camille took it.

“Angela.”

“Lovely to meet you.”

“You too.”

Margaret glanced around the room.

“You'll want to stay near the dance floor later. That's where everyone important ends up.”

Camille smiled.

“Good to know.”

“And avoid the champagne.”

Camille looked down at her glass.

Margaret laughed.

“You're drinking it now, aren't you?”

“I am.”

“Then you've already made your mistake.”

Camille smiled.

“I'm beginning to regret it.”

Margaret chuckled and wandered away to greet someone else.

Camille watched her disappear.

Well.

That had been unexpected. She'd need to be more careful. Small conversations were dangerous. Every person she spoke to was another person who might remember her face later.

She took another sip of champagne anyway. If she was going to be here, she might as well enjoy something.

A burst of laughter came from across the room. Camille turned. Mr. Briggs had appeared near the center of the ballroom.

Mr. Briggs stood beside his fiancée—the woman with the impossibly extravagant ring.

Camille studied him for a moment.

He was a short, rather stout man, and something about his shape immediately reminded her of a little teapot.

I’m a little teapot, short and stout...

The nursery rhyme played absently through her mind as he continued speaking.

The woman beside Mr. Briggs smiled and lifted one hand in a modest wave.

The diamond caught the chandelier light.

For just a second, she forgot to breathe.

Oh, that's beautiful.

The diamond was enormous, but that wasn't what caught her attention. The setting was antique.

Delicate gold curled around the stone in a pattern of tiny leaves, and smaller diamonds surrounded the center stone. It was the kind of piece that didn't merely cost money. It had history.

Camille wanted it.

Desperately.

She forced herself to look away.

“Quite beautiful.”

Camille turned.

A man she didn't recognize was standing beside her.

“The ring,” he clarified.

“Oh.”

She smiled.

“Very.”

“Apparently it belonged to Briggs' grandmother.”

“Really?”

“That's what I heard.”

Camille's interest sharpened.

“Interesting.”

The man shrugged.

“Apparently he had it brought over from Europe.”

Europe.

Camille glanced at the ring again.

That explained the style.

“Excuse me.”

The man wandered away before she could ask anything else. Camille resisted the urge to sigh.

She was going to have to find out whether that story was true. Not because it mattered to the thief. Obviously.

She was simply curious. And she was never good with not knowing.

Then came dinner.

She was seated at a table with six strangers, three of whom spent most of the meal discussing real estate.

Camille smiled and nodded at appropriate intervals.

“So, what do you do?” a woman across from her asked.

Camille froze for half a second.

There it was.

The question she'd been hoping no one would ask.

“Import and export,” she answered smoothly.

The woman raised an eyebrow.

“What sort?”

“Mostly antiques.”

That wasn't technically a lie.

Camille smiled into her wineglass.

“And yourself?”

The woman immediately launched into a lengthy explanation of her husband's company.

Camille listened politely.

She also kept an eye on the ring.

The fiancée sat several tables away.

Every now and then, her hand disappeared beneath the table.

Then she'd bring it back up.

The ring was still there.

Good.

After dinner, music began playing again. People slowly drifted toward the dance floor.

Camille remained where she was. She had no intention of dancing unless absolutely necessary.

Unfortunately, the same young man from earlier appeared in front of her.

“I've decided you've waited long enough.”

Camille looked up at him.

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

He extended his hand.

“Dance with me.”

Camille glanced toward the dance floor.

Then at him.

Then back at the dance floor.

“I'm afraid I have to decline.”

He frowned.

“Why?”

Camille smiled, and just walked away before anything else was said.

More importantly, the music had done exactly what she needed. Everyone was moving. The room was becoming less predictable. And the fiancée was getting ready to dance. Camille watched carefully.

The woman looked down at her ring.

She twisted it once.

Then again.

There.

It was loose.Very loose.

Camille's eyes narrowed.

The woman wouldn't risk wearing it while dancing.

Sure enough, she slipped the ring from her finger.

