Chapter 5 CAGE OF SOLID GOLD.

The dark glass separating the rear seats from the driver's cabin rolled down with an electric hum that chilled my blood.

Graves didn't turn his head. He kept his eyes locked on the dark road as he reached his right arm back, holding a small black velvet tray.

"Mobile devices," he ordered, his voice sounding like crushed gravel.

My stomach did a violent flip.

"Excuse me?" The tuxedo guy beside me broke his terrified-office-worker silence, straightening his spine. "There is no legal basis to confiscate private property."

"Mrs. Vanderbilt-Hayes's rules," Graves replied, his monotone pitch not shifting a millimeter. "All guests at Villa Midas undergo a strict digital detox to guarantee the absolute privacy of the retreat. If you do not hand over the phones, the car turns around and I drop you at central booking for trespassing and destruction of property. Choose."

I stared at the velvet tray. My phone was a piece of junk with a splintered screen, but it was my only direct line to Tommy's hospital. If the doctors needed authorization for an emergency procedure, they'd call me there. Panic clamped my throat shut, leaving a backwash of bile.

The guy next to me, who I still only knew as the fake "Arthur Jenkins," reached a shaking hand into his jacket pocket and deposited a next-gen smartphone onto the tray. He shot me a sidelong glance. It was a silent plea not to ruin our only get-out-of-jail-free card.

I gritted my teeth until my jaw ached. I pulled my phone from my cleavage, where I’d stashed it next to my lock-picking tools, and dropped it onto the velvet.

Graves rolled the window up. We were officially incommunicado. Cut off from the outside world, in the hands of a family that could wipe a person off the map with a simple wire transfer.

The drive took an hour of suffocating silence. We crossed a private bridge watched by armed guards and entered an island that reeked of old money and dirty secrets. Through the window, I saw the outline of Villa Midas cutting against the pre-dawn darkness. It wasn't a villa. It was a damn three-story limestone fortress, surrounded by acres of manicured gardens, marble fountains spitting illuminated water, and lion statues that seemed to mock my overdrawn bank account.

The limo stopped at the base of a grand staircase flanked by Doric columns. The doors were opened from the outside.

The freezing dawn air slapped my face, carrying the scent of ocean salt and obnoxiously expensive pines. I stepped out of the car, keeping the weight off my bare foot so I wouldn't ruin my one remaining heel. The fake Arthur climbed out behind me, smoothing his wrinkled jacket with mechanical jerky motions, sweating cold despite the wind.

At the top of the stairs, a man waited. Tall, needle-thin, stuffed into an immaculate tailcoat. His hair was slicked back so tight it seemed to stretch his eyebrows.

"Miss Beaumont. Mr. Jenkins," the man greeted, offering a slight bow that dripped with pure condescension. "I am Winston, the head butler. Mrs. Vanderbilt-Hayes informed me of your unexpected and fortuitous arrival."

"A pleasure, Winston," I lied, forcing a smile that pulled at my split lip.

We started up the steps. My limp was obvious. Arthur, in a move that caught me off guard, offered his rigid arm. I looked at him with distrust, but threaded my hand through his sleeve so I wouldn't fall flat on my face in front of the staff. His muscle was strung tight as a bowstring.

Winston guided us through double doors into a foyer the size of a basketball court. The floor was a black-and-white marble checkerboard that reflected the glare of a monstrous chandelier.

"Given that your addition to the retreat was last-minute, I lack your service files," Winston continued, walking without looking back, his patent leather shoes not making a single sound. "The kitchen requires immediate instructions. Do you have any dietary preferences I should be aware of? Allergies to Beluga caviar, an intolerance to Piedmont white truffles?"

My street-rat brain skidded. I was about to say a ham and cheese sandwich would do fine, but I remembered my supposed French aristocratic bloodline.

"I only consume alkaline water filtered through volcanic rocks," I fired off, using the most arrogant tone I could manufacture. "And absolutely no processed sugars. They destroy my complexion. Leave everything else to the chef. Surprise us."

Winston jotted something down in a small leather notepad with a gold pen. Then he turned his sharp face toward my companion.

"And Mr. Jenkins?"

The guy tensed beside me. His Adam's apple bobbed. He couldn't lie under pressure.

"I... uh..." he stammered, clamping my arm against his side. "Strict diet. No carbohydrates after six in the evening. And... quail eggs. Only quail. Boiled at exactly eighty-five degrees Celsius."

I almost choked on my own saliva. I dug my nails into his forearm as a warning. He was getting way too specific and sounded like a psychopath.

Winston arched an eyebrow. Just one. It was a micro-expression that screamed I know you are starving frauds.

"Noted, Mr. Jenkins. Eighty-five degrees. Your level of requirement is... peculiar."

The butler pocketed the notebook and led us toward a spiral staircase flanked by oil portraits of ancestors with constipated expressions. My feet were killing me. The pain of blisters popping against the marble was sharp and constant. Arthur didn't say a word, but he adjusted his pace to mine, discreetly carrying a fraction of my weight. It was an instinctive gesture of mutual survival, but it didn't make me hate him any less for ruining my perfect museum heist.

We reached the third floor, a long, quiet corridor where the dark mahogany doors were spaced thirty feet apart. Up here, the silence was absolute, an oppressive stillness that forced you to walk on tiptoe.

Winston stopped in front of the last door in the hall, the only one with gold leaf detailing around the frame.

He pulled out a physical key, thick and heavy, and slid it into the lock.

"Mrs. Vanderbilt-Hayes insisted you be given the best available accommodations to compensate for the stress of your evening," Winston said, pushing the doors wide open. "Welcome to the Bridal Suite."