GRAND THEFT HEART.

Damn the Italian designer who invented stilettos, and damn the moment I decided renting a pair for eighty bucks was an excellent idea to infiltrate the Vanderbilt gala.

The east wing corridor of the private museum smelled of floor wax and old money. A sterile, cold scent, designed to intimidate. But right now, the only thing registering in my brain was the dull, rhythmic thud of thick-soled boots approaching from my left.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The security guard was ten feet from rounding the corner.

I yanked my right ankle with a desperation that burned my tendons. Nothing. The metal tip of my black satin shoe was wedged millimeter-perfect into the holes of the brass floor vent.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a jackhammer. Cold sweat dripped down the back of my neck, ruining the updo that had cost me an hour in front of a public restroom mirror. If they caught me here, in a restricted zone, while high society drank fake champagne three floors up, no excuse would save me. Nobody "gets lost looking for the bathroom" and ends up in front of the antiques vault.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Six feet.

I could see the yellow beam of his flashlight sweeping the adjacent marble wall, slicing the darkness like a switchblade. I had to make a choice. Lose the rental shop deposit, or go to jail.

I dropped into a crouch. The corset of the borrowed dress crushed my lungs, squeezing the air out of me in a mute wheeze. I grabbed the heel with both hands, ignoring the sharp pain in my fingers, and twisted the shoe at an unnatural angle. The satin crunched, groaning under the pressure.

The flashlight beam grazed the tip of my left shoe.

With a violent, zero-elegance yank, I ripped the stiletto from the grate. The recoil threw me off balance. I slammed back against the freezing marble wall, gritting my teeth to swallow a scream when the glass wall sconce dug into my shoulder blade.

I froze. Frozen and barefoot on one foot, cradling the damn shoe against my chest like a crying baby.

The guard rounded the corner. He passed inches from my hiding spot in the alcove of some noseless Roman statue. He smelled of cheap tobacco and reheated coffee. I held my breath until my lungs burned, squeezing my eyes shut so hard I saw color spots. The man yawned, scratched his neck, and continued his patrol down the main corridor without even turning his head.

I exhaled a shaky thread of air.

The sharp, metallic tang of panic flooded my tongue. I slid down the wall into a squat. I wanted to throw up from pure nerves. But there was no time for existential crises. Tommy's medical bills were piled on my kitchen table, forming a menacing paper tower that reminded me every day that morality is a luxury for the rich. I needed cash, and I needed it tonight.

I jammed the shoe back on, feeling the warped leather pinch my heel. Limping slightly, I moved through the shadows, hugging the wall, until I reached the end of the corridor.

There it was. The solid oak double doors. The Temporary Exhibition Room.

According to the blueprints I scored by bribing the maintenance guy with a six-pack and a fake smile, this was the only entrance without cameras pointed dead at the knob. The problem was the lock. It wasn't some antique deadbolt that yields to a paperclip and a couple of prayers. It was a commercial-grade electronic keypad.

I reached into my cleavage, feeling the cold metal against my feverish skin, and pulled out my makeshift toolkit: a half-cloned magnetic swipe card I bought on a shady forum, a jeweler's screwdriver, and a thick rubber band. Cheap tools for a desperate heist.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the screwdriver.

"Come on, Chloe, control your damn pulse," I whispered to myself, wiping the back of my hand across my clammy forehead.

I jammed the tip of the screwdriver under the edge of the plastic panel covering the wiring. It cracked. A hideous sound in the museum's dead silence. I went rigid, expecting the guard to come sprinting back, but I only heard the hum of the AC.

I pried it off with brute force. The cover popped and dangled by a green wire. The service slot was exposed. Now came the part that, according to the ten-minute internet tutorial, was a piece of cake. I swiped the magnetic card through the slot, but the reader flashed a furious red. Error.

I swiped it again. Red.

I swiped it faster, sweating bullets, feeling the silk of the dress cling to my back. Red, red, red.

"Damn cyber garbage," I muttered, clenching my jaw.

Time was running out. The guard completed his rounds every twelve minutes. I had about seven left. I switched tactics. I ignored the mag reader and looked for the manual override port under the numpad. It was a tiny mechanical emergency cylinder. I used a bobby pin from my hair to apply tension and the jeweler's screwdriver to rake the pins.

Click. The first pin set.

The tension in my fingers was unbearable. Cramps shot up my forearm. The angle was awkward, and the dim light forced me to work almost blind.

Click. Click. Two more.

One left. If I torqued the bobby pin too much, it would snap inside the cylinder and my night would end in a holding cell. I applied gentle pressure, twisting my wrist a millimeter to the right.

A heavy, metallic clunk echoed inside the wood. The panel's light flipped from angry red to a bright, welcoming green.

I smiled, baring my teeth in the dark. Professional pride, even if fueled purely by survival instinct, gave me an adrenaline spike. I pushed the oak with my shoulder. The door yielded without a sound.

I slipped inside the room, leaving the lit hallway behind. I was in.