Camille's pulse quickened.

The woman glanced around before approaching one of the servants. She whispered something into his ear, and the servant nodded. Then the woman placed the ring carefully into his hand.

Camille's heartbeat sped up.

Now.

She waited.

The servant turned and walked toward one of the side corridors.

Camille counted to ten.

Then twenty.

She took another sip of champagne and laughed at something a nearby guest said, pretending to be completely absorbed in conversation.

Thirty.

The servant disappeared around the corner.

Camille waited another few seconds.

Then she excused herself.

She walked toward the corridor without rushing. She didn't look back. She didn't need to.

She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. The corridor was quieter than the ballroom. The music became muffled behind her.

Camille slowed her pace. A door opened farther down the hall. The servant stepped out.

Camille immediately turned toward a painting on the wall and pretended to examine it.

The servant walked past her.

She waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then she continued down the corridor. She hadn't followed him directly, that would have been careless. Instead, she memorized the direction he'd gone.mIt took some searching, but eventually, she found the room.

Camille stopped outside the door.

She looked toward the other end of the corridor.

Empty.

Good.

But before going any farther, she took a moment to familiarize herself with the hallway.

Two exits.

One staircase.

A narrow passage that led back toward the ballroom.

She memorized all of them. If things went wrong, she wanted to know exactly where to run.

Camille reached for the door, and her fingers rested on the handle.

For the first time that evening, her smile disappeared. This was the part she enjoyed most. The moment when everything could still go wrong, and yet she still turned the handle. The door opened silently, and Camille slipped inside.

Once Camille stepped inside, however, she immediately knew something was wrong.

How, you may ask?

Well, it was quite simple, really.

The ring was gone.

She stopped just inside the room and stared at the empty space where it should have been. The jewelry box sat open on the table, but there was no ring inside.

Instead, there was a small note.

Camille slowly approached the table and picked it up.

“Should have got here sooner.”

Beneath it was a single letter.

-E

Camille stared at the note for several seconds.

“Goddammit. Not again.”

That bastard.

Of course it was him.

E stood for Empire—the thief Camille had been beefing with for the past couple of years. She'd never actually learned his real name, and honestly, she wasn't even sure anyone knew it.

The name had started with his very first theft.

Apparently, after stealing some ridiculously expensive object in a roman museum, he'd left a note behind for the police. On it, he'd written three simple words:

Stolen by Empire.

The press had absolutely eaten it up.

Within days, every newspaper was calling him Empire, and the name stuck.

Everyone would make theories, the biggest one being that empire stood for an organization and not just one person. Or that it was someone with an obsession for roman history, hence the roman empire.

She didn’t care much about the press, considering they gave her a name and made up crazy theories as well.

What she did care about, was that they had a habit of getting to her loot before she could. It didn't matter how carefully she planned, how much research she did, or how early she arrived. Somehow, they always managed to slip in first, take whatever she had her eye on, and disappear before she could even get there.

And every single time, they left a note.

Always that stupid little signature.

-E.

Camille looked down at the paper again.

It was obvious that Empire knew who she was. They knew what she wanted, where she would be, and somehow, they always knew exactly when she would arrive.

The frustrating part was that Camille had no idea who they were.

Not their name.

Not their face.

Not even their voice.

Nothing.

For two years, she had been hating on what seemed to be a ghost.

She folded the note and slipped it into her jacket pocket, her annoyance slowly giving way to suspicion.

Something wasn't right.

Camille looked toward the door.

The servant had been the only person she'd seen come into the room. She'd watched him leave. She'd followed him down the hallway and waited until the coast was clear before entering.

No one else had passed her.

Her eyes slowly moved around the room.

The windows were shut.

The door was behind her.

The ring was gone.

And the only person who had come out of this room was the servant.

Camille's stomach dropped.

Wait.

If the servant hadn't taken the ring out...

Then where—

Her thought died halfway through.

Someone was still in the room.