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 immediately had to fight the urge to grimace. She hated champagne. It was too dry, too fizzy, and somehow everyone in this room 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 in his life.

“Since I’m so charming, you’d regret not dancing with me.”

Camille had stared at him for a moment, taking in his impossibly small forehead and the ego that seemed determined to compensate for it.

His nose was crooked, too.

Very crooked.

She'd almost told him so.

Instead, she'd smiled sweetly.

“Perhaps.”

Apparently, that had been enough encouragement for him. He'd winked, apparently pleased with himself, before disappearing into the crowd.

Camille watched him go and sighed into her champagne.

Men.

Men like that were everywhere tonight—rich, handsome, or at least convinced they were. They laughed too loudly, spoke as though everyone around them desperately wanted to hear what they had to say, and seemed completely unaware that half the room was probably only pretending to enjoy their company.

Camille certainly was.

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

Her gaze drifted casually across the ballroom until she found it.

There.

The ring.

It belonged to the host's fiancée. Camille had spotted it on Instagram a few weeks ago and, unfortunately, 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'd always had a weakness for beautiful things. Jewelry, antiques, paintings, old books—anything that caught the light or carried 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, another tray balanced effortlessly in one hand.

“Would you care for something else?”

She glanced down at her glass.

She'd barely touched it.

“No, thank you.”

The waiter smiled politely and moved on.

Camille watched him disappear into the crowd before turning her attention back to the room.

She needed to stop looking at the ring so often. A thief openly staring at the thing she intended to steal was hardly subtle.

So she looked elsewhere.

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

Politicians stood in small groups near the bar. Businessmen laughed over drinks. Socialites pretended not to watch one another while very obviously watching one another.

And then there was the security.

Camille counted six guards.

Then seven.

She paused.

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 let her gaze move past him without lingering.

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 put them in expensive suits so they could pretend the evening was perfectly civilized.

Camille almost 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.

Camille smiled at herself.

“Absolutely dreadful weather we've been having, hasn't it?” she murmured beneath 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 back 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 politely.

“Good to know.”

“And avoid the champagne.”

Camille looked down at the glass in her hand.

Margaret laughed.

“You're drinking it now, aren't you?”

“I am.”

“Then you've already made your mistake.”

Camille smiled despite herself.

“I'm beginning to regret it.”

Margaret chuckled before wandering away to greet someone else.

Camille watched her disappear into the crowd.

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, and the last thing she needed was someone remembering “Angela” for the wrong reasons.

Still, she took another sip of champagne.

If she was going to be here, she might as well enjoy something.

A burst of laughter came from across the room, drawing her attention.

Mr. Briggs had appeared near the center of the ballroom.

He 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 Briggs continued speaking.

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

The diamond caught the chandelier light.

Camille's attention snapped toward it.

For 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 curling around the stone in a pattern of tiny leaves, with smaller diamonds surrounding the center.

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 before anyone could notice how intently she'd been staring.

“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.

Before she could ask anything else, the man wandered away.

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 Camille had never been particularly good at leaving questions unanswered.

Dinner came shortly afterward, and she found herself 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, doing her best to look interested while keeping track of the room.

“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 before returning a moment later.

The ring was still there.

Good.

After dinner, the music began again, and 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 I?”

“Yes.”

He extended his hand.

“Dance with me.”

She glanced toward the dance floor, then at him, then back toward the dance floor.

“I'm afraid I have to decline.”

He frowned.

“Why?”

Camille smiled sweetly.

Then she simply walked away.

More importantly, the music had done exactly what she needed.

Everyone was moving.

The room was becoming less predictable.

And, as Camille had hoped, the fiancée was getting ready to dance.

Camille watched her carefully from across the room.

The woman glanced down at her ring.

She twisted it once.

Then again.

Camille's eyes narrowed.

Loose.

Very loose.

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. A moment later, she placed the ring carefully into his hand.

There it was.

Camille resisted the urge to smile.

The servant turned and began walking toward one of the side corridors.

Camille waited.

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

The servant disappeared around the corner.

Camille waited a few more seconds.

Then she excused herself.

She walked toward the corridor without rushing and without looking back. There was no reason to. If anyone was watching her, she wanted them to see nothing more interesting than a wealthy woman taking a quiet walk away from the noise.

The corridor was considerably quieter than the ballroom. The music became muffled behind her, reduced to a distant pulse as she continued forward.

Then a door opened farther down the hall.

Camille slowed.

The servant stepped out.

Without hesitation, she turned toward a painting on the wall and pretended to examine it.

The servant walked past.

Camille waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Only then did she continue down the corridor.

She hadn't followed him directly. That would've been careless. Instead, she'd memorized the direction he'd gone and used the paintings and turns in the hallway to keep herself from looking suspicious.

It took some searching, but eventually, she found the room.

Camille stopped outside the door.

She glanced toward the other end of the corridor.

Empty.

Good.

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

Two exits.

One staircase.

A narrow passage leading back toward the ballroom.

She memorized all three.

If things went wrong, she wanted to know exactly where to run.

Satisfied, Camille reached for the door.

Her fingers settled around the handle.

For the first time that evening, her smile disappeared.

This was the part she enjoyed most.

Not the money. Not the disguises. Not even the thrill of getting away with something that everyone else believed was impossible.

It was this moment.

The moment when everything could still go wrong.

The moment when she had no idea what waited on the other side of the door, but turned the handle anyway.

The door opened silently.

Camille slipped inside.

And immediately knew something was wrong.

The ring was gone.

She stopped just inside the room, staring at the empty space where it should have been.

The jewelry box sat open on the table.

Empty.

Camille slowly approached it.

There was no ring.

Instead, there was a small note.

She picked it up.

Should have got here sooner.

Beneath it was a single letter.

—E

Camille stared at the note for several seconds.

Then she let out a quiet breath.

“Goddammit. Not again.”

That bastard.

Of course it was him.

E stood for Empire—the thief Camille had been competing with for the past couple of years.

She'd never learned his real name. Honestly, she wasn't even sure anyone had.

The name had started with his very first theft.

Apparently, after stealing some ridiculously expensive object from a Roman museum, he'd left a note behind for the police.

Stolen by Empire.

The press had absolutely eaten it up.

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

People had come up with theories, of course. The biggest was that Empire wasn't a person at all, but the name of an organization. Others insisted it had something to do with Roman history, considering his first theft and the whole Roman Empire connection.

Camille didn't particularly care about the theories.

The press had given her a name too, along with a dozen ridiculous theories about who she was.

What she cared about was the fact that Empire had a very irritating habit of getting to her loot before she could.

It didn't matter how carefully she planned.

It didn't matter how much research she did.

It didn't even matter how early she arrived.

Somehow, Empire 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.

Her annoyance began to give way to something else.

Suspicion.

It was obvious that Empire knew who she was.

They knew what she wanted.

They knew 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'd been hating someone who might as well have been a ghost.

She folded the note and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

Something wasn't right.

Camille looked toward the door.

The servant had been the only person she'd seen enter 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 moved slowly around the room.

The windows were shut.

The door was behind her.

The ring was gone.

And the only person she'd seen leave 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.